dean/castiel | the unlocking and the lift away
THE UNLOCKING AND THE LIFT AWAY (YOUR LOVE WILL BE SAFE WITH ME)
[alternate universe] dean/castiel, one-sided castiel/anna, bobby, sam. oc character death. rated pg-13. ~10,875
He came from nowhere and he went everywhere and no one could ever find him. But he was a man of his word.
(c) title from re:stacks by bon iver
a/n: written for Renegade Angels prompt: Dean is an angel and Cas is a human hunter
And all I really want from you is to feel me
It's a feeling inside, it keeps building
And I will find a way to you if it kills me
If it kills me
It might kill me
if it kills me, jason mraz
He was a man of his word, reliable and steady. He had a dark secret and knowledge beyond his youthful years. The stories that circulated between whiskey mouths and shaded bars were of monsters and villains and heroes that rode in on horses, that could fly, were always victorious, but these were just childish stories (the man they spoke of was, in truth, far less). They wished they could be him, meet him, ask him questions, but he never came unless he travelled alone.
He came from nowhere and he went everywhere and no one could ever find him. But he was a man of his word.
-
His mother used to tell him, with a light and a joy in her golden face, that his hands told tales, told his future. He was a baby, still learning to walk straight and not old enough to be blamed for being naive, so he was still allowed to believe in fairy tales and magic.
She would trace lines on his palms, soft skin on soft skin, tickling and smooth. She smiled, all knowing, all truthful, and his father would scoff in the background, smoking his cigarette (it never seemed to leave his hands); still, he grinned behind his coffee cup.
Being young and gullible, he trusted her.
“Here,” she would whisper, focusing on his tiny child hands. “You will be famous. Everyone will know your name and want to know you.” She squints, tilting her head, long, dirty hair falling past her shoulders, brushing against his baby wrists. She started humming.
Amazed, he held out his other hand. “What else will I be?”
“You will be a hero. You will save many lives, my boy.”
“Will I wear a cape?” He's excited and breathless, leaning closer to her.
“If you want,” she murmured. “Oh...”
Dad leans on the table, pushing the empty coffee cup aside. “What do you see now?”
“He will be a mysterious one. But he will know true love.”
And they laughed wonderfully.
-
For years, he waited in silence, anxious and careful; he didn’t want to ruin this simple prophecy, this planned destination, his one chance for greatness. He would be a hero, like Superman or Spider-man; he just needed to be patient, to wait for that moment when it all changed. Days spent in the park, playing in the grass, waiting, still, for his future. It would come, because his mother said so.
His older sister's, their wild red hair and selfish mischievousness, would sneer and mock him: “You won't be anything. You will just be little forever.”
“I will be a hero. Mom said so.”
And because he was young and gullible, he chose to believe it.
-
The streets of decrepit slums in Boston were Gotham at night. His dad gave him a Batman cape for Christmas when he was seven (black polyester and yellow fabric paint that cracked and peeled) and he knew, by then, that super powers were never in his destiny. He would be a vigilante, a dark shadow in the night, fighting crime with an edge that made him bad himself. But they never had much money, Mom always said, not enough for a slick car or weapons any greater than the broken water gun from the neighbours yard.
But he was a hero; he would use whatever he could get his hands on.
Mom used to tell stories on his hands when he was a baby, but he's a hero now. Lately, she has been slapping his hero hands, crying and yelling at him to not steal, never steal.
“But I need it to fight the bad guys,” he said, clutching the weapons he found in stores in his hero hands. “I have to save the world.”
“That was just a story.” She had large tears in her eyes, like rain drops.
“But you said so.”
Rain drops in her eyes. “It was just a story-”
“You said so!” he screamed.
-
Mom and Dad moved in beautiful unison, after the screaming and shattering plates and the rhythm beats on his bedroom wall ended. He tried to time them, but they were never the same. His sisters would sit in the corner of their shared room, listless and bored. They had suspicious eyes, but he rarely would see them. (Sometimes, after, they would scream too. Not at him or each other or Mom and Dad-just scream.)
Once it was quiet again, he would sneak down the hallway and peer around the corner into the kitchen. They seemed as one, swaying together by the large bay window. They were careful of the broken plates and glass, shuffling in their bare feet, the radio crackling by the sink full of water and soap suds, still lukewarm from supper.
And Mom would fall asleep on the couch while Dad went for a walk. After Dad was gone, he would tip-toe up to her and curl into her chest and she would tell stories. She would talk slowly, quietly, as not to wake the sisters. He wanted them to come out and hear the stories of dragons and princesses, ghosts and monsters under their beds. Mostly, he was afraid they wouldn't be there in the morning.
“They have school tomorrow, my boy,” she would explain every night when he asked her if he could wake them. “They will get smart and grow big brains and go to school in New York.”
“Will I be smart one day, Momma?”
She kissed his head. “You are smart already.”
They would lay there and she would fall asleep with her arms draped over his tiny body. He would watch the moonlight move across the bare floor until Dad came home, smelling of the world and of other women than Mom, crossed eyed and disenchanted. He would wonder if Mom should wake up, kiss Dad good night, but Dad always wanders away, stumbling into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He would sit straight up on the couch-Mom would never stir.
He would save the world in the morning.
-
For awhile, he wanted friends.
He tried to make friends, but no one liked talking to him. He lived in the wrong part of the block, in the wrong house, lived with the wrong people and a wrong name.
(“Freak!” they would scream, wild and victorious. So childish how his name could condemn him, but he didn’t know any better.)
They pushed him around and he came home in distant, soft silence to wash the blood from his face. His fingers became numb when they came around, faceless and wordless, just slick tongues and collective jeers. He used to be a hero, used to fight back.
Now, he doesn’t move when the bright sky reveals them.
-
Someone is whistling on the sidewalk. He grinds his teeth and cowers behind the bushes in the park. His knuckles are bruised and streaked with his own blood. He can feel his eye swelling, his lips sore, mouthful of iron-taste and sticky red.
There's a rustling. He turns sharply.
“You okay?” the rustling asks.
He crawls away from the man, glancing warily over his shoulder. “Mom says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers.” It's hard to see through half-closed eyes.
The man nods, smiling toothlessly. He looks around, amused by the dead grass and rusted chains on the swings. “Makes sense.” He looks back. He has staggering green eyes-nothing else is distinct about his face, except those eyes. “You have a lot of blood on your face. How can you even see through those eyes?”
“Go away,” he murmurs. He's not afraid. He just wants to be alone.
The man shrugs. “All right.” There's rustling and now when the man talks, it's muffled, the leaves dancing as he moves and breathes: “See you around.”
-
They are sitting side by side on the couch, watching TV. He doesn't know what's on, since it's mostly fuzzy and the people dancing on the screen are almost too small to see, not made any better by the tender black and green bruise on his right eye. It's entertaining and he likes it.
“The boys at the park make fun of me.” He licks his lips. Sometimes, the iron-taste is still there and all he sees is those green eyes on the dark faced man.
She's humming this night and he can feel it in his chest through the back of the couch. The sisters are on the floor, in a semi-circle, writing on their notepads and Dad is helping them with math equations. The sisters whisper in a language he doesn't know and most of the time it makes him mad, a joke he will never a hear, a secret he will never understand. Mom just smiles and says they're young, they will grow out of it.
“Don't listen to them,” Mom hums.
He frowns. “Why did you give me such a funny name?”
Dad looks at Mom. He shrugs.
“It's not a funny name, my boy. It's a wonderful name.”
He sulks against the couch, crossing his arms. The people on the TV are too happy for him. “They say it's stupid.” He touches his eye and winces. Mom shakes her head. “Why did you name me Castiel, Momma?”
She smiles, wide and bright. “Because an angel told me to.”
-
His Mom always said he was smart. A clever boy, wise beyond his years and quick enough to catch on. When he hides in the park, behind the sycamore trees, where the old, rusted play set heaves under its own loneliness, he reads his sister's books. Mom said he was so smart; he didn't even have to go to school. His sister's would just teach him all he needed to know (but that wasn't much to begin with, he was such a clever boy).
As he grew, so did his head and it was full of words from books and encyclopaedias and Mom's stories. He wanted to know it all. He sought to know it all, but it he seemed to always fall short and he always fell short when Dad had got into the whiskey and the sister's came home late and Mom cried and cried and cried. This is when it became too much and then he would run, but only as far as the end of the block, stolen away to trees and dirt and cool grass, always needing to be near.
He's fifteen, lanky and obnoxious and mean, predatory of his hideout. He keeps his hair messy and long, his clothes loose and ill-fitting, his fingers curled around pages for days and days (Dad's been coming home with different women and he knows what it means, what it all means because he's not a kid anymore, but he would rather just let it be lost to fairy tales and innocence for now). This is where a small boy finds him, pale face, greasy hair poking through the overgrown bush.
“Go away,” Castiel snaps.
“You're that weird kid,” the boy says quickly. “The one that never went to school.”
Castiel scowls and turns away from the boy. “I said go away.” He grips his book tighter in his sweaty fingers.
The bush rustles and a branch crunches. “You got any friends?”
Castiel can feel the hot, sticky breath of the boy down his neck-sweets and obscenity. “No.” Mom said friends were never important-just your brain. Sometimes, he wonders about Mom, whether she really knows as much as she says she does, but she reads palms and can see into the future; he can't challenge something like that.
“Do you want to be my friend?” The boy is intrusive and determined.
Castiel throws his book down and whips around, facing the boy. “I said fuck off!”
The boy stands stiffly for a moment before his stunned face distorts into something ugly and wicked, eyes flickering black and Castiel feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up before he stops remembering.
-
He's awake three days later. He can't move his fingers. But the little boy does.
Welcome back.
They are standing in the kitchen, facing the window. It’s early morning, the peaceful yellow light filtering white through the old lace curtains. They are drumming their fingers on the counter and it all sounds like far away echoes humming in his head.
Let me out, Castiel whispers. It rings in his head like a bullet.
Aren't you going to ask who I am?
It's not important. Castiel doesn't even know what this is.
You're not afraid. (The boy is impressed. Castiel finds himself grateful.)
Drumming footsteps in a hollow room and they turn around. Mom is standing in her baby pink night gown, sleepy-eyed and smiling.
“Good morning, Mother,” they say.
She shuffles to the coffee pot and pours herself a cup. She's been crying. “Baby, what are you doing up so early?”
Their hand snakes across the countertop, resting on the butcher knife, still dirty from last night’s supper. Castiel can't remember what they ate. Their fingers wrap around it and it feels so achingly familiar to their touch.
“I haven't seen you in a few days,” she says and takes a sip of her coffee. Her eyes flicker and she tilts her head, her plait falling over her shoulder. “You spend too much time in that park.”
The grip tightens around the polished wooden handle.
Don't, Castiel says.
I'm doing you a favour. The knife swings out and Mom doesn't have time to scream. You'll see.
-
He wakes in his youngest sister's blood (he doesn't go looking for the others and Dad-he already knows). It's warm and unbearable and he screams when he sees his own stained skin. He tears off his clothes and he thinks of burning down the tiny apartment, getting rid of it all together because that's what the criminals do in the detective novels. He remembers to breathe, only briefly, and he packs his books, dresses and hides away in the park until the sun sets and the sirens yell.
The little boy is nowhere to be seen.
-
Hunts are getting complicated. He's not getting older. Everything just hurts.
(He wishes he could forget.)
-
“You've been gone for awhile, Cas.”
Castiel is still half sleeping. It's another motel room that smells like wet bodies and hot air and he breathes it in, disease in his lungs. A car passes outside, the sound of squealing tires and dying engine finds it way through the open window and it just echoes-he closes his eyes, rubbing his knuckles across his face until he sees spots.
He wishes Anna wouldn't call him so early. “Been busy.”
“I've been worried.” He can hear it in her tone. Most of the time, it sounds a lot like love and longing.
“I'm fine,” he bites. “I was also sleeping.”
Anna clicks her tongue. “Cas. You promised you would call more often.”
“I never promised.”
There's a drawn out silence and Castiel has no desire to fill it.
“Just remember to call me on your way back through.” And she hangs up.
He knows Anna loves him; always has, always will. Castiel finds it hard to love her back.
-
There's things like demons and ghouls and vengeful spirits that he never wanted to know; things like thirsty monsters and poltergeists and things that even he can't explain. He shouldn't seek them out, shouldn't know their patterns, their motives and desires, because now he treads the fine thread between death and living in misery. But he does and he can't seem to stop it.
I'm doing you a favour.
He's got a suitcase full of guns and knives and bottles of holy water, machetes and rosaries and a folder of missing persons and notes written on stolen note paper hidden under his back seat. Some nights he doesn't eat, some nights he doesn't sleep. He's not on a crusade, waiting for some victorious and satisfying revenge, he's not looking for anything in particular, because he doesn't know what to look for.
You'll see.
Just anything.
-
He's in Kentucky and he wonders how he got here (he wonders how he gets anywhere). Small town nowhere, he finds an abandoned park. No sycamore trees, no hiding place, but he feeds an ache, a need and finds himself inside the wooden block boundaries. He sits on the swing set and maybe he's waiting for that little boy still. Now he knows exactly what to expect.
That's when he first sees it, him: off in the distance, standing to the side of a dying street lamp. Castiel doesn't move to get closer, just stares. The silhouette disappears a few seconds later. It should unnerve him, the suddenness and why here and why now.
Lately, Castiel hasn't been able to feel scared.
-
Bobby finds him on the Kentucky border. He's been waiting for a few days and Castiel wishes Bobby didn't know so much about him. The highway is dusty and busy, cars and trucks racing past and Castiel feels five again, dangerous and lucky.
“What is it?” Castiel asks.
Bobby squints at him. He's stopped shaving and it looks odd on him. He looks too old. “Good job on that siren in Detroit.”
Castiel shrugs. He's still got the scars. “Anything new?”
(Bobby used to be hesitant with Castiel and his demands, his nonchalance at scars and wounds, unsure and protective. He learned it didn’t matter.)
Bobby pulls out a map. It's dotted with blue and red. “Weird omens all across the country. Always consistent in events but never the same order. And they aren't really following any particular pattern-”
“Demonic?”
“No.” Bobby grunts. “Well, doesn't look like it.” He looks nervous and shifty and it's not like Bobby.
Castiel pulls out a cigarette from his jean pocket and lights it. “Then what's the problem?”
Bobby knocks the smoke from Castiel's hands. “Where were you last?”
“Some place called Jackson.” He takes out another cigarette.
“Before that?”
Castiel gives Bobby a look-he's rarely afraid, mostly because he feels he has nothing to lose, nothing to gain. Right now, he's just interested. “Proctorville, Ohio.”
“And?”
“Monroe, Indiana. And Detroit.” Castiel shuffles, licking his lips. “I was in South Dakota for a bit.”
Bobby slams his fist on the hood of his car. The wind whistles and whips across the highway. “Fuck,” he mutters and it's almost lost to the sky.
Castiel drops his cigarette. “What the hell, Bobby?” A car horn honks as it passes and a young girl sticks her head out of the passenger window, laughing and swearing. It disappears around the corner and Bobby takes off his hat.
“I think it-whatever it is-is following you.”
(This is where it changes.)
-
There can only be simple explanations, he thinks. Tries to remember Ohio, Indiana, South Dakota: nothing.
Maybe short glimpses of someone in the shadows, something like bright green eyes and a soft swirl of white smoke, but he never knows. It's abruptly familiar in a way that he can't determine and it comes in rapid bursts of agony and frustration.
He doesn’t sleep that night, like most nights. Stares out the window, rain spitting on the dark pavement, and he wonders if this is finally the end he’s been waiting for.
-
He calls Anna. He knows she's happy that he remembered.
“Cas!” she breathes into the phone. “Are you coming home soon?”
“Have you told anyone where I am?”
She's in the middle of saying something-“What?”
“Have you been telling people where I am, Anna!” He's bitterly and wildly curious, wants to know, a little fucking worked up and not knowing what to expect.
“No!” she cries, actually cries, because he can hear the desperation in her voice, the pleading and the choking, all because she still believes he will finally give in. “Cas, I would never do that.”
“Something's following me.”
She stops, breathes. “Do you know what it is? Have you talked to Bobby?”
“I'm going to find it,” he says. He's already packing-guns, books, knives, holy water, whatever. His cell phone is getting shit service on this lonely strip of land and its all dead trees and dead grass and dead air.
And she’s screaming, “You're fucking insane-”
He hangs up.
-
In his head, Boston and the black cape can still save him. He's not a child anymore and he knows it isn't true. There's just something about looking down a dark road with no end that makes him ache.
-
He lost his map a few towns over: flew out the window going a hundred miles an hour in the hanging minutes of morning and he only started regretting it now. He's not sure where he is, but he doesn't think it matters.
He can feel his phone vibrating in his pocket. He can't be bothered to turn it off. He doesn't know what he's doing and he kind of wishes Bobby were here, but he travels alone. He sits in the middle of a paved crossroads, the sky tearing from grey-blue to pink and gold and he's reminded of oak pews, chipped red heels and the smell of the worn pages in Mom’s gold edged Bible.
He's pretty sure he doesn't believe in God. Not anymore.
Castiel has no plan, never has a plan, since it's all a risk, all a game, all a suicide pact with himself and he's just living on wasted time. So, he'll wait and wait for this thing, whatever it is, and if it kills him, he won't be angry. This much he knows.
For a second, the wind stops and sound stops and the world stops and he's sure he smells burning flesh until it all comes crashing back and his world is just the same.
Then, crunching gravel-
Castiel stands up and spins around. He has his gun out and there's a man, and he is beautiful, standing at the edge of the crossroads. There’s a soft breeze that rustles the trees and wild grass blanketing the sides of the road. The man remains still.
“What are you?” Castiel yells out.
“My name is Dean,” he says. “I'm here to help you.”
-
He says his name is Diniel, but you can call me Dean. Protector of children. Castiel finds it vastly flawed with the empty beer bottle twirling in the man’s lithe fingers. A supposed angel with a penchant for seedy bars and a cold Corona. Castiel is a little unnerved.
“You’ve been following me,” Castiel says suddenly into the suffocating noise of the bar around them. It was obvious, but Castiel wanted to see if the stranger had an explanation, if he could defend his own weak story.
Dean looks like he’s about to deny it, shrugs slightly, until he catches Castiel’s gaze and sighs-“Yeah,” he mutters.
Castiel waits. Dean looks sideways: there’s no apology. The light catches the lines and curves of his face, casting harsh sharp-edged shadows in the amber glow. Castiel doesn’t think it’s so angelic, blue smoke swirling like a halo around their heads and inaudible screams echoing in their conversation. It could be beautiful, he guesses.
“And you’re an angel.”
Dean cocks his head and smirks, almost like he knows too much, like he can see past the sour tone in Castiel’s sick voice. “You don’t believe in angels?” Dean asks, like he’s asked this question too many times before.
He probably has.
Castiel pauses, sucks on the lips of the beer bottle, eyes down cast. “I wish I didn’t.”
The mocking superiority and satisfaction slips from Dean’s face. Castiel doesn’t know whether it’s from shock or empathy. He realizes he really doesn’t care. Dean sighs and slams his beer bottles back on the table.
“Where are we off to, then?” Dean asks brightly.
Castiel laughs, stands, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. Dean shuffles to his feet, annoyed, as Castiel throws money on the table and turns to the door.
“Wait-” Dean calls out, already lost in the people.
Castiel is pulling a cigarette from his pocket, that one last life line, that one constant thing and it’s kind of pathetic, but he’s finding it hard to give a fuck about his own sad state of affairs. He lights up in the door frame, momentary flicker of warmth from the small flame, the instant burn in his nose from the sickly sweet smell of smouldering tobacco and someone shoving him into the door as they make their way in. He slams the door against the outside wall and is hit with a cold, rancid breeze.
Somewhere behind him, the angel is trying to catch up.
“I said wait-!”
The same crunch on gravel and, for some reason, Castiel shudders. He turns and there’s fog at their feet, dancing around their ankles, trying to engulf them, Castiel thinks, and Dean is standing under the only street light working. How fitting.
“What do you want?” Castiel demands, throwing his cigarette to the ground. It's like a bad movie script, something too far away and surreal to make sense. “I’m busy.”
Dean shakes his head, holding up his hand. “I know you, Castiel.”
Intrusive, assuming. This is what Castiel hates about anyone. “You know nothing about me,” Castiel bites. He turns away.
“Where are you gonna go?” Dean calls.
Castiel throws his arms in the air. “Nebraska.” He has no idea. He never does.
“Alone?” This time, the voice is soft and quiet and Castiel is surprised it carries so far.
He stops. He never turns around. “Yeah,” he says to himself.
-
(It’s almost normal how easily Castiel lets Dean in, how he never fights it, never tells Dean to leave. He just lets it happen and it terrifies him, how every single thing he forced himself to be is shedding from his bones and leaving him so vulnerable and open. The angel doesn’t notice, though, not really. He finds his place in the corner of rooms and stays there until Castiel decides to move again, finds his place in the passenger seat, playing with the radio, and they say nothing. But there's that look that Dean gives him, like he really does know him, and Castiel finds himself vaguely hoping that Dean does.)
Castiel’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel most days: he aches for something.)
-
Castiel has a difficult time waking up and realizing that someone, something, knows where he is. And Dean sits there, placid and waiting.
“What are you planning on saving me from?” Castiel asks.
(He hasn’t had a hunt in days, not since Dean started tagging along. Not since the night Castiel found him and Dean led him into a neighbouring field, showed him his wings and Castiel couldn’t really justify it with too much alcohol. He feels old and out of place and out of it all, sick and fatigued and always hungry, fingers shaking, nerves he can’t settle with his cigarettes or running away. Dean is holding him back. He’s holding himself back. It's mostly all a lie.)
Dean wears t-shirts and Wrangler jeans that are almost too tight, steel-toed boots and a battered wrist watch. He watches celebrity rehab shows, whistles at women in the street and he's more something like a devil waiting for an open, something like a sin waiting for an escape. Castiel thought there would be more bright white light and praying and Bible verses twisted into life lessons; mostly, Dean sits silently in the corner, waiting for Castiel to speak first.
“I didn’t say I was saving you,” Dean replies, too loudly for this early in the morning. “I’m helping you.”
Castiel dresses in the dark, his back turned to the angel. Those prying green eyes and the sickening lump that’s been forming in the bottom of his stomach, the back of his throat, corrupting the edges of his heart for days and days-he knows it hurts more than it should.
“Right,” Castiel mutters. “Well, I don’t need help.” He’s lacing up his shoes, unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.
Dean shrugs and stands, stretching. “That’s what you think.”
Castiel thinks he knows what Dean means. He doesn’t have to ask.
-
Usually, he doesn’t dream. Just blank, vivid spaces of stark nothingness that leaves him restless and irritated in the morning. No walls, no boundaries, but he never moves-aching, needing, wanting, clawing for something he can never find.
Then, some different night, there are only noises and stop-motion pictures and bright red floods the back of his eyes-mother, father, sister, sister, sister. Sometimes, it’s easier to recall it, so clear and wonderful in his mind and, sometimes, it’s aggravating and confusing. These mornings, he oversleeps and feels wasted and full when he wakes, forcing himself to roll out of bed.
It doesn’t make him sick, like he thinks it should-those mornings, he never looks in the mirrors and he can remember to forget it until it happens again. He should feel something, something like guilt, remorse and devastation, he knows, but he usually doesn’t.
The red cloaked dream comes back more and more, much more, when Dean is there. It used to be okay, but now he can’t even move without those green eyes watching him closely and Dean asking, “What did you dream about?”
-
(Castiel quickly learns about Dean. The little ticks that could possibly make him human, but Castiel forgets the dead eyes and the brittle, rigid fingers. He wonders how uncomfortable Dean is in his skin.
If Dean is missing, Castiel follows the neon paper signs and arrows to the heaviest parts of suburbia, of small towns, of four bedroom houses and yellowing front lawns. On cracked sidewalks and driveways, weak-legged tables carry brightly advertised junk for sale. He charms the mothers with his wit and pretty face, their eyes fluttering, hands dancing across his arms as the kids tug at his shirt, asking for him to do another magic trick, to tell another story.
Mostly, he buys old work shirts and shoes that never fit him, but they sit, as if patiently waiting, in the trunk of Castiel’s car. Here, at these yard sales, Dean finds his love of cassette tapes.
“Motorhead,” Dean says in the hotel room. He has an old Walkman in his lap, the tapes in his hands, paper covers taped to perfection and faded. He points at Castiel. “Have you heard these guys? They’re amazing.”
Castiel smiles when he thinks Dean isn’t looking.)
-
Castiel is thrown out of his routine with Dean around. Gradually, things that he could once do in the open were now reduced to forced privacy. They weren’t embarrassing habits or even remotely personal, but a simple act as dressing in front of Dean made his stomach turn.
“Oh, don’t make any changes on my account,” Dean said one night as Castiel undressed in the bathroom and brushed his teeth with the door closed. “Pretend like I’m not here.”
Castiel spits out the toothpaste. He only realized how awkward he was in his own skin-nothing felt right ever since the angel came around, like his clothes were too tight, his jackets too small, the car too big, the knives and shotguns too heavy in his hands. He bends and shakes and it all feels wrong in a way that he loves; something that heightens when he finds Dean again. Only one more time like this-the small, dirty boy in the park, his mother’s night gown and the sister’s blank white eyes.
He tries to forget. It’s getting harder to.
(Not like minutes afterwards, when it all just blurred, like he was in a car going too fast, concentrating too hard on the side of the road, where the asphalt ended and the wild grass started and he finally woke up from the nightmare in a too warm hotel room and someone pounding on his door and he couldn’t remember how he had got there.)
-
This one moment on some ordinary day, when Dean has been hanging around too long, doing nothing, bumming rides and stealing smokes and beers, never sleeping and never saying much of anything, Dean looks at Castiel from across the room and says something first.
“Why do you always want to be alone?”
Dean is reading a People magazine (he says he finds the misery of people in expensive clothes gives him a joy that nothing else can compare to). Castiel is sitting cross legged on his bed, pretending to clean his guns. He cleaned them the night before.
“None of your business,” Castiel says. He’s frightened by the angel’s sudden abruptness.
“That’s okay, I know why anyway.”
Castiel spins around on the bed and glares at Dean. “Fuck off.” He stops and stares, words lost and it's not anything, it's really nothing, because it's just an angel, just an angel who drinks whisky and never goes away.
Dean just grins. “You don’t want me to.” He settles further into the chair and flips the page of the magazine.
He’s right, you know.
Completely right.
-
There are nights when Castiel could ask anything and get an answer from Dean. He has the questions on his tongue and, most of the time, he needs it, but something always stops him.
(It's because you trust him.)
It's nothing like that, Castiel tells himself.
(You don't want to ruin this.)
Castiel knows that Dean can see it. He looks at him curiously, poised to ask his own questions. This is when Castiel looks away, avoiding confrontation, his own questions still in his head.
“Are you okay, Cas?” Dean asks while Castiel pretends he's sleeping. It's not the worry in his voice that makes Castiel sigh; it's the slight, fleeting whisper of indignation-Castiel knows what this is.
(The one real thing you could have.)
-
Somehow, they end up in the one place Castiel was working to avoid. He blames Dean, the smirk on his dark face all too present, but doesn’t say a word. He begrudgingly gets out of his car (Dean’s already at the front door, craving those simple human pleasures, simple human sins) and waits there.
The building in front of him is a white washed piece of shit, flaking and crumbling at the edges, sinking at the foundations, lopsided and forgotten by most people, but Anna calls it home and he thinks he should respect it. He’s never around enough, not anymore, to ever really let himself get adjusted to its peculiar, lingering smell and Anna’s consistency in subtle begging.
Anna sees him through the window and the smile on her face, for whatever reason she had it, is wiped clean. He watches her disappear for a moment and flinches before the side door bangs against the wall, anticipating it fully. Her red hair is tangled and twisted around her pointed face and there’s something sinister in her eyes, a look he rarely receives.
“You think you’re going to get away with this,” she starts even before she reaches him. “You think that just because of-” She catches herself and stops, looking away for a moment. “You know how I feel, Cas.”
“I’m sorry,” he finds himself saying. It tastes foreign on his tongue. (He knows Dean is standing on the steps to the bar, watching. It’s oddly reassuring.) “I should have called.”
Suddenly, there are tears in her eyes and Castiel doesn’t know what the fuck to do. He takes a small step back.
“You’re not alone anymore, are you?” she whispers.
“What?” He tries not to laugh, for lack of anything better to do.
She nods towards Dean, grey bunnyhug sleeves rolled up, shoes scuffed and covered in red dust, eyes questioning, head tilted. There are dark clouds in the distance when Castiel looks up and it outlines Dean against the stark, hot sun. Castiel quickly looks away.
“How long?”
Castiel shifts his weight. It makes him uncomfortable and he can’t reason why.
“How long?” Anna asks again, louder, demanding.
“It’s nothing!” Castiel is quietly defending himself. Now, he’s intimidated by her anger, her distrust, her hurt. “He’s just-a friend.”
Because there’s no such thing as angels.
But Anna knows. Probably always knows, because she’s been that one person that can read people’s skin like books, knows what they’re thinking, what they want to say, feel, do and she’s done it better with Castiel then anyone else.
“You’re going to hurt him, Cas,” she spits, vicious. The tears are gone. Dean’s inside the bar. “It’s what you do best.”
He can only assume that she’s right.
-
There’s a playful grin caught on Dean’s lips when Castiel sits down across from him in the back booth. Muffled chatter, clinking of pool balls and beer glasses, Anna in the corner, face tight, hair pulled back, eyes narrowed as she ducks beneath the counter.
“You fucked her, didn’t you?” Dean asks. He nods towards the bar.
Castiel frowns. The angel is too bold.
“No, I didn’t.” (A monster rears its ugly head inside his chest.)
Dean winks. “Not bad, not bad.” He takes a drink of his beer, staring off towards the pool tables. “I did always like the red heads.”
Castiel runs his hand his through his own hair, biting his lip.
-
Two empty rooms. It’s strange having the angel take the room down the hall, his stocky frame disappearing behind the door and Castiel left feeling distracted and unsure.
(It’s unbearable, being away from Dean. It’s an absolute hurt, a starving need-Pleading skin and pleading bones, crying for something they’ve never had. He can’t understand.)
That night, he dreams about Dean. It’s something he can’t distinguish, lost in colours and sounds and the stretch of his own mind, but he feels like he’s missing something when he wakes.
(Dean isn’t there when he gets out of bed, bare feet on cold linoleum floor, sending shivers up his spine.)
-
There’s someone banging on his door. Too warm room, smell of something old and damp and he sits up in bed, clutching the thin sheets (mother mother father father I’m doing you a favour, you’ll see). He can’t breathe.
“Castiel!” It’s Anna.
He doesn’t move.
“Bobby’s on the phone.” There’s something inaudible lost between the door and footsteps retreating down the hall.
Castiel makes his way downstairs (pauses at the stairs, willing himself not to look to the end of the hall, knowing Dean won’t be waiting for him there), follows Anna’s finger to the phone on the wall and picks up, reluctant.
“Anna says you aren’t travelling alone anymore,” is the first thing out of Bobby’s mouth. He sounds upset. “Care to explain the sudden change of heart?”
“Yeah, I don’t know.” Castiel is picking away at the flaking paint on the door frame. He can feel Anna watching him; he tries to shuffle a few feet away, but the phone cord is too short. “It’s nothing.”
“Do you trust them?” His voice is ragged. Definitely upset.
Castiel doesn’t know the answer to this.
“Is it the thing that was following you?” His voice is lighter now, more forgiving. Castiel didn’t know he needed it.
“Maybe, I don’t know,” Castiel grumbles. He’s leaning against the wall, head bent forward, feeling small and deflated.
“Just be careful, all right?”
“Yeah.” Castiel falters. Clears his throat. “I will.”
There’s a humming, a click and static. Reluctant, Castiel hangs up.
-
There’s a coffee in his hands. Anna is sitting beside him, elbow brushing against his arm. He forgot how warm and smooth her skin was.
“How did you meet him?” Anna asks in bated breath, through a resistant tongue. Castiel looks at her, she forces a smile. “He seems nice.”
“He’s just a-” Castiel clears his throat, rubs his knuckles against the bar. “Friend.”
“You don’t have many friends, Castiel.”
(He hates how she says his full name, like mother and child, like she is just that bitter. He can’t really blame her.)
“Yeah,” he murmurs.
She does something unexpected, then. She moves in awkwardly, slowly, fingers tracing the sides of his face, kisses the side of his mouth, too warm. He turns his head away from her, hissing quietly. She stays there, resting on his shoulder; he’s made of plastic, of play sand, slips swiftly through ready fingers and there he is, wrapped in Anna’s frail arms, willing not to fall apart.
“I know I’m no one to you, Cas,” she whispers in his ear. “And I know there’s something you’re missing. Someone you’re missing. I almost thought it was me.” She laughs, girlish and sad. “I hope you find them.”
He shivers and she’s gone.
-
Castiel remembers angels from Sunday school. They lived in brightly coloured posters, immense milky-coloured wings, powerful legs and arms, standing proudly atop mountains and rocks and hills, and people waited at their feet.
“You shouldn't be afraid of angels, Castiel,” the father would say. “They do look wrathful, but they are loving.”
“Mom says they are warriors.” He wanted to be a warrior. Not really for God, but to have a sword of fire and wings and people praising you wouldn't be so bad. Like Batman, but he would never have to die.
“Warriors of god, yes.” The father smiles and pats his head. “But they are also God's messengers, so to speak, and they love you as much as God does.”
-
“I prayed to God for years. Years.” Castiel is waiting in Dean’s doorway. He can’t sleep and he knows the angel, with all his human tendencies, never does.
Dean looks up from the bed (white sheets, white bed frame, white washed floors, white chair in the corner and Castiel thinks it’s Heaven, a place he can’t believe Dean is from). He has his hands open, almost like a Bible could fit comfortably there. His hands are empty. “He's a busy man.”
There’s that weight, pulling his stomach to the floorboards and he wishes he could stop it, stop this, stop talking and disappear. “I just want to know if my family made it,” he blurts out. “If my sisters made it.”
Dean looks at Castiel. (God, how he misses them.)
“Did they?” Castiel asks, voice shaking. This is destructive, this not knowing.
“I don't know that.”
“How can you not?” Castiel takes a few steps into the room.
Dean shrugs; there’s sharpness to his voice, sharpness to the way he shifts his body, the bed creaking under his weight. “I don’t keep tabs on everyone in Heaven.”
“Can’t you ask God or something?” Castiel demands, careless with the angel, indignant.
There’s a cruel edge to Dean’s laugh as his hands drop to rest on his knees. His eyes are light. “I don’t talk to God.”
Castiel’s taken back. Suddenly, Dean’s not an angel anymore. Not like he thought. “Why not?”
Dean sighs and looks at him, closed and distant. “I don’t believe in Him.”
“But-you're an angel.” And Castiel doesn't, can't understand (it makes sense for him to have no faith, he knows he has every reason to, but angels are warriors, God's messengers and he wants to know what happened to Dean that tore that away from him).
“How can I believe in something that I've never seen, Cas?” Dean says, soft and accusing. “Explain that to me.”
-
They leave in the middle of night with a high moon and cloudless sky. Dean makes too much noise, wants to say goodbye to Anna-Castiel waits outside without a word. Dean stumbles out with a smile too large for his face. Castiel doesn’t ask (he’s plastic, he’s play sand, he’s actually nothing).
In the car, Dean plays Tom Petty as the miles stretch behind them and Castiel can’t think, can’t think with the angel so close, with their sticky skin bumping against each other and how much, all at once, Castiel needs this.
-
“Your phone has been ringing.”
Castiel stops in front of the car. Dean is leaning out the window, staring at him. He has dark sunglasses on, a long sleeved shirt of Castiel's rolled to his elbows, and a he looks a little dangerous, a little like a movie star, someone Castiel wished he could be.
“Did you answer it?” Castiel asks.
Dean nods. “People wanting you to go hunt something.”
Castiel shrugs and gets in the car. “It's not a big deal.”
“It seems like a big deal.” Dean throws his arms over the back of the seat. “They won't stop calling.”
“They never do,” Castiel mutters, laughing under his breath.
Dean glances at Castiel sideways, eyes narrowed. “Anna called, too.” (The way he says it stings, bruises Castiel.) He flashes a smile.
Castiel starts the car, bites his tongue. “Whatever.”
-
The bedroom in the roadside motel is small. Dean curls up in the wooden chair, feet propped up on the mismatched oak desk in the corner, kicking a coffee pot and stationary paper to the floor. He closes his eyes and doesn't move for what seems hours. Castiel lays in bed, face down into the mattress, breathing dust and old musk, trying not to dream.
It's midnight, maybe, closer to four in the morning when the bed sinks at Castiel's feet and he shakes himself awake. Naturally, it's Dean sitting there, hands clasped together. Lately, he hasn't been looking at Castiel and maybe it bothers him more than it should, how much he suddenly misses those moments when he would.
“What's going on?”
Dean clears his throat. Castiel reaches out suddenly, grasping Dean's hands in his own. Dean looks past him, eyes fixed on the wall behind his head.
“Hey,” Castiel whispers.
For a moment, Dean twines his fingers through Castiel's: he breathes deeply, body trembling under the weight of something and Castiel feels a shuttering apprehension crash through his head.
“Dean,” Castiel says, weakened by this swift and unforgiving realization. “What's going on?”
Dean's laughing, short bursts of something panicked and scared, running his hands over his face. “I can't do this,” he sighs. “Not again.”
He's leaving. “Again?” he breathes.
Dean looks at him-he's tired, eyes dull and sinking. Dean's sinking. “I-just can't.”
“Wait.” Not now, not when Castiel finally knows what it all means, what it's all supposed to be, when he has something he never really believed he'd want. “Please.”
(He leaves anyway.)
-
Castiel is standing on the front porch of a blue farm house, white shutters, wrap around porch made of dark wood and nails. A family used to live there: their crippled, maimed bodies haven't left the foyer yet. Bobby said there should be something to hunt here, but he's been hiding out in the barn for three days and has found nothing. He's getting agitated, lost, alone. He hasn't seen Dean in a week and Castiel knows he's gone.
Then-the wind stops. He spins around, feet slick on the rain soaked steps and he slips, falling to his knees. Then-footsteps, loud and confident, behind him. He scrambles for his gun, dots of lights flickering behind his eyes, and points it upwards, cocked and ready. The gun is jerked from his hands; he covers his face and looks into the sun.
“God,” Castiel mutters, still breathing hard.
The man smiles briefly, thin lips curling into something faintly malicious. “Close.” He sets the gun at Castiel's feet.
“Another angel?” Castiel pushes himself up, brushing his pants off. He sighs.
“Samiqiel,” the man says, looking towards the gravel road running past the front of the house. He's taller than Castiel, more demanding and vicious in his presence than Dean; he looks at back at Castiel, who looks away.
“But I can call you-” Castiel looks at the angel's feet. Buffed and polished shoes. “-Sam, right?”
The angel tilts his head. His hair is smoothed back, dark navy trench coat buttoned to his neck, black pants, leather black gloves, black black black-even less like an angel then Dean. He laughs, cold (less like an angel then Castiel imagined): “I'm too old for pet names, Castiel.”
Castiel frowns. “What do you want?” He turns away and walks towards the side of the house, fingers running along the vinyl siding.
“I have come for Diniel,” Samiqiel says. He leans against the house, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. He eyes Castiel thoughtfully.
Castiel stops, hands clenched into fists. “What did he do?” He's trying hard not to lose it all of sudden: something, anything. He jumps to the broken sidewalk, gathers up his duffel: something, anything.
“Nothing.” Samiqiel looks at his hands, then up at Castiel. Castiel is looking back. “Well, not yet.”
“I didn't know angels could see into the future,” Castiel snipes. He stands defensively at the bottom of the steps.
“We can't.” Samiqiel shrugs, hands raised, like a priest praying. “But I know what he's thinking, what he wants.”
Castiel shuffles his weight, shakes his shoulders, squints into the bright sun. “And what is that?” He yells.
Samiqiel grins. He points at Castiel. “You.”
(Castiel's heart stops.) He looks down at the bag in his hands, running his thumb across the rough woven fabric. (He can't think.)
“You seemed shocked by this, Castiel.” Samiqiel pushes himself from the side of the house. He's tall and intimidating, his dark eyes wide and unblinking, angular face, fast movements, Castiel knows this would be easier if he were a demon. “I thought you would be more receptive.”
“What?”
Samiqiel reaches out, hand on Castiel's shoulder, thin fingers digging into his shoulder, eyes boring into his. “See, I know what you desire as well.”
“You don't.” Castiel shrugs him off and walks down the dirt path.
“Diniel says he knows you,” the angel calls out after him. “Well, so do I.”
Castiel throws his duffle to the ground. The knives and guns clink inside the bag, tumble to the ground. He turns slowly, not completely facing the angel when he asks, “What is Dean to you?”
Samiqiel purses his lips. Shrugs. “I'm something like a superior to him-”
“What does he mean to you,” Castiel demands. Behind him, a bird sings (an angel screams from the distance, flash of white and striking green), and Castiel is lost in it.
Samiqiel looks at the ground. Castiel can see his face tightening (like the monster in his chest), fingers curling inside the long arms of his coat and he knows why the angel is here, why this angel came, came for him, came for Dean.
“I'm not going to drag him out of here,” Samiqiel says stiffly. “He can come on his own free will. If he wishes.” He has his hands in his pockets again and he looks strangely human, the anger flitting across his face, the insecurity in his now pale eyes. “He knows what awaits him if he chooses this path. We've warned him before.”
Castiel shakes his head: before. “Why did you tell me all this?”
Samiqiel lifts his head, lips parted. “If you really do care about him, you wouldn't let him go through with it, would you?”
-
Dean comes back two days later. He's carrying a grocery bag of tapes and red shirts, waiting on the front steps of the motel registration office, talking quietly to the frail desk lady. Castiel wanders over, half asleep, pissed off and relieved. The woman clicks her tongue at Castiel, mutters, locks the door behind her and shuts off the light.
Without stars in the sky, they are left in perpetual darkness and Castiel finds it fitting.
“I'm sorry,” Dean mutters. He doesn't look up.
Castiel crosses his arms. “Yeah.”
He turns towards Castiel, bag rustling. “I shouldn't have left. I didn't want to.”
“You did, though.” Castiel tries to hold back the offended tone. He doesn't know whether he has the right to be or not.
“I know.” Castiel feels Dean's hand brush against his arm. “I said I was sorry.”
Castiel groans, hands falling to his sides. Now, he wants something he knows he can never have. Not completely. “Just come inside.”
-
(He wonders if he should tell Dean about Samiqiel, about intentions of his words, about reading between the lines, but he thinks the angel already knows. He waits in further corners, doesn't say much besides I'm sorry and Castiel wishes he could trust him enough to know it's true. He just tricks himself into believing it.
He thinks he knows what will come from Dean's treachery, whatever it is, because he thinks he knows Dean. He doesn't, he never did. But Dean knows him.
I know who you are.)
-
They pass town after town, an exaggerated blur, and Dean fidgets in the passenger seat, casting nervous glances when the sun starts to break on the horizon and Castiel hasn’t said a word since the night before. There’s a tension that Castiel doesn’t want to acknowledge, a disaster that sits on the tip of his tongue, a pain that waits in the back of his head.
(The sun is cruel and vast, resting on the trees and the grass, blistering the rubber wheel under Castiel’s fingers.)
There’s a roadside gas station, vacant and old: he doesn’t know if it’s open. It doesn’t really matter. He stops the car on the side of the highway; he turns the ignition off and the car is silent, the weight of it (We've warned him before-before) pressing on him so quickly.
“You need to leave.”
Dean has his right hand on the door handle, ready to move. “What?”
“Go.” The silence has heavy fingers, wrapping tight around his throat and he’s choking out the words, like he’s a child again. “You can’t be here anymore.”
“What the hell did I do?” The face darkens (this face that isn’t his, doesn’t belong to the angel, was never meant for him in the way that his face becomes a monster in the sunlight and it’s his own destroyer).
It's what you're going to do.
“Isn’t there someone else you can bother?” Castiel snaps, cracking his knuckles on the dashboard. He’s pushing too hard, shouldn’t have let this happen, could have just said no and it all comes back to this moment, where it’s too painfully real.
Dean’s eyes widen. He throws open the door, crawls out and slams it closed: the car shakes and Castiel cringes. He closes his eyes and Mom is there, sitting beside him, touching his hand, warm, soft. She smiles: You’ll know. Her voice is young, boyish. Her eyes are black.
(He does know. He knows too well that he wants Dean, something he can't control, but Dean can't. Dean knows he can't and Castiel doesn't want him to. Not with someone like Samiqiel waiting for him in the shadows of a Heaven he's never seen or believed.)
Thud. Castiel is shocked out of it, Mom isn’t there when he looks over and Dean is leaning on the hood of the car, palms face down. And he looks tired, bitter and lost, unravelling before him like any human would and it scares Castiel that Dean can feel.
“No, okay?” he yells, tight-lipped, harsh angles as he backs away. “There isn’t! Is that what you wanted to hear?” He throws his hands up in the air.
Castiel curls his fingers around the steering wheel, wishes it all away. “Just-go away!” It takes everything in him not to beg for forgiveness, for Dean just to want him again, like he's sure he did before.
“I have to stay here!”
(It echoes in Castiel’s head for days. It won’t leave.)
“No-”
“Yes, I do!” Dean slams his fist down on the hood-monster, monster. “I fucking do.” Then, he stops. His entire body falls, collapses, empty and exhausted right before him. His hands on his face: the wind is swelling, howling through the doors and dust whips across Dean’s bare arms. “I messed up, Cas. I messed up so bad.”
Castiel stumbles out of the car, feet hitting the ground awkwardly and he doesn’t understand. Dean leans against the car and he looks so small, arms wrapped around himself, legs crossed, face closed.
“I was supposed to look after you, okay?” It sounds like gifted pleading, like he’s done it before. Castiel doesn’t move.
“You were under my protection, as most kids are. I was making rounds when I noticed the demon hanging around, trying to make friends.” Dean's hands are moving, running across head, his face, his neck, his arms. He looks up at Castiel, face fallen and begging absolution beyond the doubt. “You were a sad kid, Cas. So I stuck around.” He breathes deeply, slowly, surely, surely surely it's not that bad. “Then that fucking demon started tailing you. Followed you for weeks and I managed to keep him away. I thought he got bored because, one day, he didn’t show up. So I left.”
(Here, Castiel feels something build in his chest, something black and unforgiving where his heart should be).
“I didn’t know until I was knee deep in this cute little blonde that you were possessed and then…” Dean clenches his fists. Tries not to look at Castiel, but there’s a distress in his eyes that Castiel can’t ignore. “I couldn’t find you. You were just gone.”
Here, Castiel feels that blackness tighten. “This-this was your fault?” He steps closer to the angel. He flinches away, hunched shoulders hiding his body. “You’re the reason I’m like this?”
Dean turns around, moves back. Castiel follows him. “I’m trying to make up for it!” (Pleading, pleading, please please please.) He sighs, weighted and impatient: “You don’t know how bad I feel. That’s why I came back.”
“My family is dead because of you!” Castiel pushes Dean (dark where his heart should be, hatred where his mind should be). He stumbles back, shock and desperation finally thrown into relief. “And you thought that would just go away by being my friend?” Castiel pushes Dean again and again, dirt grinding under their feet, and Dean just lets him.
“I know I fucked up, I know,” Dean says. He's looking at his feet, body shaking.
“You fucking selfish bastard!” Castiel fists his hands in Dean’s shirt and pulls him close, their lips brushing-something intensely electrifying, revolting.
And Dean’s eyes are fluttering closed, delicate and soft. The wind stops for a moment, sound stops for a moment, there’s no colour or taste or life for one simple moment as Castiel stares down at the angel and, after all these weeks, feels nothing.
“I know,” Dean whispers. “I’m sorry.”
Castiel feels the bone-splitting crunch flood through his knuckles, the sickening rush of shrill agony through his arm: Dean doesn’t flinch. Castiel falls to his knees at Dean’s feet, cradling his arm in his hand.
“Oh,” Castiel groans, eyes watering. The pebbles dig into his knees and it’s too hot out, no wind, no sound, just Dean everywhere around him.
“I’m sorry, Cas, I’m so sorry.” Calloused hands on his shoulders, gripping tight, shaking him. Castiel can feel Dean’s breath hot on his face; he can’t look up. “Please, please forgive me.”
(Please please please please.)
“Go,” Castiel mutters.
“You don’t want me to.”
There’s something in the way he says it, the way Castiel understands without actually knowing, that makes him shudder and Dean pulls him to his feet. Cold, cold hands on the side of his face and Castiel weakens. Something disruptive in his chest, something withering, something trying to push him away.
“Stop,” Castiel begs. He tries to turn away.
Dean grabs his arms and holds him, makes him stay. “You don’t want me to.”
It’s destructive and impulsive and pitiless, things like this, and Castiel can’t get away. He won’t open his eyes, he won’t open his eyes, but Dean is right there, their bodies close, too close, something uncontrollable and real, but he can’t, he won’t, he can’t.
“I know who you are,” Dean says. “I know what you dream about it.”
Castiel opens his eyes. “You don’t.”
“You’re killing yourself.” Something twists in Dean's face and suddenly, he's angry, demanding-Castiel knows it's the shame talking. “You don’t know it, but you are.”
Castiel tries to turn again, wants to, needs to get away. Dean lets him go. Castiel doesn’t run (he wants to, needs to, but something won’t let him). They stand a foot apart, waiting, daring the other to move. Castiel’s arm still hurts, a throbbing, numbing pain that keeps him awake.
“Stop it,” Dean asks.
“Dean-”
“Just… stop.” He raises his hands, the white flag, palms facing the yellow sky. “Please. You can’t, okay? You just can’t.” He won’t stop looking at Castiel-it’s agonizing and wonderful and, yeah, Castiel needs this. “I would never forgive myself.”
A chill runs through his skin, sinks into his bones, when Dean grabs his wrists and kisses him. He wonders how it got to here, how he let himself get here; it was never supposed to be this way. He shivers as Dean pulls him close, fingers tightening around his wrists, something colourful and glorious ebbing through his fingers, his arms, his chest-all over, everywhere, Dean is everywhere.
(It should be winter, Castiel thinks, it should be winter.)
“Okay,” Castiel promises. “Okay.”
And he craves it like he did every other night, like he’s craved it for days and days, something he could never fulfill and here it is, here it is, right now. And it eats him alive, this want, and he takes it for all he can, for all it’s worth. Pushes Dean against the car, hands fisted in his hair, spreading his legs apart with his knee: a noise, in the back of his throat, echoing in his head, dancing behind his eyes and he feels light-headed, high.
(He’s being ripped apart at the seams, feelings himself break so beautifully and gloriously beneath Dean’s gentle fingers, and he wants it all. It’s too right, too wrong, too perfect and maybe this is all he’s ever needed to make the thoughts and voices and dreams go away. Maybe this was always his cure.)
Dean’s hands on his chest, falling away. Castiel can’t, won’t open his eyes.
“I’m not meant for you,” Dean whispers into his lips. It’s heartbreaking, shattering, and Castiel doesn’t know it.
Sound, colour, life stops; then-
There’s something in his head telling him no no no: “Wait!”
-nothing.
(The wind howls again, the gas station is deserted and Castiel’s eyes open into a blinding white sun.)
It should be winter.
-
He was a man of his word. (They found him asleep in his hotel room, dead eyes and pale skin.)
He had few secrets, experience beyond his youthful years. The stories that circulated between whiskey mouths and shaded bars were of angels and emptiness, something they never really could grasp, something they would never be able to explain. (He would never tell them what it was, what it felt like). But these were just stories.
Some wished they could be him, meet him, ask him questions about monsters and demons and what it all is, but he never came unless he travelled alone. (He didn’t always, though: the one they would never figure out, never heard enough about, the one that was only a shadow of something real, something he claimed to need and want.)
He came from nowhere and he went everywhere and no one could ever find him. (He falls away a week later and no one ever hears of him again.)
But he was a man of his word. (A note in his hands, in his pockets, instilled somewhere inside him, stuck, something written hastily, begging: I know who you are.)
-
end.
[alternate universe] dean/castiel, one-sided castiel/anna, bobby, sam. oc character death. rated pg-13. ~10,875
He came from nowhere and he went everywhere and no one could ever find him. But he was a man of his word.
(c) title from re:stacks by bon iver
a/n: written for Renegade Angels prompt: Dean is an angel and Cas is a human hunter
And all I really want from you is to feel me
It's a feeling inside, it keeps building
And I will find a way to you if it kills me
If it kills me
It might kill me
if it kills me, jason mraz
He was a man of his word, reliable and steady. He had a dark secret and knowledge beyond his youthful years. The stories that circulated between whiskey mouths and shaded bars were of monsters and villains and heroes that rode in on horses, that could fly, were always victorious, but these were just childish stories (the man they spoke of was, in truth, far less). They wished they could be him, meet him, ask him questions, but he never came unless he travelled alone.
He came from nowhere and he went everywhere and no one could ever find him. But he was a man of his word.
-
His mother used to tell him, with a light and a joy in her golden face, that his hands told tales, told his future. He was a baby, still learning to walk straight and not old enough to be blamed for being naive, so he was still allowed to believe in fairy tales and magic.
She would trace lines on his palms, soft skin on soft skin, tickling and smooth. She smiled, all knowing, all truthful, and his father would scoff in the background, smoking his cigarette (it never seemed to leave his hands); still, he grinned behind his coffee cup.
Being young and gullible, he trusted her.
“Here,” she would whisper, focusing on his tiny child hands. “You will be famous. Everyone will know your name and want to know you.” She squints, tilting her head, long, dirty hair falling past her shoulders, brushing against his baby wrists. She started humming.
Amazed, he held out his other hand. “What else will I be?”
“You will be a hero. You will save many lives, my boy.”
“Will I wear a cape?” He's excited and breathless, leaning closer to her.
“If you want,” she murmured. “Oh...”
Dad leans on the table, pushing the empty coffee cup aside. “What do you see now?”
“He will be a mysterious one. But he will know true love.”
And they laughed wonderfully.
-
For years, he waited in silence, anxious and careful; he didn’t want to ruin this simple prophecy, this planned destination, his one chance for greatness. He would be a hero, like Superman or Spider-man; he just needed to be patient, to wait for that moment when it all changed. Days spent in the park, playing in the grass, waiting, still, for his future. It would come, because his mother said so.
His older sister's, their wild red hair and selfish mischievousness, would sneer and mock him: “You won't be anything. You will just be little forever.”
“I will be a hero. Mom said so.”
And because he was young and gullible, he chose to believe it.
-
The streets of decrepit slums in Boston were Gotham at night. His dad gave him a Batman cape for Christmas when he was seven (black polyester and yellow fabric paint that cracked and peeled) and he knew, by then, that super powers were never in his destiny. He would be a vigilante, a dark shadow in the night, fighting crime with an edge that made him bad himself. But they never had much money, Mom always said, not enough for a slick car or weapons any greater than the broken water gun from the neighbours yard.
But he was a hero; he would use whatever he could get his hands on.
Mom used to tell stories on his hands when he was a baby, but he's a hero now. Lately, she has been slapping his hero hands, crying and yelling at him to not steal, never steal.
“But I need it to fight the bad guys,” he said, clutching the weapons he found in stores in his hero hands. “I have to save the world.”
“That was just a story.” She had large tears in her eyes, like rain drops.
“But you said so.”
Rain drops in her eyes. “It was just a story-”
“You said so!” he screamed.
-
Mom and Dad moved in beautiful unison, after the screaming and shattering plates and the rhythm beats on his bedroom wall ended. He tried to time them, but they were never the same. His sisters would sit in the corner of their shared room, listless and bored. They had suspicious eyes, but he rarely would see them. (Sometimes, after, they would scream too. Not at him or each other or Mom and Dad-just scream.)
Once it was quiet again, he would sneak down the hallway and peer around the corner into the kitchen. They seemed as one, swaying together by the large bay window. They were careful of the broken plates and glass, shuffling in their bare feet, the radio crackling by the sink full of water and soap suds, still lukewarm from supper.
And Mom would fall asleep on the couch while Dad went for a walk. After Dad was gone, he would tip-toe up to her and curl into her chest and she would tell stories. She would talk slowly, quietly, as not to wake the sisters. He wanted them to come out and hear the stories of dragons and princesses, ghosts and monsters under their beds. Mostly, he was afraid they wouldn't be there in the morning.
“They have school tomorrow, my boy,” she would explain every night when he asked her if he could wake them. “They will get smart and grow big brains and go to school in New York.”
“Will I be smart one day, Momma?”
She kissed his head. “You are smart already.”
They would lay there and she would fall asleep with her arms draped over his tiny body. He would watch the moonlight move across the bare floor until Dad came home, smelling of the world and of other women than Mom, crossed eyed and disenchanted. He would wonder if Mom should wake up, kiss Dad good night, but Dad always wanders away, stumbling into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He would sit straight up on the couch-Mom would never stir.
He would save the world in the morning.
-
For awhile, he wanted friends.
He tried to make friends, but no one liked talking to him. He lived in the wrong part of the block, in the wrong house, lived with the wrong people and a wrong name.
(“Freak!” they would scream, wild and victorious. So childish how his name could condemn him, but he didn’t know any better.)
They pushed him around and he came home in distant, soft silence to wash the blood from his face. His fingers became numb when they came around, faceless and wordless, just slick tongues and collective jeers. He used to be a hero, used to fight back.
Now, he doesn’t move when the bright sky reveals them.
-
Someone is whistling on the sidewalk. He grinds his teeth and cowers behind the bushes in the park. His knuckles are bruised and streaked with his own blood. He can feel his eye swelling, his lips sore, mouthful of iron-taste and sticky red.
There's a rustling. He turns sharply.
“You okay?” the rustling asks.
He crawls away from the man, glancing warily over his shoulder. “Mom says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers.” It's hard to see through half-closed eyes.
The man nods, smiling toothlessly. He looks around, amused by the dead grass and rusted chains on the swings. “Makes sense.” He looks back. He has staggering green eyes-nothing else is distinct about his face, except those eyes. “You have a lot of blood on your face. How can you even see through those eyes?”
“Go away,” he murmurs. He's not afraid. He just wants to be alone.
The man shrugs. “All right.” There's rustling and now when the man talks, it's muffled, the leaves dancing as he moves and breathes: “See you around.”
-
They are sitting side by side on the couch, watching TV. He doesn't know what's on, since it's mostly fuzzy and the people dancing on the screen are almost too small to see, not made any better by the tender black and green bruise on his right eye. It's entertaining and he likes it.
“The boys at the park make fun of me.” He licks his lips. Sometimes, the iron-taste is still there and all he sees is those green eyes on the dark faced man.
She's humming this night and he can feel it in his chest through the back of the couch. The sisters are on the floor, in a semi-circle, writing on their notepads and Dad is helping them with math equations. The sisters whisper in a language he doesn't know and most of the time it makes him mad, a joke he will never a hear, a secret he will never understand. Mom just smiles and says they're young, they will grow out of it.
“Don't listen to them,” Mom hums.
He frowns. “Why did you give me such a funny name?”
Dad looks at Mom. He shrugs.
“It's not a funny name, my boy. It's a wonderful name.”
He sulks against the couch, crossing his arms. The people on the TV are too happy for him. “They say it's stupid.” He touches his eye and winces. Mom shakes her head. “Why did you name me Castiel, Momma?”
She smiles, wide and bright. “Because an angel told me to.”
-
His Mom always said he was smart. A clever boy, wise beyond his years and quick enough to catch on. When he hides in the park, behind the sycamore trees, where the old, rusted play set heaves under its own loneliness, he reads his sister's books. Mom said he was so smart; he didn't even have to go to school. His sister's would just teach him all he needed to know (but that wasn't much to begin with, he was such a clever boy).
As he grew, so did his head and it was full of words from books and encyclopaedias and Mom's stories. He wanted to know it all. He sought to know it all, but it he seemed to always fall short and he always fell short when Dad had got into the whiskey and the sister's came home late and Mom cried and cried and cried. This is when it became too much and then he would run, but only as far as the end of the block, stolen away to trees and dirt and cool grass, always needing to be near.
He's fifteen, lanky and obnoxious and mean, predatory of his hideout. He keeps his hair messy and long, his clothes loose and ill-fitting, his fingers curled around pages for days and days (Dad's been coming home with different women and he knows what it means, what it all means because he's not a kid anymore, but he would rather just let it be lost to fairy tales and innocence for now). This is where a small boy finds him, pale face, greasy hair poking through the overgrown bush.
“Go away,” Castiel snaps.
“You're that weird kid,” the boy says quickly. “The one that never went to school.”
Castiel scowls and turns away from the boy. “I said go away.” He grips his book tighter in his sweaty fingers.
The bush rustles and a branch crunches. “You got any friends?”
Castiel can feel the hot, sticky breath of the boy down his neck-sweets and obscenity. “No.” Mom said friends were never important-just your brain. Sometimes, he wonders about Mom, whether she really knows as much as she says she does, but she reads palms and can see into the future; he can't challenge something like that.
“Do you want to be my friend?” The boy is intrusive and determined.
Castiel throws his book down and whips around, facing the boy. “I said fuck off!”
The boy stands stiffly for a moment before his stunned face distorts into something ugly and wicked, eyes flickering black and Castiel feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up before he stops remembering.
-
He's awake three days later. He can't move his fingers. But the little boy does.
Welcome back.
They are standing in the kitchen, facing the window. It’s early morning, the peaceful yellow light filtering white through the old lace curtains. They are drumming their fingers on the counter and it all sounds like far away echoes humming in his head.
Let me out, Castiel whispers. It rings in his head like a bullet.
Aren't you going to ask who I am?
It's not important. Castiel doesn't even know what this is.
You're not afraid. (The boy is impressed. Castiel finds himself grateful.)
Drumming footsteps in a hollow room and they turn around. Mom is standing in her baby pink night gown, sleepy-eyed and smiling.
“Good morning, Mother,” they say.
She shuffles to the coffee pot and pours herself a cup. She's been crying. “Baby, what are you doing up so early?”
Their hand snakes across the countertop, resting on the butcher knife, still dirty from last night’s supper. Castiel can't remember what they ate. Their fingers wrap around it and it feels so achingly familiar to their touch.
“I haven't seen you in a few days,” she says and takes a sip of her coffee. Her eyes flicker and she tilts her head, her plait falling over her shoulder. “You spend too much time in that park.”
The grip tightens around the polished wooden handle.
Don't, Castiel says.
I'm doing you a favour. The knife swings out and Mom doesn't have time to scream. You'll see.
-
He wakes in his youngest sister's blood (he doesn't go looking for the others and Dad-he already knows). It's warm and unbearable and he screams when he sees his own stained skin. He tears off his clothes and he thinks of burning down the tiny apartment, getting rid of it all together because that's what the criminals do in the detective novels. He remembers to breathe, only briefly, and he packs his books, dresses and hides away in the park until the sun sets and the sirens yell.
The little boy is nowhere to be seen.
-
Hunts are getting complicated. He's not getting older. Everything just hurts.
(He wishes he could forget.)
-
“You've been gone for awhile, Cas.”
Castiel is still half sleeping. It's another motel room that smells like wet bodies and hot air and he breathes it in, disease in his lungs. A car passes outside, the sound of squealing tires and dying engine finds it way through the open window and it just echoes-he closes his eyes, rubbing his knuckles across his face until he sees spots.
He wishes Anna wouldn't call him so early. “Been busy.”
“I've been worried.” He can hear it in her tone. Most of the time, it sounds a lot like love and longing.
“I'm fine,” he bites. “I was also sleeping.”
Anna clicks her tongue. “Cas. You promised you would call more often.”
“I never promised.”
There's a drawn out silence and Castiel has no desire to fill it.
“Just remember to call me on your way back through.” And she hangs up.
He knows Anna loves him; always has, always will. Castiel finds it hard to love her back.
-
There's things like demons and ghouls and vengeful spirits that he never wanted to know; things like thirsty monsters and poltergeists and things that even he can't explain. He shouldn't seek them out, shouldn't know their patterns, their motives and desires, because now he treads the fine thread between death and living in misery. But he does and he can't seem to stop it.
I'm doing you a favour.
He's got a suitcase full of guns and knives and bottles of holy water, machetes and rosaries and a folder of missing persons and notes written on stolen note paper hidden under his back seat. Some nights he doesn't eat, some nights he doesn't sleep. He's not on a crusade, waiting for some victorious and satisfying revenge, he's not looking for anything in particular, because he doesn't know what to look for.
You'll see.
Just anything.
-
He's in Kentucky and he wonders how he got here (he wonders how he gets anywhere). Small town nowhere, he finds an abandoned park. No sycamore trees, no hiding place, but he feeds an ache, a need and finds himself inside the wooden block boundaries. He sits on the swing set and maybe he's waiting for that little boy still. Now he knows exactly what to expect.
That's when he first sees it, him: off in the distance, standing to the side of a dying street lamp. Castiel doesn't move to get closer, just stares. The silhouette disappears a few seconds later. It should unnerve him, the suddenness and why here and why now.
Lately, Castiel hasn't been able to feel scared.
-
Bobby finds him on the Kentucky border. He's been waiting for a few days and Castiel wishes Bobby didn't know so much about him. The highway is dusty and busy, cars and trucks racing past and Castiel feels five again, dangerous and lucky.
“What is it?” Castiel asks.
Bobby squints at him. He's stopped shaving and it looks odd on him. He looks too old. “Good job on that siren in Detroit.”
Castiel shrugs. He's still got the scars. “Anything new?”
(Bobby used to be hesitant with Castiel and his demands, his nonchalance at scars and wounds, unsure and protective. He learned it didn’t matter.)
Bobby pulls out a map. It's dotted with blue and red. “Weird omens all across the country. Always consistent in events but never the same order. And they aren't really following any particular pattern-”
“Demonic?”
“No.” Bobby grunts. “Well, doesn't look like it.” He looks nervous and shifty and it's not like Bobby.
Castiel pulls out a cigarette from his jean pocket and lights it. “Then what's the problem?”
Bobby knocks the smoke from Castiel's hands. “Where were you last?”
“Some place called Jackson.” He takes out another cigarette.
“Before that?”
Castiel gives Bobby a look-he's rarely afraid, mostly because he feels he has nothing to lose, nothing to gain. Right now, he's just interested. “Proctorville, Ohio.”
“And?”
“Monroe, Indiana. And Detroit.” Castiel shuffles, licking his lips. “I was in South Dakota for a bit.”
Bobby slams his fist on the hood of his car. The wind whistles and whips across the highway. “Fuck,” he mutters and it's almost lost to the sky.
Castiel drops his cigarette. “What the hell, Bobby?” A car horn honks as it passes and a young girl sticks her head out of the passenger window, laughing and swearing. It disappears around the corner and Bobby takes off his hat.
“I think it-whatever it is-is following you.”
(This is where it changes.)
-
There can only be simple explanations, he thinks. Tries to remember Ohio, Indiana, South Dakota: nothing.
Maybe short glimpses of someone in the shadows, something like bright green eyes and a soft swirl of white smoke, but he never knows. It's abruptly familiar in a way that he can't determine and it comes in rapid bursts of agony and frustration.
He doesn’t sleep that night, like most nights. Stares out the window, rain spitting on the dark pavement, and he wonders if this is finally the end he’s been waiting for.
-
He calls Anna. He knows she's happy that he remembered.
“Cas!” she breathes into the phone. “Are you coming home soon?”
“Have you told anyone where I am?”
She's in the middle of saying something-“What?”
“Have you been telling people where I am, Anna!” He's bitterly and wildly curious, wants to know, a little fucking worked up and not knowing what to expect.
“No!” she cries, actually cries, because he can hear the desperation in her voice, the pleading and the choking, all because she still believes he will finally give in. “Cas, I would never do that.”
“Something's following me.”
She stops, breathes. “Do you know what it is? Have you talked to Bobby?”
“I'm going to find it,” he says. He's already packing-guns, books, knives, holy water, whatever. His cell phone is getting shit service on this lonely strip of land and its all dead trees and dead grass and dead air.
And she’s screaming, “You're fucking insane-”
He hangs up.
-
In his head, Boston and the black cape can still save him. He's not a child anymore and he knows it isn't true. There's just something about looking down a dark road with no end that makes him ache.
-
He lost his map a few towns over: flew out the window going a hundred miles an hour in the hanging minutes of morning and he only started regretting it now. He's not sure where he is, but he doesn't think it matters.
He can feel his phone vibrating in his pocket. He can't be bothered to turn it off. He doesn't know what he's doing and he kind of wishes Bobby were here, but he travels alone. He sits in the middle of a paved crossroads, the sky tearing from grey-blue to pink and gold and he's reminded of oak pews, chipped red heels and the smell of the worn pages in Mom’s gold edged Bible.
He's pretty sure he doesn't believe in God. Not anymore.
Castiel has no plan, never has a plan, since it's all a risk, all a game, all a suicide pact with himself and he's just living on wasted time. So, he'll wait and wait for this thing, whatever it is, and if it kills him, he won't be angry. This much he knows.
For a second, the wind stops and sound stops and the world stops and he's sure he smells burning flesh until it all comes crashing back and his world is just the same.
Then, crunching gravel-
Castiel stands up and spins around. He has his gun out and there's a man, and he is beautiful, standing at the edge of the crossroads. There’s a soft breeze that rustles the trees and wild grass blanketing the sides of the road. The man remains still.
“What are you?” Castiel yells out.
“My name is Dean,” he says. “I'm here to help you.”
-
He says his name is Diniel, but you can call me Dean. Protector of children. Castiel finds it vastly flawed with the empty beer bottle twirling in the man’s lithe fingers. A supposed angel with a penchant for seedy bars and a cold Corona. Castiel is a little unnerved.
“You’ve been following me,” Castiel says suddenly into the suffocating noise of the bar around them. It was obvious, but Castiel wanted to see if the stranger had an explanation, if he could defend his own weak story.
Dean looks like he’s about to deny it, shrugs slightly, until he catches Castiel’s gaze and sighs-“Yeah,” he mutters.
Castiel waits. Dean looks sideways: there’s no apology. The light catches the lines and curves of his face, casting harsh sharp-edged shadows in the amber glow. Castiel doesn’t think it’s so angelic, blue smoke swirling like a halo around their heads and inaudible screams echoing in their conversation. It could be beautiful, he guesses.
“And you’re an angel.”
Dean cocks his head and smirks, almost like he knows too much, like he can see past the sour tone in Castiel’s sick voice. “You don’t believe in angels?” Dean asks, like he’s asked this question too many times before.
He probably has.
Castiel pauses, sucks on the lips of the beer bottle, eyes down cast. “I wish I didn’t.”
The mocking superiority and satisfaction slips from Dean’s face. Castiel doesn’t know whether it’s from shock or empathy. He realizes he really doesn’t care. Dean sighs and slams his beer bottles back on the table.
“Where are we off to, then?” Dean asks brightly.
Castiel laughs, stands, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. Dean shuffles to his feet, annoyed, as Castiel throws money on the table and turns to the door.
“Wait-” Dean calls out, already lost in the people.
Castiel is pulling a cigarette from his pocket, that one last life line, that one constant thing and it’s kind of pathetic, but he’s finding it hard to give a fuck about his own sad state of affairs. He lights up in the door frame, momentary flicker of warmth from the small flame, the instant burn in his nose from the sickly sweet smell of smouldering tobacco and someone shoving him into the door as they make their way in. He slams the door against the outside wall and is hit with a cold, rancid breeze.
Somewhere behind him, the angel is trying to catch up.
“I said wait-!”
The same crunch on gravel and, for some reason, Castiel shudders. He turns and there’s fog at their feet, dancing around their ankles, trying to engulf them, Castiel thinks, and Dean is standing under the only street light working. How fitting.
“What do you want?” Castiel demands, throwing his cigarette to the ground. It's like a bad movie script, something too far away and surreal to make sense. “I’m busy.”
Dean shakes his head, holding up his hand. “I know you, Castiel.”
Intrusive, assuming. This is what Castiel hates about anyone. “You know nothing about me,” Castiel bites. He turns away.
“Where are you gonna go?” Dean calls.
Castiel throws his arms in the air. “Nebraska.” He has no idea. He never does.
“Alone?” This time, the voice is soft and quiet and Castiel is surprised it carries so far.
He stops. He never turns around. “Yeah,” he says to himself.
-
(It’s almost normal how easily Castiel lets Dean in, how he never fights it, never tells Dean to leave. He just lets it happen and it terrifies him, how every single thing he forced himself to be is shedding from his bones and leaving him so vulnerable and open. The angel doesn’t notice, though, not really. He finds his place in the corner of rooms and stays there until Castiel decides to move again, finds his place in the passenger seat, playing with the radio, and they say nothing. But there's that look that Dean gives him, like he really does know him, and Castiel finds himself vaguely hoping that Dean does.)
Castiel’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel most days: he aches for something.)
-
Castiel has a difficult time waking up and realizing that someone, something, knows where he is. And Dean sits there, placid and waiting.
“What are you planning on saving me from?” Castiel asks.
(He hasn’t had a hunt in days, not since Dean started tagging along. Not since the night Castiel found him and Dean led him into a neighbouring field, showed him his wings and Castiel couldn’t really justify it with too much alcohol. He feels old and out of place and out of it all, sick and fatigued and always hungry, fingers shaking, nerves he can’t settle with his cigarettes or running away. Dean is holding him back. He’s holding himself back. It's mostly all a lie.)
Dean wears t-shirts and Wrangler jeans that are almost too tight, steel-toed boots and a battered wrist watch. He watches celebrity rehab shows, whistles at women in the street and he's more something like a devil waiting for an open, something like a sin waiting for an escape. Castiel thought there would be more bright white light and praying and Bible verses twisted into life lessons; mostly, Dean sits silently in the corner, waiting for Castiel to speak first.
“I didn’t say I was saving you,” Dean replies, too loudly for this early in the morning. “I’m helping you.”
Castiel dresses in the dark, his back turned to the angel. Those prying green eyes and the sickening lump that’s been forming in the bottom of his stomach, the back of his throat, corrupting the edges of his heart for days and days-he knows it hurts more than it should.
“Right,” Castiel mutters. “Well, I don’t need help.” He’s lacing up his shoes, unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.
Dean shrugs and stands, stretching. “That’s what you think.”
Castiel thinks he knows what Dean means. He doesn’t have to ask.
-
Usually, he doesn’t dream. Just blank, vivid spaces of stark nothingness that leaves him restless and irritated in the morning. No walls, no boundaries, but he never moves-aching, needing, wanting, clawing for something he can never find.
Then, some different night, there are only noises and stop-motion pictures and bright red floods the back of his eyes-mother, father, sister, sister, sister. Sometimes, it’s easier to recall it, so clear and wonderful in his mind and, sometimes, it’s aggravating and confusing. These mornings, he oversleeps and feels wasted and full when he wakes, forcing himself to roll out of bed.
It doesn’t make him sick, like he thinks it should-those mornings, he never looks in the mirrors and he can remember to forget it until it happens again. He should feel something, something like guilt, remorse and devastation, he knows, but he usually doesn’t.
The red cloaked dream comes back more and more, much more, when Dean is there. It used to be okay, but now he can’t even move without those green eyes watching him closely and Dean asking, “What did you dream about?”
-
(Castiel quickly learns about Dean. The little ticks that could possibly make him human, but Castiel forgets the dead eyes and the brittle, rigid fingers. He wonders how uncomfortable Dean is in his skin.
If Dean is missing, Castiel follows the neon paper signs and arrows to the heaviest parts of suburbia, of small towns, of four bedroom houses and yellowing front lawns. On cracked sidewalks and driveways, weak-legged tables carry brightly advertised junk for sale. He charms the mothers with his wit and pretty face, their eyes fluttering, hands dancing across his arms as the kids tug at his shirt, asking for him to do another magic trick, to tell another story.
Mostly, he buys old work shirts and shoes that never fit him, but they sit, as if patiently waiting, in the trunk of Castiel’s car. Here, at these yard sales, Dean finds his love of cassette tapes.
“Motorhead,” Dean says in the hotel room. He has an old Walkman in his lap, the tapes in his hands, paper covers taped to perfection and faded. He points at Castiel. “Have you heard these guys? They’re amazing.”
Castiel smiles when he thinks Dean isn’t looking.)
-
Castiel is thrown out of his routine with Dean around. Gradually, things that he could once do in the open were now reduced to forced privacy. They weren’t embarrassing habits or even remotely personal, but a simple act as dressing in front of Dean made his stomach turn.
“Oh, don’t make any changes on my account,” Dean said one night as Castiel undressed in the bathroom and brushed his teeth with the door closed. “Pretend like I’m not here.”
Castiel spits out the toothpaste. He only realized how awkward he was in his own skin-nothing felt right ever since the angel came around, like his clothes were too tight, his jackets too small, the car too big, the knives and shotguns too heavy in his hands. He bends and shakes and it all feels wrong in a way that he loves; something that heightens when he finds Dean again. Only one more time like this-the small, dirty boy in the park, his mother’s night gown and the sister’s blank white eyes.
He tries to forget. It’s getting harder to.
(Not like minutes afterwards, when it all just blurred, like he was in a car going too fast, concentrating too hard on the side of the road, where the asphalt ended and the wild grass started and he finally woke up from the nightmare in a too warm hotel room and someone pounding on his door and he couldn’t remember how he had got there.)
-
This one moment on some ordinary day, when Dean has been hanging around too long, doing nothing, bumming rides and stealing smokes and beers, never sleeping and never saying much of anything, Dean looks at Castiel from across the room and says something first.
“Why do you always want to be alone?”
Dean is reading a People magazine (he says he finds the misery of people in expensive clothes gives him a joy that nothing else can compare to). Castiel is sitting cross legged on his bed, pretending to clean his guns. He cleaned them the night before.
“None of your business,” Castiel says. He’s frightened by the angel’s sudden abruptness.
“That’s okay, I know why anyway.”
Castiel spins around on the bed and glares at Dean. “Fuck off.” He stops and stares, words lost and it's not anything, it's really nothing, because it's just an angel, just an angel who drinks whisky and never goes away.
Dean just grins. “You don’t want me to.” He settles further into the chair and flips the page of the magazine.
He’s right, you know.
Completely right.
-
There are nights when Castiel could ask anything and get an answer from Dean. He has the questions on his tongue and, most of the time, he needs it, but something always stops him.
(It's because you trust him.)
It's nothing like that, Castiel tells himself.
(You don't want to ruin this.)
Castiel knows that Dean can see it. He looks at him curiously, poised to ask his own questions. This is when Castiel looks away, avoiding confrontation, his own questions still in his head.
“Are you okay, Cas?” Dean asks while Castiel pretends he's sleeping. It's not the worry in his voice that makes Castiel sigh; it's the slight, fleeting whisper of indignation-Castiel knows what this is.
(The one real thing you could have.)
-
Somehow, they end up in the one place Castiel was working to avoid. He blames Dean, the smirk on his dark face all too present, but doesn’t say a word. He begrudgingly gets out of his car (Dean’s already at the front door, craving those simple human pleasures, simple human sins) and waits there.
The building in front of him is a white washed piece of shit, flaking and crumbling at the edges, sinking at the foundations, lopsided and forgotten by most people, but Anna calls it home and he thinks he should respect it. He’s never around enough, not anymore, to ever really let himself get adjusted to its peculiar, lingering smell and Anna’s consistency in subtle begging.
Anna sees him through the window and the smile on her face, for whatever reason she had it, is wiped clean. He watches her disappear for a moment and flinches before the side door bangs against the wall, anticipating it fully. Her red hair is tangled and twisted around her pointed face and there’s something sinister in her eyes, a look he rarely receives.
“You think you’re going to get away with this,” she starts even before she reaches him. “You think that just because of-” She catches herself and stops, looking away for a moment. “You know how I feel, Cas.”
“I’m sorry,” he finds himself saying. It tastes foreign on his tongue. (He knows Dean is standing on the steps to the bar, watching. It’s oddly reassuring.) “I should have called.”
Suddenly, there are tears in her eyes and Castiel doesn’t know what the fuck to do. He takes a small step back.
“You’re not alone anymore, are you?” she whispers.
“What?” He tries not to laugh, for lack of anything better to do.
She nods towards Dean, grey bunnyhug sleeves rolled up, shoes scuffed and covered in red dust, eyes questioning, head tilted. There are dark clouds in the distance when Castiel looks up and it outlines Dean against the stark, hot sun. Castiel quickly looks away.
“How long?”
Castiel shifts his weight. It makes him uncomfortable and he can’t reason why.
“How long?” Anna asks again, louder, demanding.
“It’s nothing!” Castiel is quietly defending himself. Now, he’s intimidated by her anger, her distrust, her hurt. “He’s just-a friend.”
Because there’s no such thing as angels.
But Anna knows. Probably always knows, because she’s been that one person that can read people’s skin like books, knows what they’re thinking, what they want to say, feel, do and she’s done it better with Castiel then anyone else.
“You’re going to hurt him, Cas,” she spits, vicious. The tears are gone. Dean’s inside the bar. “It’s what you do best.”
He can only assume that she’s right.
-
There’s a playful grin caught on Dean’s lips when Castiel sits down across from him in the back booth. Muffled chatter, clinking of pool balls and beer glasses, Anna in the corner, face tight, hair pulled back, eyes narrowed as she ducks beneath the counter.
“You fucked her, didn’t you?” Dean asks. He nods towards the bar.
Castiel frowns. The angel is too bold.
“No, I didn’t.” (A monster rears its ugly head inside his chest.)
Dean winks. “Not bad, not bad.” He takes a drink of his beer, staring off towards the pool tables. “I did always like the red heads.”
Castiel runs his hand his through his own hair, biting his lip.
-
Two empty rooms. It’s strange having the angel take the room down the hall, his stocky frame disappearing behind the door and Castiel left feeling distracted and unsure.
(It’s unbearable, being away from Dean. It’s an absolute hurt, a starving need-Pleading skin and pleading bones, crying for something they’ve never had. He can’t understand.)
That night, he dreams about Dean. It’s something he can’t distinguish, lost in colours and sounds and the stretch of his own mind, but he feels like he’s missing something when he wakes.
(Dean isn’t there when he gets out of bed, bare feet on cold linoleum floor, sending shivers up his spine.)
-
There’s someone banging on his door. Too warm room, smell of something old and damp and he sits up in bed, clutching the thin sheets (mother mother father father I’m doing you a favour, you’ll see). He can’t breathe.
“Castiel!” It’s Anna.
He doesn’t move.
“Bobby’s on the phone.” There’s something inaudible lost between the door and footsteps retreating down the hall.
Castiel makes his way downstairs (pauses at the stairs, willing himself not to look to the end of the hall, knowing Dean won’t be waiting for him there), follows Anna’s finger to the phone on the wall and picks up, reluctant.
“Anna says you aren’t travelling alone anymore,” is the first thing out of Bobby’s mouth. He sounds upset. “Care to explain the sudden change of heart?”
“Yeah, I don’t know.” Castiel is picking away at the flaking paint on the door frame. He can feel Anna watching him; he tries to shuffle a few feet away, but the phone cord is too short. “It’s nothing.”
“Do you trust them?” His voice is ragged. Definitely upset.
Castiel doesn’t know the answer to this.
“Is it the thing that was following you?” His voice is lighter now, more forgiving. Castiel didn’t know he needed it.
“Maybe, I don’t know,” Castiel grumbles. He’s leaning against the wall, head bent forward, feeling small and deflated.
“Just be careful, all right?”
“Yeah.” Castiel falters. Clears his throat. “I will.”
There’s a humming, a click and static. Reluctant, Castiel hangs up.
-
There’s a coffee in his hands. Anna is sitting beside him, elbow brushing against his arm. He forgot how warm and smooth her skin was.
“How did you meet him?” Anna asks in bated breath, through a resistant tongue. Castiel looks at her, she forces a smile. “He seems nice.”
“He’s just a-” Castiel clears his throat, rubs his knuckles against the bar. “Friend.”
“You don’t have many friends, Castiel.”
(He hates how she says his full name, like mother and child, like she is just that bitter. He can’t really blame her.)
“Yeah,” he murmurs.
She does something unexpected, then. She moves in awkwardly, slowly, fingers tracing the sides of his face, kisses the side of his mouth, too warm. He turns his head away from her, hissing quietly. She stays there, resting on his shoulder; he’s made of plastic, of play sand, slips swiftly through ready fingers and there he is, wrapped in Anna’s frail arms, willing not to fall apart.
“I know I’m no one to you, Cas,” she whispers in his ear. “And I know there’s something you’re missing. Someone you’re missing. I almost thought it was me.” She laughs, girlish and sad. “I hope you find them.”
He shivers and she’s gone.
-
Castiel remembers angels from Sunday school. They lived in brightly coloured posters, immense milky-coloured wings, powerful legs and arms, standing proudly atop mountains and rocks and hills, and people waited at their feet.
“You shouldn't be afraid of angels, Castiel,” the father would say. “They do look wrathful, but they are loving.”
“Mom says they are warriors.” He wanted to be a warrior. Not really for God, but to have a sword of fire and wings and people praising you wouldn't be so bad. Like Batman, but he would never have to die.
“Warriors of god, yes.” The father smiles and pats his head. “But they are also God's messengers, so to speak, and they love you as much as God does.”
-
“I prayed to God for years. Years.” Castiel is waiting in Dean’s doorway. He can’t sleep and he knows the angel, with all his human tendencies, never does.
Dean looks up from the bed (white sheets, white bed frame, white washed floors, white chair in the corner and Castiel thinks it’s Heaven, a place he can’t believe Dean is from). He has his hands open, almost like a Bible could fit comfortably there. His hands are empty. “He's a busy man.”
There’s that weight, pulling his stomach to the floorboards and he wishes he could stop it, stop this, stop talking and disappear. “I just want to know if my family made it,” he blurts out. “If my sisters made it.”
Dean looks at Castiel. (God, how he misses them.)
“Did they?” Castiel asks, voice shaking. This is destructive, this not knowing.
“I don't know that.”
“How can you not?” Castiel takes a few steps into the room.
Dean shrugs; there’s sharpness to his voice, sharpness to the way he shifts his body, the bed creaking under his weight. “I don’t keep tabs on everyone in Heaven.”
“Can’t you ask God or something?” Castiel demands, careless with the angel, indignant.
There’s a cruel edge to Dean’s laugh as his hands drop to rest on his knees. His eyes are light. “I don’t talk to God.”
Castiel’s taken back. Suddenly, Dean’s not an angel anymore. Not like he thought. “Why not?”
Dean sighs and looks at him, closed and distant. “I don’t believe in Him.”
“But-you're an angel.” And Castiel doesn't, can't understand (it makes sense for him to have no faith, he knows he has every reason to, but angels are warriors, God's messengers and he wants to know what happened to Dean that tore that away from him).
“How can I believe in something that I've never seen, Cas?” Dean says, soft and accusing. “Explain that to me.”
-
They leave in the middle of night with a high moon and cloudless sky. Dean makes too much noise, wants to say goodbye to Anna-Castiel waits outside without a word. Dean stumbles out with a smile too large for his face. Castiel doesn’t ask (he’s plastic, he’s play sand, he’s actually nothing).
In the car, Dean plays Tom Petty as the miles stretch behind them and Castiel can’t think, can’t think with the angel so close, with their sticky skin bumping against each other and how much, all at once, Castiel needs this.
-
“Your phone has been ringing.”
Castiel stops in front of the car. Dean is leaning out the window, staring at him. He has dark sunglasses on, a long sleeved shirt of Castiel's rolled to his elbows, and a he looks a little dangerous, a little like a movie star, someone Castiel wished he could be.
“Did you answer it?” Castiel asks.
Dean nods. “People wanting you to go hunt something.”
Castiel shrugs and gets in the car. “It's not a big deal.”
“It seems like a big deal.” Dean throws his arms over the back of the seat. “They won't stop calling.”
“They never do,” Castiel mutters, laughing under his breath.
Dean glances at Castiel sideways, eyes narrowed. “Anna called, too.” (The way he says it stings, bruises Castiel.) He flashes a smile.
Castiel starts the car, bites his tongue. “Whatever.”
-
The bedroom in the roadside motel is small. Dean curls up in the wooden chair, feet propped up on the mismatched oak desk in the corner, kicking a coffee pot and stationary paper to the floor. He closes his eyes and doesn't move for what seems hours. Castiel lays in bed, face down into the mattress, breathing dust and old musk, trying not to dream.
It's midnight, maybe, closer to four in the morning when the bed sinks at Castiel's feet and he shakes himself awake. Naturally, it's Dean sitting there, hands clasped together. Lately, he hasn't been looking at Castiel and maybe it bothers him more than it should, how much he suddenly misses those moments when he would.
“What's going on?”
Dean clears his throat. Castiel reaches out suddenly, grasping Dean's hands in his own. Dean looks past him, eyes fixed on the wall behind his head.
“Hey,” Castiel whispers.
For a moment, Dean twines his fingers through Castiel's: he breathes deeply, body trembling under the weight of something and Castiel feels a shuttering apprehension crash through his head.
“Dean,” Castiel says, weakened by this swift and unforgiving realization. “What's going on?”
Dean's laughing, short bursts of something panicked and scared, running his hands over his face. “I can't do this,” he sighs. “Not again.”
He's leaving. “Again?” he breathes.
Dean looks at him-he's tired, eyes dull and sinking. Dean's sinking. “I-just can't.”
“Wait.” Not now, not when Castiel finally knows what it all means, what it's all supposed to be, when he has something he never really believed he'd want. “Please.”
(He leaves anyway.)
-
Castiel is standing on the front porch of a blue farm house, white shutters, wrap around porch made of dark wood and nails. A family used to live there: their crippled, maimed bodies haven't left the foyer yet. Bobby said there should be something to hunt here, but he's been hiding out in the barn for three days and has found nothing. He's getting agitated, lost, alone. He hasn't seen Dean in a week and Castiel knows he's gone.
Then-the wind stops. He spins around, feet slick on the rain soaked steps and he slips, falling to his knees. Then-footsteps, loud and confident, behind him. He scrambles for his gun, dots of lights flickering behind his eyes, and points it upwards, cocked and ready. The gun is jerked from his hands; he covers his face and looks into the sun.
“God,” Castiel mutters, still breathing hard.
The man smiles briefly, thin lips curling into something faintly malicious. “Close.” He sets the gun at Castiel's feet.
“Another angel?” Castiel pushes himself up, brushing his pants off. He sighs.
“Samiqiel,” the man says, looking towards the gravel road running past the front of the house. He's taller than Castiel, more demanding and vicious in his presence than Dean; he looks at back at Castiel, who looks away.
“But I can call you-” Castiel looks at the angel's feet. Buffed and polished shoes. “-Sam, right?”
The angel tilts his head. His hair is smoothed back, dark navy trench coat buttoned to his neck, black pants, leather black gloves, black black black-even less like an angel then Dean. He laughs, cold (less like an angel then Castiel imagined): “I'm too old for pet names, Castiel.”
Castiel frowns. “What do you want?” He turns away and walks towards the side of the house, fingers running along the vinyl siding.
“I have come for Diniel,” Samiqiel says. He leans against the house, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. He eyes Castiel thoughtfully.
Castiel stops, hands clenched into fists. “What did he do?” He's trying hard not to lose it all of sudden: something, anything. He jumps to the broken sidewalk, gathers up his duffel: something, anything.
“Nothing.” Samiqiel looks at his hands, then up at Castiel. Castiel is looking back. “Well, not yet.”
“I didn't know angels could see into the future,” Castiel snipes. He stands defensively at the bottom of the steps.
“We can't.” Samiqiel shrugs, hands raised, like a priest praying. “But I know what he's thinking, what he wants.”
Castiel shuffles his weight, shakes his shoulders, squints into the bright sun. “And what is that?” He yells.
Samiqiel grins. He points at Castiel. “You.”
(Castiel's heart stops.) He looks down at the bag in his hands, running his thumb across the rough woven fabric. (He can't think.)
“You seemed shocked by this, Castiel.” Samiqiel pushes himself from the side of the house. He's tall and intimidating, his dark eyes wide and unblinking, angular face, fast movements, Castiel knows this would be easier if he were a demon. “I thought you would be more receptive.”
“What?”
Samiqiel reaches out, hand on Castiel's shoulder, thin fingers digging into his shoulder, eyes boring into his. “See, I know what you desire as well.”
“You don't.” Castiel shrugs him off and walks down the dirt path.
“Diniel says he knows you,” the angel calls out after him. “Well, so do I.”
Castiel throws his duffle to the ground. The knives and guns clink inside the bag, tumble to the ground. He turns slowly, not completely facing the angel when he asks, “What is Dean to you?”
Samiqiel purses his lips. Shrugs. “I'm something like a superior to him-”
“What does he mean to you,” Castiel demands. Behind him, a bird sings (an angel screams from the distance, flash of white and striking green), and Castiel is lost in it.
Samiqiel looks at the ground. Castiel can see his face tightening (like the monster in his chest), fingers curling inside the long arms of his coat and he knows why the angel is here, why this angel came, came for him, came for Dean.
“I'm not going to drag him out of here,” Samiqiel says stiffly. “He can come on his own free will. If he wishes.” He has his hands in his pockets again and he looks strangely human, the anger flitting across his face, the insecurity in his now pale eyes. “He knows what awaits him if he chooses this path. We've warned him before.”
Castiel shakes his head: before. “Why did you tell me all this?”
Samiqiel lifts his head, lips parted. “If you really do care about him, you wouldn't let him go through with it, would you?”
-
Dean comes back two days later. He's carrying a grocery bag of tapes and red shirts, waiting on the front steps of the motel registration office, talking quietly to the frail desk lady. Castiel wanders over, half asleep, pissed off and relieved. The woman clicks her tongue at Castiel, mutters, locks the door behind her and shuts off the light.
Without stars in the sky, they are left in perpetual darkness and Castiel finds it fitting.
“I'm sorry,” Dean mutters. He doesn't look up.
Castiel crosses his arms. “Yeah.”
He turns towards Castiel, bag rustling. “I shouldn't have left. I didn't want to.”
“You did, though.” Castiel tries to hold back the offended tone. He doesn't know whether he has the right to be or not.
“I know.” Castiel feels Dean's hand brush against his arm. “I said I was sorry.”
Castiel groans, hands falling to his sides. Now, he wants something he knows he can never have. Not completely. “Just come inside.”
-
(He wonders if he should tell Dean about Samiqiel, about intentions of his words, about reading between the lines, but he thinks the angel already knows. He waits in further corners, doesn't say much besides I'm sorry and Castiel wishes he could trust him enough to know it's true. He just tricks himself into believing it.
He thinks he knows what will come from Dean's treachery, whatever it is, because he thinks he knows Dean. He doesn't, he never did. But Dean knows him.
I know who you are.)
-
They pass town after town, an exaggerated blur, and Dean fidgets in the passenger seat, casting nervous glances when the sun starts to break on the horizon and Castiel hasn’t said a word since the night before. There’s a tension that Castiel doesn’t want to acknowledge, a disaster that sits on the tip of his tongue, a pain that waits in the back of his head.
(The sun is cruel and vast, resting on the trees and the grass, blistering the rubber wheel under Castiel’s fingers.)
There’s a roadside gas station, vacant and old: he doesn’t know if it’s open. It doesn’t really matter. He stops the car on the side of the highway; he turns the ignition off and the car is silent, the weight of it (We've warned him before-before) pressing on him so quickly.
“You need to leave.”
Dean has his right hand on the door handle, ready to move. “What?”
“Go.” The silence has heavy fingers, wrapping tight around his throat and he’s choking out the words, like he’s a child again. “You can’t be here anymore.”
“What the hell did I do?” The face darkens (this face that isn’t his, doesn’t belong to the angel, was never meant for him in the way that his face becomes a monster in the sunlight and it’s his own destroyer).
It's what you're going to do.
“Isn’t there someone else you can bother?” Castiel snaps, cracking his knuckles on the dashboard. He’s pushing too hard, shouldn’t have let this happen, could have just said no and it all comes back to this moment, where it’s too painfully real.
Dean’s eyes widen. He throws open the door, crawls out and slams it closed: the car shakes and Castiel cringes. He closes his eyes and Mom is there, sitting beside him, touching his hand, warm, soft. She smiles: You’ll know. Her voice is young, boyish. Her eyes are black.
(He does know. He knows too well that he wants Dean, something he can't control, but Dean can't. Dean knows he can't and Castiel doesn't want him to. Not with someone like Samiqiel waiting for him in the shadows of a Heaven he's never seen or believed.)
Thud. Castiel is shocked out of it, Mom isn’t there when he looks over and Dean is leaning on the hood of the car, palms face down. And he looks tired, bitter and lost, unravelling before him like any human would and it scares Castiel that Dean can feel.
“No, okay?” he yells, tight-lipped, harsh angles as he backs away. “There isn’t! Is that what you wanted to hear?” He throws his hands up in the air.
Castiel curls his fingers around the steering wheel, wishes it all away. “Just-go away!” It takes everything in him not to beg for forgiveness, for Dean just to want him again, like he's sure he did before.
“I have to stay here!”
(It echoes in Castiel’s head for days. It won’t leave.)
“No-”
“Yes, I do!” Dean slams his fist down on the hood-monster, monster. “I fucking do.” Then, he stops. His entire body falls, collapses, empty and exhausted right before him. His hands on his face: the wind is swelling, howling through the doors and dust whips across Dean’s bare arms. “I messed up, Cas. I messed up so bad.”
Castiel stumbles out of the car, feet hitting the ground awkwardly and he doesn’t understand. Dean leans against the car and he looks so small, arms wrapped around himself, legs crossed, face closed.
“I was supposed to look after you, okay?” It sounds like gifted pleading, like he’s done it before. Castiel doesn’t move.
“You were under my protection, as most kids are. I was making rounds when I noticed the demon hanging around, trying to make friends.” Dean's hands are moving, running across head, his face, his neck, his arms. He looks up at Castiel, face fallen and begging absolution beyond the doubt. “You were a sad kid, Cas. So I stuck around.” He breathes deeply, slowly, surely, surely surely it's not that bad. “Then that fucking demon started tailing you. Followed you for weeks and I managed to keep him away. I thought he got bored because, one day, he didn’t show up. So I left.”
(Here, Castiel feels something build in his chest, something black and unforgiving where his heart should be).
“I didn’t know until I was knee deep in this cute little blonde that you were possessed and then…” Dean clenches his fists. Tries not to look at Castiel, but there’s a distress in his eyes that Castiel can’t ignore. “I couldn’t find you. You were just gone.”
Here, Castiel feels that blackness tighten. “This-this was your fault?” He steps closer to the angel. He flinches away, hunched shoulders hiding his body. “You’re the reason I’m like this?”
Dean turns around, moves back. Castiel follows him. “I’m trying to make up for it!” (Pleading, pleading, please please please.) He sighs, weighted and impatient: “You don’t know how bad I feel. That’s why I came back.”
“My family is dead because of you!” Castiel pushes Dean (dark where his heart should be, hatred where his mind should be). He stumbles back, shock and desperation finally thrown into relief. “And you thought that would just go away by being my friend?” Castiel pushes Dean again and again, dirt grinding under their feet, and Dean just lets him.
“I know I fucked up, I know,” Dean says. He's looking at his feet, body shaking.
“You fucking selfish bastard!” Castiel fists his hands in Dean’s shirt and pulls him close, their lips brushing-something intensely electrifying, revolting.
And Dean’s eyes are fluttering closed, delicate and soft. The wind stops for a moment, sound stops for a moment, there’s no colour or taste or life for one simple moment as Castiel stares down at the angel and, after all these weeks, feels nothing.
“I know,” Dean whispers. “I’m sorry.”
Castiel feels the bone-splitting crunch flood through his knuckles, the sickening rush of shrill agony through his arm: Dean doesn’t flinch. Castiel falls to his knees at Dean’s feet, cradling his arm in his hand.
“Oh,” Castiel groans, eyes watering. The pebbles dig into his knees and it’s too hot out, no wind, no sound, just Dean everywhere around him.
“I’m sorry, Cas, I’m so sorry.” Calloused hands on his shoulders, gripping tight, shaking him. Castiel can feel Dean’s breath hot on his face; he can’t look up. “Please, please forgive me.”
(Please please please please.)
“Go,” Castiel mutters.
“You don’t want me to.”
There’s something in the way he says it, the way Castiel understands without actually knowing, that makes him shudder and Dean pulls him to his feet. Cold, cold hands on the side of his face and Castiel weakens. Something disruptive in his chest, something withering, something trying to push him away.
“Stop,” Castiel begs. He tries to turn away.
Dean grabs his arms and holds him, makes him stay. “You don’t want me to.”
It’s destructive and impulsive and pitiless, things like this, and Castiel can’t get away. He won’t open his eyes, he won’t open his eyes, but Dean is right there, their bodies close, too close, something uncontrollable and real, but he can’t, he won’t, he can’t.
“I know who you are,” Dean says. “I know what you dream about it.”
Castiel opens his eyes. “You don’t.”
“You’re killing yourself.” Something twists in Dean's face and suddenly, he's angry, demanding-Castiel knows it's the shame talking. “You don’t know it, but you are.”
Castiel tries to turn again, wants to, needs to get away. Dean lets him go. Castiel doesn’t run (he wants to, needs to, but something won’t let him). They stand a foot apart, waiting, daring the other to move. Castiel’s arm still hurts, a throbbing, numbing pain that keeps him awake.
“Stop it,” Dean asks.
“Dean-”
“Just… stop.” He raises his hands, the white flag, palms facing the yellow sky. “Please. You can’t, okay? You just can’t.” He won’t stop looking at Castiel-it’s agonizing and wonderful and, yeah, Castiel needs this. “I would never forgive myself.”
A chill runs through his skin, sinks into his bones, when Dean grabs his wrists and kisses him. He wonders how it got to here, how he let himself get here; it was never supposed to be this way. He shivers as Dean pulls him close, fingers tightening around his wrists, something colourful and glorious ebbing through his fingers, his arms, his chest-all over, everywhere, Dean is everywhere.
(It should be winter, Castiel thinks, it should be winter.)
“Okay,” Castiel promises. “Okay.”
And he craves it like he did every other night, like he’s craved it for days and days, something he could never fulfill and here it is, here it is, right now. And it eats him alive, this want, and he takes it for all he can, for all it’s worth. Pushes Dean against the car, hands fisted in his hair, spreading his legs apart with his knee: a noise, in the back of his throat, echoing in his head, dancing behind his eyes and he feels light-headed, high.
(He’s being ripped apart at the seams, feelings himself break so beautifully and gloriously beneath Dean’s gentle fingers, and he wants it all. It’s too right, too wrong, too perfect and maybe this is all he’s ever needed to make the thoughts and voices and dreams go away. Maybe this was always his cure.)
Dean’s hands on his chest, falling away. Castiel can’t, won’t open his eyes.
“I’m not meant for you,” Dean whispers into his lips. It’s heartbreaking, shattering, and Castiel doesn’t know it.
Sound, colour, life stops; then-
There’s something in his head telling him no no no: “Wait!”
-nothing.
(The wind howls again, the gas station is deserted and Castiel’s eyes open into a blinding white sun.)
It should be winter.
-
He was a man of his word. (They found him asleep in his hotel room, dead eyes and pale skin.)
He had few secrets, experience beyond his youthful years. The stories that circulated between whiskey mouths and shaded bars were of angels and emptiness, something they never really could grasp, something they would never be able to explain. (He would never tell them what it was, what it felt like). But these were just stories.
Some wished they could be him, meet him, ask him questions about monsters and demons and what it all is, but he never came unless he travelled alone. (He didn’t always, though: the one they would never figure out, never heard enough about, the one that was only a shadow of something real, something he claimed to need and want.)
He came from nowhere and he went everywhere and no one could ever find him. (He falls away a week later and no one ever hears of him again.)
But he was a man of his word. (A note in his hands, in his pockets, instilled somewhere inside him, stuck, something written hastily, begging: I know who you are.)
-
end.