Fic: Forgive Me What I Thought I Dreamed
Title: Forgive Me What I Thought I Dreamed
Author: xxkaytayxx
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Castiel/Dean, pondering of Dean/Lisa
Spoilers: Nothing specific. Takes place after season five.
Warnings: None
Word Count: 7013
Summary: Castiel's return to Heaven isn't everything he expected. Flitting back and forth between Heaven and Earth, he has to determine where he truly belongs, and what he wants from Dean.
A/N: Please let me know what you think. Thank you for reading.
Everything ends, and Castiel goes back to Heaven.
It’s different now, lost a little from what it used to be. It’s still beautiful, teeming with God’s pristine craftsmanship, colored with the little pinpricks of human dreams here and there. But, it’s daunted by its former shadow, chaotic where it used to be peaceful, doubt where there used to be faith. Some angels feel betrayed by everything that became so twisted and frayed. Others still look down at Earth with scorn and disappointment.
Most, though, are just lost.
Brimming with joy at his rejuvenation, Castiel returns, leaving behind a rumbling metal beast carrying a lost soul, and faces his challenge. He’s no longer just one out of an infinite number, one common soldier out of a multitude of legions. Every angel knows his name, and with Michael’s fate, the knowledge of Gabriel’s demise a ubiquitous murmur, and God’s obvious intervention, everyone looks to him.
Castiel doesn’t mind. He’s strong again, brimming with restored grace and supreme, angelic power and might. His wings glitter and shine, pure and holy, and he feels his Father’s love all around him, flowing through every thought and decision. Castiel spreads the true account of what occurred down in the blue and green glass marble below, the battles and betrayals, the sacrifices made. He starts to reorganize, tries to restore order and purpose and eradicate the entropy that’s tainted everything.
And the angels listen. They believe his stories and their own faith returns until joyful songs once again coat every inch of their celestial world. Even the still troubled ones bow without much argument. They follow his orders, and as Castiel watches, he cannot ignore the prickling of something wrong.
It all feels too blind, too easy. In the end, they just need someone to lead them, and it’s all empty and mindless. Now that he’s on the outside, Castiel can see it for what it is, the grand flaw of angelic design that God freed His humans from.
But recognizing its existence doesn’t mean that it’s something Castiel can change.
And, after a while, although Castiel’s returned to Heaven, he notices when everything dies down that it never feels as though he’s come home.
He ignores it at first, because after so much time away it would only be ignorant to expect to slip back into his purely angelic skin with perfect ease. The residual effects of being a hair’s breadth from human sticks to him in the way Castiel sometimes misses the reassuring rhythm of a heartbeat, the omnipresent process of breathing that declared him alive.
Then he starts to forget all the little things that angels can see but never really know, not when they’re locked away in Heaven. Castiel forgets the exact way humid air felt on his skin, how the promise of rain felt like a wet, clinging touch. He can’t recall the sounds the different birds would make in the morning, based on where he had chased the Winchesters or where his own mission had taken him.
The taste of beer slips away, the burning of alcohol and the oblivion it gave him that he both craved and hated at the worst of it.
Castiel can still see it, the images locked up inside his head, still clear and definable. The feeling, though, fades, blurs and loses shape and form. He knows that he hasn’t been absent from Earth for that long, truly, but it’s as if the full content of his grace and the hooks of Heaven sink into him and tries to burn everything else but pure Angel into white-hot nothing.
The worst part is when his memories of the people lose their sharp edges. The brightness of Sam’s rare smiles. The exact rumble of Dean’s amused laughter. The gruffness of Bobby’s kind insults. The crinkles at the edges of Dean’s eyes. The way their greenish color shone in all different forms of light.
The number of freckles that dotted Dean’s face. The feel of his hand on Castiel’s shoulder when he needed it the most.
Castiel doesn’t like the way it all makes him think of Heaven as a less than magnificent thing. He spent so much time mourning the loss of it, the way it had been torn from his fingertips, but now that he’s returned he can’t appreciate everything it is. His mind keeps trying to hold on to everything that it’s not.
He goes back to Earth. He doesn’t have an official excuse, although he could fabricate one if he needed to (he still remembers the guilty logistics of lying, even if he’s unsure if he really would). No one questions him; Castiel just flutters away, finding his empty vessel where he left it, protected and preserved under ritual and spell. Jimmy’s been long gone, and Castiel doesn’t mourn him. He’s seen Jimmy in Heaven, knows that he’s happy.
Castiel decides not to waste time thinking about why he kept his vessel when angels aren’t supposed to return for a very long time.
He slips into his vessel in a smooth, sudden burst of feeling, and it all hits him in a crazed rush. The sun slips over his skin, touching it warmly without burning while the breeze pulls at his hair and stings his face, playing with his coat a little too harshly. It feels good, real and concrete, plainly and starkly beautiful against Heaven’s incredible awe.
Castiel spends a little time like that, just feeling, letting all he can sink again, and to his surprise, so much of it comes back; it’s like just being back in this body and standing on this ground makes everything solid again, not slippery and burnt out by grace.
Still after a while, Castiel lets himself go to where he’s been pulled since he opened his vessel’s eyes, and Lisa’s house is as it always has been when he’s peeked down from above. He shields himself, visage flickering out, because he just wants to see.
It takes a few steps to pass through a few walls, and suddenly Castiel is in something domestic and very unlike Dean. He knew of Dean’s promise to Sam when he left, used his newly returned abilities to peek inside before he flew away, but the sight still causes him to furrow his brow, this human response to confusion and wrong.
Dean’s at the stove. Castiel’s eyes are drawn there immediately, and he can smell eggs just as slightly browned bread jolts out of the toaster. As Castiel takes a step closer, it almost seems like Dean tenses, knowing, but instead he only calls out, “Ben! Come on, breakfast!”
A boy hurries into the room, dragging a backpack bulging with all sorts of things that Castiel can’t see, although a few messy papers stick out through the zipper. Dean smiles at him, and the child seems happy, quickly devouring the plate that Dean sets out in front of him. The two talk, but Castiel doesn’t listen, instead watching the way Dean’s lips move without a constant scowl, the way his voice founds free of sarcasm and bitterness. He still dresses the same, jeans and plaid, comfortable easy things, but Castiel knows he’s not the same.
Soon enough, the child, Ben, leaves, yelling something about school that Castiel doesn’t catch. Dean starts washing dishes, and just as the filth washes away with the water, the happiness seeps out of him, following it all down the drain. His face changes, back into something haggard, marked by a deep, constant pain, and even though this one is more familiar, Castiel finds himself wishing for more of that Other Dean.
But Castiel can hear his brothers’ calling, so he flies away.
Soon enough though, he pulls away again after all the issues have been settled and the questions answered. He tumbles back to Earth, back to Lisa’s house, and finds Dean outside. He’s sitting on the front step, and Lisa’s beside him. They’re talking, laughing, and Castiel wants to go closer but feels like something’s pushing him back.
He finds himself wondering if Dean loves her, this woman with dark hair and a genuine grin, thin and beautiful. Even from the distance, he can see Dean’s eyes; they’re alive and shining, and his smile is real.
Castiel edges up the lawn, imagining a little what the tickle of grass would feel like if his feet were bare, and he doesn’t think Dean does. It’s not an simple thing to determine based on the appearance alone. They’re sitting close, and they’re happy; that’s not the subject of the question.
It’s in the way that, although Dean’s eyes are alive, Castiel has seen them brighter. He’s heard deeper laughs and both felt and witnessed more meaningful touches. Castiel has watched many millennia pass, and he has watched from Heaven as love has both blossomed and died, and while there is no doubt that this life is something Dean both wants and needs, its still questionable what role he’s actually playing.
Castiel stays away for a little while after that, because the sudden uncomfortable and wrong feeling that manifests inside of him after the visit discomfits him. He knows that, above all others, Dean is sacred and cherished to him, but for some reason, all the other emotions, the ones that can and once did give him a true explanation, seem locked away, separated from him by the power of his grace.
Each visit to Earth lets him probe a little more, remember and re-feel, but as Castiel returns back to Heaven, a little of his progress decays, overcome. It’s frustrating, but even that anger fades in the face of holiness and purpose, even if that no longer seems enough for him anymore.
There’s a small field a few streets over from Lisa’s house (and it’s always Lisa’s house, not Dean’s, never Dean’s when Castiel thinks about it). Castiel finds it because when he shows up on his next trip, Dean isn’t there. He flits through Ben’s mind and sees Dean’s face, hears his casual words and catches Ben’s blink of the green grass. It’s easy to find it then, because even though Dean still has invisibility carved into his ribs, these humans do not.
It’s a casual space, just a cleared patch of grass surrounded and occasionally broken by the daring tree. As Castiel walks along, relishing the experience, he touches bark and sees children laughing, playing games in the dark, and loving the mix of adrenaline and fear that this place gives them. It’s off the road but not far enough for anyone to really worry, secluded but somehow still a public place.
Dean’s sitting against a maple tree, back leaning on the rough trunk with legs sprawled out in the overgrown grass. Castiel halts his walking and simply appears, sitting, across from him, allowing no disturbance to be seen or felt.
Dean’s just staring out, eyes hard and lips drawn tight, hands clenched with little green blades peeking out between his fingers. Castiel can see the bared patches of soil and earth that Dean has abused, either in thought or with purpose.
Castiel knows he’s thinking of Sam.
“Y’know, I thought,” Dean mumbles, and Castiel almost thinks Dean’s talking to him until he remembers that he’s hidden and this isn’t a few weeks back. Dean tips his head back, eyes melting a little, losing the stony sheen.
“I thought everything, the apocalypse, that mess about destiny and fate and letting out the goddamn Devil…” he laughs a little, rough and low. “Like that was it. I thought I was done, and I’d give, hell, almost anything to get out of it.”
“Used to dream about it, sometimes, when everything got…shot to hell,” Dean goes on, and Castiel is surprised there aren’t any bottles scattered around when he lets his eyes take a sweep. “I’d come back here, get myself a family, Lisa and the kid. Have that, for once.”
“And, it’s good,” Dean says, and he breathes deep, heavy. “It’s good. Fuck, I want this. I care about ‘em, and I finally have the chance, and I-“
It’s that laugh again, and it’s not like the one out of Castiel’s best memories, the ones that burn the brightest when he takes that first human step.
“I promised Sam,” Dean mutters, swallows. “But it’s wrong. Can’t give them everything, not much of anything really, at all. Gave it to someone else. Everyone took it all with them. Sammy’s down, down in, in fucking Hell, and you-“
“You up and left, went right back up to God’s angel play-pen.”
Castiel feels the sudden blossom of surprise as Dean’s head drops forward, gazing right where Castiel should be.
“Yeah,” Dean continues, pulling a bottle from behind him and confirming Castiel’s early suspicions. Still, it’s only one. “I know you’re there, Cas. I’m not an idiot, can feel you doing your creepy stare thing at me.”
He wants to say something, can feel the ‘Dean’ nestled up in his throat, but it just doesn’t find its way out.
After a while, Dean grunts, “No answer, huh?” He settles against the tree, drawing up his knees, and for all his muscle and obvious strength, Dean looks very small, a very worn little thing. His voice comes out as bitterly amused, betrayed. “What, does becoming all super angel mean you have to be a dick again? Can’t talk to us lowly folk?”
Dean takes a small sip of beer again, letting the bottle hang from his fingers, and all Castiel wants to do is wipe his shield away, but he doesn’t. He looks at this man and he remembers everything, can feel everything the way he never can in Heaven. Flashes of trust hit Castiel, leaping decisions, the warm drag of growing familiarity and the harsh rebuff of a traitor. The affection lying underneath it all pounds and pounds away, all through him, like the rushing of blood, a strange kind of love for this messy, confusing thing.
By the time Castiel recovers from the onslaught, Dean is already gone.
Castiel stays for a while, though, and feeling just a tiny bit reckless, he lets the world in on the joke. Part of him hopes that Dean will turn around and come back, see him sitting there amongst the grass and the lightly waving trees, but another part of him is glad that Dean doesn’t.
But Castiel has to stay if he wants to think, because once he’s back in Heaven, everything will be too far away, too numb, and really, there is much that Castiel must think about.
When he returns to Heaven, it’s reported that Sam Winchester walks the earth again. If Castiel were in his vessel, he would’ve jerked at the news, surprised and concerned, but as an angel, his grace only wavers slightly at the announcement, a far less telling thing. The younger Winchester was sighted Illinois by one of the angels who had been assigned as glorified sentries, charged with gazing down and marking anything strange. No one knows Sam’s location now, for after that brief burst of power drew their attention, he slipped away while the angels rushed to report.
Sam’s still protected by Castiel’s own hands, so no angel is going to find him easily. And no one knows if it’s really Sam.
After the commotion plays out, where Castiel assigns the angels to continue their watch in case of further developments, Castiel wonders the omnipresent why. There are too many possibilities, too many unknowns here, and Castiel dislikes lacking answers. If it is truly Sam, the simple fact is that his escape should’ve been impossible, and so how was it done? Was the one who administrated it benevolent or malicious, had the elusive God interfered or had another evil arose?
Had Lucifer clawed his way out, keeping Sam’s form but somehow leaving Michael behind?
Too many questions, too many horrific answers. Castiel decides not to tell Dean.
Even when he flutters back to Earth again, continuing this trend of oscillation, Castiel keeps this new information to himself. The guilt scratches at him, and Castiel can only imagine Dean’s fury if he ever knew, but it is the right choice. Better for the angels to exterminate any demon, or Devil, on their own if they can; much better than letting Dean think his brother was back, only to watch him be killed again.
Ben plays baseball. Once again, Lisa’s house is empty, and so Castiel latches on to the body he can find and uses it to pull himself forward. It’s a field of a different sort this time, marked with dirt and chalk, and as Castiel settles, Ben races past him, tossing a wooden bat to the side. Castiel turns, sees Dean seated on the stands and joins him, subtly glad that there’s only a sprinkling of parents around. Dean doesn’t say anything, but his posture changes to let Castiel know that he knows. Dean takes a sip of his drink, and for a second, Castiel wishes he could, too, suddenly wanting dearly to know what’s hidden under the plastic lid.
Castiel wonders if Dean is going to speak, but then there’s a clattering on the metal steps, and Lisa fumbles her way down the bleachers. She sits down on the other side of Dean, smiling brightly, and Dean returns the gesture. She has several small bags of candy in her hands, gives M&Ms to Dean, and Castiel wonders what that one action signifies.
“How he doing?” Lisa asks, squinting towards the scoreboard, but it’s a beautiful day and the sun’s pompous and burning.
“He’s kicking ass,” Dean answers easily, but then his voice softens for, “thanks,” as he rips open the M&Ms. Lisa just nods knowingly, nibbling on some gummy bears, looking happy.
There isn’t much else that happens between them. Dean and Lisa chat back and forth, and both of them leap up, cheering loudly, as Ben hits a home run. Castiel looks around and sees the other parents laughing and shaking their heads, as if this something they’re used to, something routine.
After the game ends, Ben comes racing up the stairs, shaking the cheap metal. He collapses in front of them, hands on knees, grinning wildly.
“Did you see that? We totally owned those guys!” he struggles to get out between each breath, and Lisa laughs, pulling him close for the few seconds the boy allows it.
“I told you, you have a killer swing, dude,” Dean grins, and Ben’s face brightens just enough to show, at least, what Dean is to him.
After a little celebratory mingling, Lisa mentions, “Alright, let’s head home. I’ll start dinner.”
She wraps her arm against Ben’s shoulder, shushing his groans about it not being cool, and looks back at Dean. He smiles and says, “I’ll walk back. I have to take care of something.”
Lisa looks at him for a minute, but in the end she shrugs, accepting, and waves goodbye with her free hand. Then they’re gone. She doesn’t kiss Dean goodbye.
Dean watches them go, hands in the front of his jeans, before he turns back to where Castiel is waiting exactly where he first sat down. As Dean strides back up the bleachers, Castiel notices that the other parents and players have drifted off, packed into cars almost uniform in the way that they’ve been designed to carry a multitude of children.
“What’s going on, man?” Dean sighs as he heaves himself down, and Castiel looks at him, sun glowing on his skin but causing his eyes to squint. “Am I losing it? Really, is this it, am I finally losing it?”
Castiel doesn’t respond and he stays hidden. See, he knows, because he realized it when he sat down in that field before, that if he speaks, this becomes real. Real in the sense that he won’t be able to leave, not as simply as he does now, not with the same ease and choice. Once he talks, truly talks to Dean, reawakens this…relationship, then everything will not be okay.
He went back to Heaven after having this because he was meant to, because he had to clean up the mess and because of his faith in his Father and how much he really, truly missed what had always been his home. But the fact is, it doesn’t feel like that anymore, not the way it once did, and how can he have this, Dean, again and then go back, knowing how it is now, knowing that he must?
So he stays silent.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean whispers, scrubbing at his face with his hand, blinking rapidly afterwards. “No, look, I know I’m not crazy. After all the crap I’ve been through, normal is not what drives me off, no thanks.”
“So you’re definitely here,” he states, poking his finger where he thinks Castiel’s chest would be, even though in reality it’s closer to his stomach. “And you think it’s okay to just pop up whenever you want and give me no explanation. Damn apocalypse ends, and I still get an angelic stalker.”
Dean struggles to keep his tone light, to keep talking, and this is a Dean that is much more put together than the last Dean Castiel saw. It hasn’t been that long, and Castiel wonders if there was something special about the day he visited, a reason that he found Dean huddled and with a looser, more revealing tongue.
“Look, man, Cas,” Dean starts, and he must think it’s disconcerting, looking at the space where he’s sure Castiel is but seeing nothing, because he turns back away, as if that’s easier. “Give me something here.”
And then because it’s Dean, he gets angry, voice a little louder and rougher with frustration and impatience.
“Fine, fuck this. I’m done,” he stands, preparing to stomp away, shoulders set and legs tense. “You can’t do whatever the hell you want, come and go and think-“
Castiel hurries up, too, because he knows what Dean becomes when he’s infuriated; belligerent, unreasonable. Even after everything, or perhaps because of it, it’s too easy to let everything tumble down the wrong direction.
He still can’t bring himself to speak, but Castiel thrusts out a hand and touches. He reaches out to halt the harsh flow of words and lands on Dean’s cheek, just touching the side of his face. It’s soothingly warmed form the sun, and Castiel lets Dean feel his hand. He can feel the barest inklings of stubble, the slightest prickling, and the dangerous, angry lines of Dean’s face smooth out slowly.
Castiel reaches up another hand, cupping Dean’s face between the two of them, feeling this living, wonderful thing. He looks at Dean, everything he pondered and explored racing back and heating up his palms, and Castiel knows.
“What are you doing, Cas?” Dean asks, hushed and almost tentative, and that question seems like the revealer of a secret, like it’s asking something more important than this.
Castiel tries to tell him something in the way he touches Dean’s face, gentle but sure, fingertips reaching out to brush his hair.
Then Castiel flies back to Heaven, and he hopes that’s enough for now.
No one manages to find Sam again, and as time goes on without the reappearance of Michael, the more it feels as though something evil seeped back onto the earth. The only way to escape Hell would be divine intervention of the highest order, and why would God leave his beloved angel in that bloodied, damned place?
Castiel wonders if, like Lucifer, Michael is being punished, and that’s why He released Sam alone. But there’s no proof either way, just nervous tremors and worries, because this is all supposed to be over.
He continues his short peregrinations, his journeys back and forth, flitting in and out of Dean’s world. Castiel watches Dean clean the Impala with the same dedication as always, even if he keeps it locked away and doesn’t drive it. Sometimes, Dean, Lisa, and Ben sit together and watch movies, and Castiel notes that Ben usually sits between them, content.
And then comes the day where Castiel decides. He waits until Lisa and Ben have driven off somewhere, and then he lets the world in, walking up to the door. He rings the doorbell, wondering if Dean will see the effort after so many complaints of just “popping up,” and then the door swings back and opens.
Dean freezes for a second, the door caught in his hand, and Castiel just looks up at him, waiting.
“Hello, Dean,” he gives, and then Dean gives shrugs like, ‘oh, fuck it,” and grins.
“Hey, Cas,” Dean opens the door all the way, and Castiel steps through. “Took you long enough. You’re lucky I don’t clock you one.”
“You’d break your hand,” Castiel points out while Dean shuts the door, and the other just shakes his head, muttering something Castiel decides not to intrude on.
It’s awkward for a minute, because they just stand there, and it seems like Dean isn’t sure what exactly to do. Eventually he just grunts and leads the way into the room where he, Lisa, and Ben always watch television. Castiel looks around as he follows, taking in pictures on the wall. Most of them don’t have Dean on them, but a scattered few do, and Castiel can see the newness in these because the others have that thin sheen of dust.
Still, even with all this, Castiel doesn’t feel Dean here. Dean is music, leather jackets and casual sips of beer, a sleek car and a never-ending road. This house is grounded, bright and welcoming but overall unchanging, almost as inflexible as steel in its frame. Dean’s influence is obviously absent, and Castiel wonders if Dean had even tried to make his mark. It’s as though Dean’s too afraid of ruining this place with his undeserving self, and the thought sends a flare of anger up Castiel’s spine.
“So,” Dean starts, throwing himself down on one end of the couch and leaving Castiel to perch upon the other. “Does this mean I get some answers now?”
“It does,” Castiel admits, settling himself among cushions and soft things. He almost sits on something that crinkles loudly and notices the shiny plastic of a magazine. The bent cover opens to show glossy pictures of people he doesn’t know, walking and laughing.
Dean waits, but when Castiel doesn’t begin, he asks, “So what’s it like up there now, in Heaven?”
Castiel looks up from a picture of a small dog in a yellow knitted sweater to answer, “For the time being, I have assumed control of the garrisons.”
“It really happened, you’re head honcho?” Dean presses, and Castiel nods, “For now, yes.”
“Wow, so what, God’s still-“
“Absent,” Castiel supplies. “But I know the will of my Father would be to lead everyone back to the right path.”
Dean sits back, grunts, “Huh,” and doesn’t give much else, waiting for Castiel say whatever it is he came to say.
Dropping the thin collection of paper and photographs, Castiel opens, “I apologize for my…recent behavior.”
Dean laughs lowly, rubbing his palms on the thighs of his jeans, “You mean going all invisible peeping tom on me? Making me think I finally cracked?”
“Yes,” Castiel admits, and Dean cocks his head to question, “So you were really there, all those times?” Castiel nods, and Dean puffs out a gust of air.
“Look, Cas, I’m, I’m tired, and I promised Sam that I’d do this. I can’t handle any more angelic scavenger hunts or-“
“That was not the reason for my visits,” Castiel interrupts, although he knows that if there truly was another mission for Dean, there would be no doubt that the other would bear the load. Castiel also knows that although he promised Sam to live this life, Dean’s circumvented other aspects of that vow, making his own reasons.
Castiel has seen the books in this house, surreptitiously hidden, that propose all rituals but the one that Dean needs.
“My reasons were…purely selfish ones,” Castiel admits, sitting very straight and hoping to conceal the nervous crawling feeling that’s tormenting his stomach. “Leaving certain aspects of Earth behind has been more difficult than I expected.”
Dean stares at him, skeptical, “So you flew back down here because you’ve been craving McDonald’s?”
Castiel finds himself laughing, and it feels so good. “No, not exactly.”
It’s here that Castiel starts to freeze, because for all the eloquence he knows that he can possess, he’s just not sure what words to utilize here, in this moment. How can one express that, after almost falling, feeling weak and degraded, cut off from everything familiar and thrust into a reality he never wanted (and let everyone know he couldn’t handle); after that entire journey, and then ending up with the reward he thought he had desired so deeply…how can he communicate all that in a simple, ‘I miss you.’
Because that’s what it is. For angels, there’s no midway. It’s about choices, solid and defined. It’s the bright glow of Heaven or the crippling freedom of Earth. There’s no flitting in-between, caught in a sticky unsure miasma, as Castiel knows he now is.
And yet that’s what he feels.
He doesn’t want the true reality of Earth, the weakness and the absolute humanity, the limits and the wounds he can’t heal. He doesn’t want the depression, that feeling of being lost and cut off, the urges to drink himself into an oblivion of his own making.
But he doesn’t want the whole of Heaven now either. He doesn’t want that all-burning grace that strips away emotion and sense-memory. Castiel wants the wind on his face, the touch of petals against his fingertips. He wants Dean.
Castiel wants the best of both. He wants the beauty of the Earth and the knowledge of his Father’s love in his chest, dominating a beating heart. He wants to keep Heaven organized and faithful, but he wants this man in front of him, as well as the invincible means to protect him.
Castiel wants it all, and he knows that wanting is not what angels do, especially not selfishly wanting something impossible, and too greedy. Still, he does. And God hasn’t shot him down, slit off his wings or plucked out his feathers and grace.
Dean’s still waiting, nervously tapping his hand against his thigh, fingers twitching against denim, and Castiel doesn’t know how to say this. So he doesn’t.
He reaches out a hand, grasps Dean’s shoulder and yanks him forward. He places two fingers to Dean’s head, but Castiel’s not taking them anywhere physically this time. Castiel takes Dean back through his memory, wanting him to understand, needing him to see how he got here, and why he can’t let go.
It’s Chuck’s, and Dean’s gone; going to lose a battle that destiny decided he wasn’t going to win. The archangel’s coming, but Castiel feels loyaltyfriendshiptrust, proud and righteous and so sure, even if he’s so afraid he can’t take it.
It’s one snapshot of many, during the end of the world, Castiel staring down another archangel, one he can get the better of this time, and Dean’s right beside him. It’s gratefulness, reliance, camaraderie and more. It’s another, and Dean’s reaching out to him, happy Castiel is there, and Castiel can’t ignore the spark of it truly igniting.
It all passes by in flurries, but that’s alright because Castiel has already lived it. Following the man who means more to him than anything, continuing to follow as he becomes less like an idol but more than any other man. Hating his weakness and selfishness but accepting it after the initial shock, because even the strongest man is human. Finding out what love really is but hiding it, because war isn’t the time, and Castiel’s been rejected too many times.
Dean’s blood on his hands, because he was supposed to never break, have weaknesses but never crack. Because Castiel’s so disappointed and broken, and this man failed him. And because Castiel’s tired of pretending things aren’t what they are.
Following Dean to watch Sam die, sacrificing everything again but feeling right. Dying and living, and being full to the brim of grace again, forgetting all those emotions for a moment because Castiel’s an angel. Leaving Dean because Castiel had a duty, and because he never thought-
Castiel drops his hand and Dean jerks back, chest heaving like a panicked beast. Castiel watches the black of his t-shirt rise up and down, all encompassing, like the pupils of Dean’s wild eyes.
“Cas,” Dean breathes as he gains control again, but his voice is shaking and unsteady. “I-“
“I’m not asking you for everything,” Castiel interjects, because he’s found the words. Dean is always talking. He can wait now. “I cannot leave Heaven. I am…a warrior of God, and that cannot be denied. I will not allow it to be taken from me.”
I won’t fall. It’s not said, but it’s there, and they both know it.
“But I-“
“Cas, no,” Dean suddenly looks terrified and torn.
“I love you,” Castiel says anyway, because it’s true. He acknowledged it on his own, and he let Dean see it inside of him, allowed him to watch how it came alight and grew. There’s no point in hiding or lying. So Castiel says it, deep and slow and heavy. And Dean can’t pretend he didn’t. “I cannot leave all this completely. I cannot leave you. Without you, I feel…lost, and I lose everything you taught me. Heaven doesn’t let such feelings, such memories, survive easily.”
Dean stands abruptly, hands clenching. He swings around to glare at Castiel, eyes fiery and distraught, angry and pulled too many ways.
“You can’t just, just do this!” he all but shouts, arms stretched wide. “You can’t disappear like it’s forever and only come back when you want and expect everything from me! I have a life here now, do you get it? What am I supposed to tell Lisa? Thanks a lot, but I’m going to go bang a fucking angel?”
Castiel gets to his feet and moves forward, stopping an inch away from Dean, who refuses to back away. He tilts his head up to meet Dean’s eyes, which are still defiant and conflicting, bizarre and unknowing things all tangled up inside.
“Do you love her?” Castiel inquires, whisper-soft, and when Dean opens his mouth rashly, he repeats, “Do you love her, Dean?”
Dean presses his lips together, and Castiel’s feeling reckless so he peeks inside of him, shifting through all the emotions to find the core of truth.
“You love the idea,” Castiel supplies for him, and Dean flinches. “You want to love her, want to be satisfied with this life. You care about her, but you do not love her.”
Castiel tilts his head, catching Dean’s eyes when they flicker away. “Not like you love me.”
Because Castiel would know, even if he hadn’t slipped the omniscient eye inside of Dean’s heart, spirit, and soul for confirmation. Castiel may be ignorant of human and earthly tradition in more ways that he can count, but he’s never been a fool. There have been too many looks, too many touches, too many times he’s been caught gazing at Dean, only to see something light up before the other turned away quickly.
Everything between them has always been too extreme, acts like turning against Heaven and facing death in the form of beings of incredible, endless power.
“I,” Dean swallows, and Castiel’s so close he can see it, the way Dean’s throat moves. “I’m not the same. I can’t be that anymore, after everything, without Sam-“
“Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean’s mouth clamps shut. “I know that the loss of your brother has changed you. I also know that, even with that pain, you need this life. You need at least some form of peace.”
“But,” he continues, reaching up to touch Dean’s cheek for a moment, and it feels different than before. Rougher, dampened with sweat, and marked by harsh edges from shadow. “You are still Dean Winchester, the man brave enough to interrupt what should’ve been history’s most devastating battle with music blasting. You are grieving, but you are still you.”
“And I,” Castiel finishes slowly, making every word count, “still love you.”
Dean closes his eyes, pressing the lids tightly, his face pulled into something that must be tight and painful.
“What is it you want, Cas?” he asks after a few seconds, opening his eyes again and releasing an onslaught of green. “You say all that, but I don’t see how we could ever make this work.”
He gestures between the two of them, and Castiel watches the movement for a moment like it’s a blessed thing. An affirmation. An agreement.
“I’m not asking you to leave this place,” Castiel answers, lifting his head back up to take in Dean’s face, which still stays guarded. “You are needed here, as I am in Heaven.”
He presses closer to Dean, and this time Dean stays put because this is slowly becoming okay.
“But I can come to you,” Castiel breathes, relishing the way Dean starts breathing a little faster. “When you want me, I will be there. And when I need you… I can call.”
Dean laughs then, and for a brief moment he’s open and happy, and Castiel feels something like triumph.
“So we’re redefining a long distant relationship?” Dean says, and Castiel notes that the way he talks is no longer denying or hypothetical. “Sorry to break it to you Cas, but those never work out.”
“I think we have special circumstances,” Castiel murmurs, and Dean shakes his head, but his lips are twitching upwards.
“Yeah, this is a hell of a lot more than-“
Castiel takes that last step and kisses Dean. He tilts up his head, and there. Castiel doesn’t know exactly how this goes, how he’s supposed to do this, but Dean’s stopped talking, so he’s accomplished something.
It’s different, unique compared to anything else Castiel has ever experienced. Dean’s lips are soft against his own, and Castiel feels warm and flushed, his skin tingling. Castiel knows the mechanics, in a distant way, but then Dean opens his mouth. He moves to deepen the kiss, and Castiel follows, mimicking his movements and reveling in the fact that he has this.
Castiel reached out an arm and clumsily pulls Dean even closer, and when Dean laughs into his mouth, Castiel isn’t offended. He’s too busy trying to keep up, wanting to preserve this memory and experience everything.
He’s an angel in love with a beautiful, giving, tormented, strong, fractured human, and Castiel somehow knows that he isn’t going to be punished for this. This is not sin.
Castiel pulls back, and their breathing is harsh and jagged, shared, and Dean’s eyes are close and so, so big.
“I love you, Dean,” because Dean has to hear it again, and it’s not just a declaration. It’s the sealing of a promise, actually more than one, and even though Dean doesn’t respond verbally, he surges back against Castiel and leaves no doubts.
And it becomes something they both need, something they both grab onto with two hands and won’t let go of. It’s not something with structure, not really, not something that makes that much sense or follows a prewritten code. But it’s theirs, and it’s good.
Castiel still leads many of the decisions in Heaven, but soon the more respected angels are confident again, and all the repairs hold. Dean lives with Lisa, recovering from wounds that won’t really heal, loving this strange version of family in a different way than he loves Castiel, vastly different from the way he still loves Sam. Castiel serves his Father and cherishes his brothers, but when that white burst tries to steal away everything, or when he just needs Dean, Earth and Dean both welcome him. Dean goes to Ben’s baseball games, shops for groceries with Lisa, but when everything just becomes too much or not enough, or when he craves blue eyes and a disheveled tie, Castiel is there.
Sometimes they do casual, human things, like slipping into coffee shops and reminiscing. When Dean simply has to if he doesn’t want to collapse, he tells stories about him and Sam as kids, and that makes it a little easier, if not better. Castiel explains some of the things he has seen over the centuries in Heaven, which parts humanity get right and which one’s are way off the mark. To everyone else, they look like the closest friends, but they’re comfortable and in love in their own way.
Other times, it’s different. Castiel will whisk them away to a far-off, hidden field or a room he never fully explains to Dean. They roll down hills, or around in sheets, clutching at one another, kissing and touching and claiming. It’s something they can both have, something they need, and, more important, something they want. Castiel loves the way Dean kisses, and Dean loves tugging on Castiel’s tie to bring him as close as he can.
It’s not exactly perfect. They both have obligations, lives and duties, but perfect isn’t what they are looking for. It makes them both happy, feels good and right.
And that’s more than either of them ever expected anyway.
Author: xxkaytayxx
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Castiel/Dean, pondering of Dean/Lisa
Spoilers: Nothing specific. Takes place after season five.
Warnings: None
Word Count: 7013
Summary: Castiel's return to Heaven isn't everything he expected. Flitting back and forth between Heaven and Earth, he has to determine where he truly belongs, and what he wants from Dean.
A/N: Please let me know what you think. Thank you for reading.
Everything ends, and Castiel goes back to Heaven.
It’s different now, lost a little from what it used to be. It’s still beautiful, teeming with God’s pristine craftsmanship, colored with the little pinpricks of human dreams here and there. But, it’s daunted by its former shadow, chaotic where it used to be peaceful, doubt where there used to be faith. Some angels feel betrayed by everything that became so twisted and frayed. Others still look down at Earth with scorn and disappointment.
Most, though, are just lost.
Brimming with joy at his rejuvenation, Castiel returns, leaving behind a rumbling metal beast carrying a lost soul, and faces his challenge. He’s no longer just one out of an infinite number, one common soldier out of a multitude of legions. Every angel knows his name, and with Michael’s fate, the knowledge of Gabriel’s demise a ubiquitous murmur, and God’s obvious intervention, everyone looks to him.
Castiel doesn’t mind. He’s strong again, brimming with restored grace and supreme, angelic power and might. His wings glitter and shine, pure and holy, and he feels his Father’s love all around him, flowing through every thought and decision. Castiel spreads the true account of what occurred down in the blue and green glass marble below, the battles and betrayals, the sacrifices made. He starts to reorganize, tries to restore order and purpose and eradicate the entropy that’s tainted everything.
And the angels listen. They believe his stories and their own faith returns until joyful songs once again coat every inch of their celestial world. Even the still troubled ones bow without much argument. They follow his orders, and as Castiel watches, he cannot ignore the prickling of something wrong.
It all feels too blind, too easy. In the end, they just need someone to lead them, and it’s all empty and mindless. Now that he’s on the outside, Castiel can see it for what it is, the grand flaw of angelic design that God freed His humans from.
But recognizing its existence doesn’t mean that it’s something Castiel can change.
And, after a while, although Castiel’s returned to Heaven, he notices when everything dies down that it never feels as though he’s come home.
He ignores it at first, because after so much time away it would only be ignorant to expect to slip back into his purely angelic skin with perfect ease. The residual effects of being a hair’s breadth from human sticks to him in the way Castiel sometimes misses the reassuring rhythm of a heartbeat, the omnipresent process of breathing that declared him alive.
Then he starts to forget all the little things that angels can see but never really know, not when they’re locked away in Heaven. Castiel forgets the exact way humid air felt on his skin, how the promise of rain felt like a wet, clinging touch. He can’t recall the sounds the different birds would make in the morning, based on where he had chased the Winchesters or where his own mission had taken him.
The taste of beer slips away, the burning of alcohol and the oblivion it gave him that he both craved and hated at the worst of it.
Castiel can still see it, the images locked up inside his head, still clear and definable. The feeling, though, fades, blurs and loses shape and form. He knows that he hasn’t been absent from Earth for that long, truly, but it’s as if the full content of his grace and the hooks of Heaven sink into him and tries to burn everything else but pure Angel into white-hot nothing.
The worst part is when his memories of the people lose their sharp edges. The brightness of Sam’s rare smiles. The exact rumble of Dean’s amused laughter. The gruffness of Bobby’s kind insults. The crinkles at the edges of Dean’s eyes. The way their greenish color shone in all different forms of light.
The number of freckles that dotted Dean’s face. The feel of his hand on Castiel’s shoulder when he needed it the most.
Castiel doesn’t like the way it all makes him think of Heaven as a less than magnificent thing. He spent so much time mourning the loss of it, the way it had been torn from his fingertips, but now that he’s returned he can’t appreciate everything it is. His mind keeps trying to hold on to everything that it’s not.
He goes back to Earth. He doesn’t have an official excuse, although he could fabricate one if he needed to (he still remembers the guilty logistics of lying, even if he’s unsure if he really would). No one questions him; Castiel just flutters away, finding his empty vessel where he left it, protected and preserved under ritual and spell. Jimmy’s been long gone, and Castiel doesn’t mourn him. He’s seen Jimmy in Heaven, knows that he’s happy.
Castiel decides not to waste time thinking about why he kept his vessel when angels aren’t supposed to return for a very long time.
He slips into his vessel in a smooth, sudden burst of feeling, and it all hits him in a crazed rush. The sun slips over his skin, touching it warmly without burning while the breeze pulls at his hair and stings his face, playing with his coat a little too harshly. It feels good, real and concrete, plainly and starkly beautiful against Heaven’s incredible awe.
Castiel spends a little time like that, just feeling, letting all he can sink again, and to his surprise, so much of it comes back; it’s like just being back in this body and standing on this ground makes everything solid again, not slippery and burnt out by grace.
Still after a while, Castiel lets himself go to where he’s been pulled since he opened his vessel’s eyes, and Lisa’s house is as it always has been when he’s peeked down from above. He shields himself, visage flickering out, because he just wants to see.
It takes a few steps to pass through a few walls, and suddenly Castiel is in something domestic and very unlike Dean. He knew of Dean’s promise to Sam when he left, used his newly returned abilities to peek inside before he flew away, but the sight still causes him to furrow his brow, this human response to confusion and wrong.
Dean’s at the stove. Castiel’s eyes are drawn there immediately, and he can smell eggs just as slightly browned bread jolts out of the toaster. As Castiel takes a step closer, it almost seems like Dean tenses, knowing, but instead he only calls out, “Ben! Come on, breakfast!”
A boy hurries into the room, dragging a backpack bulging with all sorts of things that Castiel can’t see, although a few messy papers stick out through the zipper. Dean smiles at him, and the child seems happy, quickly devouring the plate that Dean sets out in front of him. The two talk, but Castiel doesn’t listen, instead watching the way Dean’s lips move without a constant scowl, the way his voice founds free of sarcasm and bitterness. He still dresses the same, jeans and plaid, comfortable easy things, but Castiel knows he’s not the same.
Soon enough, the child, Ben, leaves, yelling something about school that Castiel doesn’t catch. Dean starts washing dishes, and just as the filth washes away with the water, the happiness seeps out of him, following it all down the drain. His face changes, back into something haggard, marked by a deep, constant pain, and even though this one is more familiar, Castiel finds himself wishing for more of that Other Dean.
But Castiel can hear his brothers’ calling, so he flies away.
Soon enough though, he pulls away again after all the issues have been settled and the questions answered. He tumbles back to Earth, back to Lisa’s house, and finds Dean outside. He’s sitting on the front step, and Lisa’s beside him. They’re talking, laughing, and Castiel wants to go closer but feels like something’s pushing him back.
He finds himself wondering if Dean loves her, this woman with dark hair and a genuine grin, thin and beautiful. Even from the distance, he can see Dean’s eyes; they’re alive and shining, and his smile is real.
Castiel edges up the lawn, imagining a little what the tickle of grass would feel like if his feet were bare, and he doesn’t think Dean does. It’s not an simple thing to determine based on the appearance alone. They’re sitting close, and they’re happy; that’s not the subject of the question.
It’s in the way that, although Dean’s eyes are alive, Castiel has seen them brighter. He’s heard deeper laughs and both felt and witnessed more meaningful touches. Castiel has watched many millennia pass, and he has watched from Heaven as love has both blossomed and died, and while there is no doubt that this life is something Dean both wants and needs, its still questionable what role he’s actually playing.
Castiel stays away for a little while after that, because the sudden uncomfortable and wrong feeling that manifests inside of him after the visit discomfits him. He knows that, above all others, Dean is sacred and cherished to him, but for some reason, all the other emotions, the ones that can and once did give him a true explanation, seem locked away, separated from him by the power of his grace.
Each visit to Earth lets him probe a little more, remember and re-feel, but as Castiel returns back to Heaven, a little of his progress decays, overcome. It’s frustrating, but even that anger fades in the face of holiness and purpose, even if that no longer seems enough for him anymore.
There’s a small field a few streets over from Lisa’s house (and it’s always Lisa’s house, not Dean’s, never Dean’s when Castiel thinks about it). Castiel finds it because when he shows up on his next trip, Dean isn’t there. He flits through Ben’s mind and sees Dean’s face, hears his casual words and catches Ben’s blink of the green grass. It’s easy to find it then, because even though Dean still has invisibility carved into his ribs, these humans do not.
It’s a casual space, just a cleared patch of grass surrounded and occasionally broken by the daring tree. As Castiel walks along, relishing the experience, he touches bark and sees children laughing, playing games in the dark, and loving the mix of adrenaline and fear that this place gives them. It’s off the road but not far enough for anyone to really worry, secluded but somehow still a public place.
Dean’s sitting against a maple tree, back leaning on the rough trunk with legs sprawled out in the overgrown grass. Castiel halts his walking and simply appears, sitting, across from him, allowing no disturbance to be seen or felt.
Dean’s just staring out, eyes hard and lips drawn tight, hands clenched with little green blades peeking out between his fingers. Castiel can see the bared patches of soil and earth that Dean has abused, either in thought or with purpose.
Castiel knows he’s thinking of Sam.
“Y’know, I thought,” Dean mumbles, and Castiel almost thinks Dean’s talking to him until he remembers that he’s hidden and this isn’t a few weeks back. Dean tips his head back, eyes melting a little, losing the stony sheen.
“I thought everything, the apocalypse, that mess about destiny and fate and letting out the goddamn Devil…” he laughs a little, rough and low. “Like that was it. I thought I was done, and I’d give, hell, almost anything to get out of it.”
“Used to dream about it, sometimes, when everything got…shot to hell,” Dean goes on, and Castiel is surprised there aren’t any bottles scattered around when he lets his eyes take a sweep. “I’d come back here, get myself a family, Lisa and the kid. Have that, for once.”
“And, it’s good,” Dean says, and he breathes deep, heavy. “It’s good. Fuck, I want this. I care about ‘em, and I finally have the chance, and I-“
It’s that laugh again, and it’s not like the one out of Castiel’s best memories, the ones that burn the brightest when he takes that first human step.
“I promised Sam,” Dean mutters, swallows. “But it’s wrong. Can’t give them everything, not much of anything really, at all. Gave it to someone else. Everyone took it all with them. Sammy’s down, down in, in fucking Hell, and you-“
“You up and left, went right back up to God’s angel play-pen.”
Castiel feels the sudden blossom of surprise as Dean’s head drops forward, gazing right where Castiel should be.
“Yeah,” Dean continues, pulling a bottle from behind him and confirming Castiel’s early suspicions. Still, it’s only one. “I know you’re there, Cas. I’m not an idiot, can feel you doing your creepy stare thing at me.”
He wants to say something, can feel the ‘Dean’ nestled up in his throat, but it just doesn’t find its way out.
After a while, Dean grunts, “No answer, huh?” He settles against the tree, drawing up his knees, and for all his muscle and obvious strength, Dean looks very small, a very worn little thing. His voice comes out as bitterly amused, betrayed. “What, does becoming all super angel mean you have to be a dick again? Can’t talk to us lowly folk?”
Dean takes a small sip of beer again, letting the bottle hang from his fingers, and all Castiel wants to do is wipe his shield away, but he doesn’t. He looks at this man and he remembers everything, can feel everything the way he never can in Heaven. Flashes of trust hit Castiel, leaping decisions, the warm drag of growing familiarity and the harsh rebuff of a traitor. The affection lying underneath it all pounds and pounds away, all through him, like the rushing of blood, a strange kind of love for this messy, confusing thing.
By the time Castiel recovers from the onslaught, Dean is already gone.
Castiel stays for a while, though, and feeling just a tiny bit reckless, he lets the world in on the joke. Part of him hopes that Dean will turn around and come back, see him sitting there amongst the grass and the lightly waving trees, but another part of him is glad that Dean doesn’t.
But Castiel has to stay if he wants to think, because once he’s back in Heaven, everything will be too far away, too numb, and really, there is much that Castiel must think about.
When he returns to Heaven, it’s reported that Sam Winchester walks the earth again. If Castiel were in his vessel, he would’ve jerked at the news, surprised and concerned, but as an angel, his grace only wavers slightly at the announcement, a far less telling thing. The younger Winchester was sighted Illinois by one of the angels who had been assigned as glorified sentries, charged with gazing down and marking anything strange. No one knows Sam’s location now, for after that brief burst of power drew their attention, he slipped away while the angels rushed to report.
Sam’s still protected by Castiel’s own hands, so no angel is going to find him easily. And no one knows if it’s really Sam.
After the commotion plays out, where Castiel assigns the angels to continue their watch in case of further developments, Castiel wonders the omnipresent why. There are too many possibilities, too many unknowns here, and Castiel dislikes lacking answers. If it is truly Sam, the simple fact is that his escape should’ve been impossible, and so how was it done? Was the one who administrated it benevolent or malicious, had the elusive God interfered or had another evil arose?
Had Lucifer clawed his way out, keeping Sam’s form but somehow leaving Michael behind?
Too many questions, too many horrific answers. Castiel decides not to tell Dean.
Even when he flutters back to Earth again, continuing this trend of oscillation, Castiel keeps this new information to himself. The guilt scratches at him, and Castiel can only imagine Dean’s fury if he ever knew, but it is the right choice. Better for the angels to exterminate any demon, or Devil, on their own if they can; much better than letting Dean think his brother was back, only to watch him be killed again.
Ben plays baseball. Once again, Lisa’s house is empty, and so Castiel latches on to the body he can find and uses it to pull himself forward. It’s a field of a different sort this time, marked with dirt and chalk, and as Castiel settles, Ben races past him, tossing a wooden bat to the side. Castiel turns, sees Dean seated on the stands and joins him, subtly glad that there’s only a sprinkling of parents around. Dean doesn’t say anything, but his posture changes to let Castiel know that he knows. Dean takes a sip of his drink, and for a second, Castiel wishes he could, too, suddenly wanting dearly to know what’s hidden under the plastic lid.
Castiel wonders if Dean is going to speak, but then there’s a clattering on the metal steps, and Lisa fumbles her way down the bleachers. She sits down on the other side of Dean, smiling brightly, and Dean returns the gesture. She has several small bags of candy in her hands, gives M&Ms to Dean, and Castiel wonders what that one action signifies.
“How he doing?” Lisa asks, squinting towards the scoreboard, but it’s a beautiful day and the sun’s pompous and burning.
“He’s kicking ass,” Dean answers easily, but then his voice softens for, “thanks,” as he rips open the M&Ms. Lisa just nods knowingly, nibbling on some gummy bears, looking happy.
There isn’t much else that happens between them. Dean and Lisa chat back and forth, and both of them leap up, cheering loudly, as Ben hits a home run. Castiel looks around and sees the other parents laughing and shaking their heads, as if this something they’re used to, something routine.
After the game ends, Ben comes racing up the stairs, shaking the cheap metal. He collapses in front of them, hands on knees, grinning wildly.
“Did you see that? We totally owned those guys!” he struggles to get out between each breath, and Lisa laughs, pulling him close for the few seconds the boy allows it.
“I told you, you have a killer swing, dude,” Dean grins, and Ben’s face brightens just enough to show, at least, what Dean is to him.
After a little celebratory mingling, Lisa mentions, “Alright, let’s head home. I’ll start dinner.”
She wraps her arm against Ben’s shoulder, shushing his groans about it not being cool, and looks back at Dean. He smiles and says, “I’ll walk back. I have to take care of something.”
Lisa looks at him for a minute, but in the end she shrugs, accepting, and waves goodbye with her free hand. Then they’re gone. She doesn’t kiss Dean goodbye.
Dean watches them go, hands in the front of his jeans, before he turns back to where Castiel is waiting exactly where he first sat down. As Dean strides back up the bleachers, Castiel notices that the other parents and players have drifted off, packed into cars almost uniform in the way that they’ve been designed to carry a multitude of children.
“What’s going on, man?” Dean sighs as he heaves himself down, and Castiel looks at him, sun glowing on his skin but causing his eyes to squint. “Am I losing it? Really, is this it, am I finally losing it?”
Castiel doesn’t respond and he stays hidden. See, he knows, because he realized it when he sat down in that field before, that if he speaks, this becomes real. Real in the sense that he won’t be able to leave, not as simply as he does now, not with the same ease and choice. Once he talks, truly talks to Dean, reawakens this…relationship, then everything will not be okay.
He went back to Heaven after having this because he was meant to, because he had to clean up the mess and because of his faith in his Father and how much he really, truly missed what had always been his home. But the fact is, it doesn’t feel like that anymore, not the way it once did, and how can he have this, Dean, again and then go back, knowing how it is now, knowing that he must?
So he stays silent.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean whispers, scrubbing at his face with his hand, blinking rapidly afterwards. “No, look, I know I’m not crazy. After all the crap I’ve been through, normal is not what drives me off, no thanks.”
“So you’re definitely here,” he states, poking his finger where he thinks Castiel’s chest would be, even though in reality it’s closer to his stomach. “And you think it’s okay to just pop up whenever you want and give me no explanation. Damn apocalypse ends, and I still get an angelic stalker.”
Dean struggles to keep his tone light, to keep talking, and this is a Dean that is much more put together than the last Dean Castiel saw. It hasn’t been that long, and Castiel wonders if there was something special about the day he visited, a reason that he found Dean huddled and with a looser, more revealing tongue.
“Look, man, Cas,” Dean starts, and he must think it’s disconcerting, looking at the space where he’s sure Castiel is but seeing nothing, because he turns back away, as if that’s easier. “Give me something here.”
And then because it’s Dean, he gets angry, voice a little louder and rougher with frustration and impatience.
“Fine, fuck this. I’m done,” he stands, preparing to stomp away, shoulders set and legs tense. “You can’t do whatever the hell you want, come and go and think-“
Castiel hurries up, too, because he knows what Dean becomes when he’s infuriated; belligerent, unreasonable. Even after everything, or perhaps because of it, it’s too easy to let everything tumble down the wrong direction.
He still can’t bring himself to speak, but Castiel thrusts out a hand and touches. He reaches out to halt the harsh flow of words and lands on Dean’s cheek, just touching the side of his face. It’s soothingly warmed form the sun, and Castiel lets Dean feel his hand. He can feel the barest inklings of stubble, the slightest prickling, and the dangerous, angry lines of Dean’s face smooth out slowly.
Castiel reaches up another hand, cupping Dean’s face between the two of them, feeling this living, wonderful thing. He looks at Dean, everything he pondered and explored racing back and heating up his palms, and Castiel knows.
“What are you doing, Cas?” Dean asks, hushed and almost tentative, and that question seems like the revealer of a secret, like it’s asking something more important than this.
Castiel tries to tell him something in the way he touches Dean’s face, gentle but sure, fingertips reaching out to brush his hair.
Then Castiel flies back to Heaven, and he hopes that’s enough for now.
No one manages to find Sam again, and as time goes on without the reappearance of Michael, the more it feels as though something evil seeped back onto the earth. The only way to escape Hell would be divine intervention of the highest order, and why would God leave his beloved angel in that bloodied, damned place?
Castiel wonders if, like Lucifer, Michael is being punished, and that’s why He released Sam alone. But there’s no proof either way, just nervous tremors and worries, because this is all supposed to be over.
He continues his short peregrinations, his journeys back and forth, flitting in and out of Dean’s world. Castiel watches Dean clean the Impala with the same dedication as always, even if he keeps it locked away and doesn’t drive it. Sometimes, Dean, Lisa, and Ben sit together and watch movies, and Castiel notes that Ben usually sits between them, content.
And then comes the day where Castiel decides. He waits until Lisa and Ben have driven off somewhere, and then he lets the world in, walking up to the door. He rings the doorbell, wondering if Dean will see the effort after so many complaints of just “popping up,” and then the door swings back and opens.
Dean freezes for a second, the door caught in his hand, and Castiel just looks up at him, waiting.
“Hello, Dean,” he gives, and then Dean gives shrugs like, ‘oh, fuck it,” and grins.
“Hey, Cas,” Dean opens the door all the way, and Castiel steps through. “Took you long enough. You’re lucky I don’t clock you one.”
“You’d break your hand,” Castiel points out while Dean shuts the door, and the other just shakes his head, muttering something Castiel decides not to intrude on.
It’s awkward for a minute, because they just stand there, and it seems like Dean isn’t sure what exactly to do. Eventually he just grunts and leads the way into the room where he, Lisa, and Ben always watch television. Castiel looks around as he follows, taking in pictures on the wall. Most of them don’t have Dean on them, but a scattered few do, and Castiel can see the newness in these because the others have that thin sheen of dust.
Still, even with all this, Castiel doesn’t feel Dean here. Dean is music, leather jackets and casual sips of beer, a sleek car and a never-ending road. This house is grounded, bright and welcoming but overall unchanging, almost as inflexible as steel in its frame. Dean’s influence is obviously absent, and Castiel wonders if Dean had even tried to make his mark. It’s as though Dean’s too afraid of ruining this place with his undeserving self, and the thought sends a flare of anger up Castiel’s spine.
“So,” Dean starts, throwing himself down on one end of the couch and leaving Castiel to perch upon the other. “Does this mean I get some answers now?”
“It does,” Castiel admits, settling himself among cushions and soft things. He almost sits on something that crinkles loudly and notices the shiny plastic of a magazine. The bent cover opens to show glossy pictures of people he doesn’t know, walking and laughing.
Dean waits, but when Castiel doesn’t begin, he asks, “So what’s it like up there now, in Heaven?”
Castiel looks up from a picture of a small dog in a yellow knitted sweater to answer, “For the time being, I have assumed control of the garrisons.”
“It really happened, you’re head honcho?” Dean presses, and Castiel nods, “For now, yes.”
“Wow, so what, God’s still-“
“Absent,” Castiel supplies. “But I know the will of my Father would be to lead everyone back to the right path.”
Dean sits back, grunts, “Huh,” and doesn’t give much else, waiting for Castiel say whatever it is he came to say.
Dropping the thin collection of paper and photographs, Castiel opens, “I apologize for my…recent behavior.”
Dean laughs lowly, rubbing his palms on the thighs of his jeans, “You mean going all invisible peeping tom on me? Making me think I finally cracked?”
“Yes,” Castiel admits, and Dean cocks his head to question, “So you were really there, all those times?” Castiel nods, and Dean puffs out a gust of air.
“Look, Cas, I’m, I’m tired, and I promised Sam that I’d do this. I can’t handle any more angelic scavenger hunts or-“
“That was not the reason for my visits,” Castiel interrupts, although he knows that if there truly was another mission for Dean, there would be no doubt that the other would bear the load. Castiel also knows that although he promised Sam to live this life, Dean’s circumvented other aspects of that vow, making his own reasons.
Castiel has seen the books in this house, surreptitiously hidden, that propose all rituals but the one that Dean needs.
“My reasons were…purely selfish ones,” Castiel admits, sitting very straight and hoping to conceal the nervous crawling feeling that’s tormenting his stomach. “Leaving certain aspects of Earth behind has been more difficult than I expected.”
Dean stares at him, skeptical, “So you flew back down here because you’ve been craving McDonald’s?”
Castiel finds himself laughing, and it feels so good. “No, not exactly.”
It’s here that Castiel starts to freeze, because for all the eloquence he knows that he can possess, he’s just not sure what words to utilize here, in this moment. How can one express that, after almost falling, feeling weak and degraded, cut off from everything familiar and thrust into a reality he never wanted (and let everyone know he couldn’t handle); after that entire journey, and then ending up with the reward he thought he had desired so deeply…how can he communicate all that in a simple, ‘I miss you.’
Because that’s what it is. For angels, there’s no midway. It’s about choices, solid and defined. It’s the bright glow of Heaven or the crippling freedom of Earth. There’s no flitting in-between, caught in a sticky unsure miasma, as Castiel knows he now is.
And yet that’s what he feels.
He doesn’t want the true reality of Earth, the weakness and the absolute humanity, the limits and the wounds he can’t heal. He doesn’t want the depression, that feeling of being lost and cut off, the urges to drink himself into an oblivion of his own making.
But he doesn’t want the whole of Heaven now either. He doesn’t want that all-burning grace that strips away emotion and sense-memory. Castiel wants the wind on his face, the touch of petals against his fingertips. He wants Dean.
Castiel wants the best of both. He wants the beauty of the Earth and the knowledge of his Father’s love in his chest, dominating a beating heart. He wants to keep Heaven organized and faithful, but he wants this man in front of him, as well as the invincible means to protect him.
Castiel wants it all, and he knows that wanting is not what angels do, especially not selfishly wanting something impossible, and too greedy. Still, he does. And God hasn’t shot him down, slit off his wings or plucked out his feathers and grace.
Dean’s still waiting, nervously tapping his hand against his thigh, fingers twitching against denim, and Castiel doesn’t know how to say this. So he doesn’t.
He reaches out a hand, grasps Dean’s shoulder and yanks him forward. He places two fingers to Dean’s head, but Castiel’s not taking them anywhere physically this time. Castiel takes Dean back through his memory, wanting him to understand, needing him to see how he got here, and why he can’t let go.
It’s Chuck’s, and Dean’s gone; going to lose a battle that destiny decided he wasn’t going to win. The archangel’s coming, but Castiel feels loyaltyfriendshiptrust, proud and righteous and so sure, even if he’s so afraid he can’t take it.
It’s one snapshot of many, during the end of the world, Castiel staring down another archangel, one he can get the better of this time, and Dean’s right beside him. It’s gratefulness, reliance, camaraderie and more. It’s another, and Dean’s reaching out to him, happy Castiel is there, and Castiel can’t ignore the spark of it truly igniting.
It all passes by in flurries, but that’s alright because Castiel has already lived it. Following the man who means more to him than anything, continuing to follow as he becomes less like an idol but more than any other man. Hating his weakness and selfishness but accepting it after the initial shock, because even the strongest man is human. Finding out what love really is but hiding it, because war isn’t the time, and Castiel’s been rejected too many times.
Dean’s blood on his hands, because he was supposed to never break, have weaknesses but never crack. Because Castiel’s so disappointed and broken, and this man failed him. And because Castiel’s tired of pretending things aren’t what they are.
Following Dean to watch Sam die, sacrificing everything again but feeling right. Dying and living, and being full to the brim of grace again, forgetting all those emotions for a moment because Castiel’s an angel. Leaving Dean because Castiel had a duty, and because he never thought-
Castiel drops his hand and Dean jerks back, chest heaving like a panicked beast. Castiel watches the black of his t-shirt rise up and down, all encompassing, like the pupils of Dean’s wild eyes.
“Cas,” Dean breathes as he gains control again, but his voice is shaking and unsteady. “I-“
“I’m not asking you for everything,” Castiel interjects, because he’s found the words. Dean is always talking. He can wait now. “I cannot leave Heaven. I am…a warrior of God, and that cannot be denied. I will not allow it to be taken from me.”
I won’t fall. It’s not said, but it’s there, and they both know it.
“But I-“
“Cas, no,” Dean suddenly looks terrified and torn.
“I love you,” Castiel says anyway, because it’s true. He acknowledged it on his own, and he let Dean see it inside of him, allowed him to watch how it came alight and grew. There’s no point in hiding or lying. So Castiel says it, deep and slow and heavy. And Dean can’t pretend he didn’t. “I cannot leave all this completely. I cannot leave you. Without you, I feel…lost, and I lose everything you taught me. Heaven doesn’t let such feelings, such memories, survive easily.”
Dean stands abruptly, hands clenching. He swings around to glare at Castiel, eyes fiery and distraught, angry and pulled too many ways.
“You can’t just, just do this!” he all but shouts, arms stretched wide. “You can’t disappear like it’s forever and only come back when you want and expect everything from me! I have a life here now, do you get it? What am I supposed to tell Lisa? Thanks a lot, but I’m going to go bang a fucking angel?”
Castiel gets to his feet and moves forward, stopping an inch away from Dean, who refuses to back away. He tilts his head up to meet Dean’s eyes, which are still defiant and conflicting, bizarre and unknowing things all tangled up inside.
“Do you love her?” Castiel inquires, whisper-soft, and when Dean opens his mouth rashly, he repeats, “Do you love her, Dean?”
Dean presses his lips together, and Castiel’s feeling reckless so he peeks inside of him, shifting through all the emotions to find the core of truth.
“You love the idea,” Castiel supplies for him, and Dean flinches. “You want to love her, want to be satisfied with this life. You care about her, but you do not love her.”
Castiel tilts his head, catching Dean’s eyes when they flicker away. “Not like you love me.”
Because Castiel would know, even if he hadn’t slipped the omniscient eye inside of Dean’s heart, spirit, and soul for confirmation. Castiel may be ignorant of human and earthly tradition in more ways that he can count, but he’s never been a fool. There have been too many looks, too many touches, too many times he’s been caught gazing at Dean, only to see something light up before the other turned away quickly.
Everything between them has always been too extreme, acts like turning against Heaven and facing death in the form of beings of incredible, endless power.
“I,” Dean swallows, and Castiel’s so close he can see it, the way Dean’s throat moves. “I’m not the same. I can’t be that anymore, after everything, without Sam-“
“Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean’s mouth clamps shut. “I know that the loss of your brother has changed you. I also know that, even with that pain, you need this life. You need at least some form of peace.”
“But,” he continues, reaching up to touch Dean’s cheek for a moment, and it feels different than before. Rougher, dampened with sweat, and marked by harsh edges from shadow. “You are still Dean Winchester, the man brave enough to interrupt what should’ve been history’s most devastating battle with music blasting. You are grieving, but you are still you.”
“And I,” Castiel finishes slowly, making every word count, “still love you.”
Dean closes his eyes, pressing the lids tightly, his face pulled into something that must be tight and painful.
“What is it you want, Cas?” he asks after a few seconds, opening his eyes again and releasing an onslaught of green. “You say all that, but I don’t see how we could ever make this work.”
He gestures between the two of them, and Castiel watches the movement for a moment like it’s a blessed thing. An affirmation. An agreement.
“I’m not asking you to leave this place,” Castiel answers, lifting his head back up to take in Dean’s face, which still stays guarded. “You are needed here, as I am in Heaven.”
He presses closer to Dean, and this time Dean stays put because this is slowly becoming okay.
“But I can come to you,” Castiel breathes, relishing the way Dean starts breathing a little faster. “When you want me, I will be there. And when I need you… I can call.”
Dean laughs then, and for a brief moment he’s open and happy, and Castiel feels something like triumph.
“So we’re redefining a long distant relationship?” Dean says, and Castiel notes that the way he talks is no longer denying or hypothetical. “Sorry to break it to you Cas, but those never work out.”
“I think we have special circumstances,” Castiel murmurs, and Dean shakes his head, but his lips are twitching upwards.
“Yeah, this is a hell of a lot more than-“
Castiel takes that last step and kisses Dean. He tilts up his head, and there. Castiel doesn’t know exactly how this goes, how he’s supposed to do this, but Dean’s stopped talking, so he’s accomplished something.
It’s different, unique compared to anything else Castiel has ever experienced. Dean’s lips are soft against his own, and Castiel feels warm and flushed, his skin tingling. Castiel knows the mechanics, in a distant way, but then Dean opens his mouth. He moves to deepen the kiss, and Castiel follows, mimicking his movements and reveling in the fact that he has this.
Castiel reached out an arm and clumsily pulls Dean even closer, and when Dean laughs into his mouth, Castiel isn’t offended. He’s too busy trying to keep up, wanting to preserve this memory and experience everything.
He’s an angel in love with a beautiful, giving, tormented, strong, fractured human, and Castiel somehow knows that he isn’t going to be punished for this. This is not sin.
Castiel pulls back, and their breathing is harsh and jagged, shared, and Dean’s eyes are close and so, so big.
“I love you, Dean,” because Dean has to hear it again, and it’s not just a declaration. It’s the sealing of a promise, actually more than one, and even though Dean doesn’t respond verbally, he surges back against Castiel and leaves no doubts.
And it becomes something they both need, something they both grab onto with two hands and won’t let go of. It’s not something with structure, not really, not something that makes that much sense or follows a prewritten code. But it’s theirs, and it’s good.
Castiel still leads many of the decisions in Heaven, but soon the more respected angels are confident again, and all the repairs hold. Dean lives with Lisa, recovering from wounds that won’t really heal, loving this strange version of family in a different way than he loves Castiel, vastly different from the way he still loves Sam. Castiel serves his Father and cherishes his brothers, but when that white burst tries to steal away everything, or when he just needs Dean, Earth and Dean both welcome him. Dean goes to Ben’s baseball games, shops for groceries with Lisa, but when everything just becomes too much or not enough, or when he craves blue eyes and a disheveled tie, Castiel is there.
Sometimes they do casual, human things, like slipping into coffee shops and reminiscing. When Dean simply has to if he doesn’t want to collapse, he tells stories about him and Sam as kids, and that makes it a little easier, if not better. Castiel explains some of the things he has seen over the centuries in Heaven, which parts humanity get right and which one’s are way off the mark. To everyone else, they look like the closest friends, but they’re comfortable and in love in their own way.
Other times, it’s different. Castiel will whisk them away to a far-off, hidden field or a room he never fully explains to Dean. They roll down hills, or around in sheets, clutching at one another, kissing and touching and claiming. It’s something they can both have, something they need, and, more important, something they want. Castiel loves the way Dean kisses, and Dean loves tugging on Castiel’s tie to bring him as close as he can.
It’s not exactly perfect. They both have obligations, lives and duties, but perfect isn’t what they are looking for. It makes them both happy, feels good and right.
And that’s more than either of them ever expected anyway.