On These More Familiar Roads--Chapter One (1/5)--SPN Fic
Navigation: Chapter One-- Chapter Two
It’s four o’clock in the morning and Cas can’t sleep.
He’d woken up gasping from half-remembered nightmares a little after midnight, but it isn’t the dreams keeping him awake. His back aches and his foot throbs where he’d dropped a box on it the day before. His throat scratches with every breath of chilly winter air and he’s been lying awake long enough that his stomach’s starting to grumble. In all, it’s nothing like how Cas had imagined Falling.
Of course, when he'd contemplated the possibility, he'd always assumed that, whatever happened, Dean would be at his side.
Cas turns over, his legs twisting in the sheets. The too-bright red numbers of his alarm clock helpfully inform him that he's got three hours before he needs to start work. Damn.
He sighs and pushes the covers back, wincing as he lowers his feet onto the floor. It's November in Chicago, and it’s cold. His creaky space heater had finally broken for good a week ago, and he doesn't have the funds to buy a new one. He’ll have to make do with multiple sweaters and as many blankets as he can find until spring comes.
Cas wonders how Dean and Sam were able to survive their lifetime of frozen motel rooms. Right now, he's not sure if he would have been able to make it for long living like them. Still, he tries not to think about them for long. Some wounds are still too raw to pick at.
He gets dressed in the dark, the neon lights of the club across the street forming the room's only illumination. He likes it like this, when he can savor the last few quiet moments before the sun comes up and the day begins. He doesn't have to think about work, or what he's going to have for dinner, or, most of all, Dean. Cas is starting to understand exactly why repression is such a common coping mechanism.
Since he moved to Chicago, Cas has been working in a tiny corner store half a dozen blocks from his apartment. It’s still mostly dark when he gets there, and he locks the door behind him. The owner, April, had lectured him with something as close to anger as he's ever seen from her last time he'd left the doors unlocked until opening. He doesn't remember the specifics, but he's fairly sure it had something to do with the store being in a bad neighborhood (which, given some of the neighborhoods around them, Cas finds a little unfair), and Cas looking like he could be knocked down by a stiff breeze, much less the proverbial gang of drug addict adolescents (which Cas thinks is highly unlikely). Still, he keeps the door locked until eight o'clock now, and it's become one of the multitudes of little habits Cas would never have dreamed of adopting as an angel.
The next hour passes quickly. Cas restocks from the back room, starts coffee, and takes in the delivery from the bakery. The early morning rush, or what passes for it here, trickles through after he opens, and the good pastries, the ones that Cas knows Dean would have loved, disappear almost immediately.
April shows up at noon to take over during Cas' lunch. She's about the same age as Cas appears to be, and she’s almost constantly in some state of mild panic. At first, he’d worried for her. Then he realized that was how she liked it.
"It was a nightmare getting the kids off this morning," she tells him as he unpacks his lunch. "Katie forgot her jacket, and then Sean spilt breakfast all over his shirt five minutes before we were going to leave. The twins are still sick-they were coughing and sneezing over everything." She shakes her head. "A total nightmare."
Cas nods. It was an early discovery that he doesn’t need to add much to a conversation for it to go smoothly, and that, in fact, it often works better if he doesn’t try to add too much to the exchange.
"Well, go on then!" April flaps her hands at him. "Go. Eat. Frolic. Do whatever it is you do when you're not working."
There's a little park around the corner from the store. It's not much, just a few trees, enough grass for maybe one and a half families to picnic, and several benches. There are also pigeons.
They cluster around Cas' feet when he sits down, burbling and cooing, iridescent neck feathers catching the sunlight. Not that long ago, Cas would have been able to understand what they were saying, would have been able to decipher the meaning in their sounds and body language. Now, it's just noise.
He eats his too-dry sandwich, swallowing it down with coffee from the store. He crumbles the crust for the birds and brushes off his shirt. The pigeons part away from him when he stands up, but they don't bother to go more than a few inches. They're used to him now.
As he's walking back to the store, something makes Cas pause, an odd shiver that has nothing to do with the cool air. He turns and looks back towards the park.
There's someone standing by his bench, ignored by the still-busy pigeons. He's tall and effortlessly handsome, his hands jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket. He's painfully familiar and it's enough to make Cas' chest tighten, the rush of blood too loud in his ears.
Then Cas blinks and he's gone, leaving nothing but a fading afterimage. Cas takes a shaky breath and lets it out slowly. This isn't the first time he thought he saw Dean. Apparently, hallucinations are one of the more extreme manifestations of human grief. Still, he'd have thought that over a year would be enough for the visions to fade; apparently, he's wrong. There's a part of him that would like to think that somehow this is really Dean, or even just some monster wearing his face, but Cas knows it isn’t. Maybe someday he'll even come to terms with that.
April's reading a gossip magazine at the counter when he gets back to the store. She looks up at the cheery ring of the bell Cas had helped her rig up over the door and double takes when she sees him.
"Jesus, what happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."
It's almost funny.
Cas ends up leaving work early. He doesn't really want to. There's nothing to do at his apartment and while he still feels a little shaky from seeing the apparition of Dean in the park, it's nothing he hasn't handled before. Still, April insists, shooing him out the door and telling him to come back when he's rested.
Going back to his apartment is unappetizing, so Cas doesn't. He catches a bus down the block from the store and rides the city lines for an hour. He's been in Chicago for over six months, but it doesn't feel like home yet. Its streets are still unfamiliar and strange, and he's unused to the press of humanity around him.
He rides the bus back to his neighborhood and goes home.
Inside, even with all the lights turned on, it's still dark. A few months back, April had given him a tiny TV she'd kept in the kitchen until she'd realized that moving four young children out of the house early in the morning was easier without the TV’s distractions. He'd considered selling it to buy a new heater, but it’s been educational, and he doubts it would go for enough anyway.
He flicks it on and settles onto his bed, pulling the blankets around him. Nothing’s on except a soap opera he doesn’t recognize, and he watches it for a while, trying to understand the characters’ dramatic but ultimately illogical actions. Eventually, the past few sleepless nights catch up with him, and he’s half asleep before he realizes it.
"Cas? Cas, can you hear me?"
The sound from the TV has changed. The new voice is charged with tension, but it's familiar enough that it's still soothing. Cas mumbles something noncommittal and burrows deeper into the blankets.
"Please, Cas, I need your help, man."
Cas sits up, the blankets falling off his shoulders. He gets a flash of the TV-Dean, his hands pressed up against the screen like he's trying to force his way out into the real world. His face is drawn and pale, freckles standing out sharply against his skin, eyes wide and pleading-then it's gone. The picture's back to the woman sobbing over the body of her dead lover, and the image is too close to Cas' admittedly fractured memories. He jumps up and switches the TV off with shaking hands.
He knows hallucinations. He'd spent several long months under the influence of Sam's back in the hospital. In the first few months after Sucrocorp, after he'd Fallen and lost the people grounding him to humanity, he'd seen the Winchesters everywhere. He'd grown familiar with seeing things that weren't there and, as much as his eyes tried to convince him what he was seeing was real, he knew the difference. He’s not crazy, not anymore, just troubled.
That hadn't been a hallucination. What it was, Cas isn't sure, maybe some fading echo of Dean used to try and get at him-he'd be an idiot if he pretended he didn’t still have enemies, and while Cas may be a lot of things, he's rarely an idiot- but it hadn't been the product of his own mind.
Part of him wants to up and leave that night, abandon his job and apartment and drive to Seattle to see if the two quiet mounds of earth he'd left in the shelter of a particularly peaceful patch of forest on the Olympic peninsula are undisturbed, but he knows he can't. There's no reason that anyone would bring the boys back. Their chapter is over. The only people who would profit from their return that Cas could think of are the few friends they'd left behind, and they are the ones who have no power over it. The longer he thinks about it, the more convinced he becomes that it couldn't have been Dean, or even some demon spell. It's not like Cas has ever been entirely mentally stable-he could have finally cracked and this is just the first manifestation of it.
Finally, he gets up and makes himself a cup of tea. It goes undrunk, cooling slowly on the nightstand as Cas tries to think of anything but the Winchesters and fails.
Get up, drink coffee, watch the news, go to work, eat lunch, help April's oldest daughter with her history homework, go home, heat up a can of soup for dinner, watch TV, go to bed, wake up calling Dean's name, drenched in sweat from half-remembered nightmares and pretend it didn't happen, start the process over again.
It's not that Cas' life is boring. He's just not sure what to do with it. He has no friends outside of April, who he’s not sure really counts, and while he enjoys the company of her children, sometimes their presence is more painful than anything else. While Jimmy's been gone for years, there are still some traces of him left in Cas' body, and the irrational grief he feels whenever he sees Katie, who's eleven, blonde, and cheerful, has almost been enough several times to make him excuse himself from helping her with homework. He never actually does, though. It's not Katie's fault that she's a reminder of the daughter who was never actually his, and it's unlikely she could find another tutor with as complete a knowledge of Ancient Greece as him.
So he keeps going. It's how he's lived since he left the ruins of the Sucrocorp headquarters with a demon, a prophet, and the broken bodies of two men he'd loved in very different ways. It's how he's lived since he finally, truly, turned his back on Heaven and its power drained away from him like blood, taking his madness with it. He doesn't remember much of those days and he doesn't want to. Some things are better left in the darkness.
It's hard not to think about it, though, with Dean's face filling his dreams. It's been a week since he saw the hallucination-it had to be a hallucination-of Dean on his TV and, apart from the dreams, there haven’t been any further signs of him. That his brief possible break from reality seems to be over should be reassuring, but all he's left with is an overwhelming sense of unease. He still has Dean's voice, tight with panic and fear, ringing in his ears, and sometimes it feels like that sound is drowning out his own thoughts. It's the last thing he hears before he goes to sleep and the first thing he thinks of when he wakes up.
So, it's not a surprise when his dreams shift into something a little more focused than the usual variety of disjointed terror and pain.
He's sitting under a tall fir tree, the roughness of the bark digging into his back. The forest around him is sharper than he's used to, and the awareness that he's dreaming is new, too. He'd used to dream like this as an angel, when he could visit human’s dreams, but he hasn’t experienced anything like this since he Fell.
Dean's sitting next to him, legs sprawled out on the duff, and the dream is real enough that Cas can smell him, leather and sweat, and another scent that Cas could never identify but was always Dean. He can feel him too, burning where he's pressed up against Cas, leaning against his side like he belongs there.
"I gotta say, you picked a nice spot." Dean's looking up at the canopy. "But dude, you really should have burned me and Sammy's bones."
"I couldn't do it," Cas says slowly. "Kevin didn't know, and I-I may have neglected to mention the standard rituals." He turns his head. Dean's close enough that every eyelash is visible and Cas can feel his breathing. "Perhaps it was selfish, but it seemed too final."
Dean huffs out a rough laugh that reverberates through Cas. "Yeah, I know the feeling." He hesitates and licks his lips, and Cas' eyes follow the movement before he catches what he's doing. "But the thing is, it looks like someone wasn't finished with us. You've got to stop them, Cas, you're the only one left who can. I know it's hard, but you can't let them go through with this."
Cas' mouth is dry and the tightness in his chest feels as real as it does when he's awake. "What's going on, Dean? You have to tell me." He reaches out and grabs Dean's shoulder. "Please, just tell me what you need."
"You have to stop them," Dean says again, and he doesn't sound quite like himself now. He's fading away, his body becoming insubstantial under Cas' hand. "Please, I'm begging you, Cas, you have to stop them."
Cas tries to hold onto him, but he's gone, slipping between his fingers like smoke. Cas scrambles to his feet, scraping his palm on the rough bark of the tree, but it's like Dean was never there.
He wakes up with a start, eyes wide and staring unseeingly at the patterns of light on the ceiling, his breath catching in his throat. He knows what he needs to do.
"Cas! What are you doing here?" April is already coming out from behind the counter. She reaches for him, then seems to check herself, her hands falling to her sides.
"I need to ask for a favor."
"Yeah, sure, Cas, what do you need?" She's starting to look genuinely concerned now, and while Cas knows it's unusual for him to go to the store on his days off, surely it's not that shocking.
"A-uh-family emergency has come up," he manages. "If I could have a week off, I would appreciate it." It feels stilted and awkward, and he's fairly sure it is. The not-quite lie is heavy in his mouth.
April's expression shifts from concern to confusion. "I thought you didn't have any family."
"Well," Cas backtracks, "they're more like very close friends. Very old friends. Of the family."
"Oh. Okay." April doesn't look any less skeptical. "Um, where are they?"
"Washington." It's not giving much away. If she were to tell anyone, there would be plenty of area to search.
"The state?"
Cas nods.
"Wow. Uh, do you have someway to get there?"
"I have a car," Cas tells her. "Please, April, if I don't do this, I don't know how I'll be able to live with myself. And if it turns out to be nothing, I'd like to know I have something to come back to." It spills out before he can stop himself. April's not really a friend, and she's nothing like family, but it's still the closest link to true humanity that he has.
"Yeah, of course. When-when are you leaving?"
"Today, if I can manage it." The managing it isn't a question. All he needs after he leaves here is a quick bus ride to a local storage facility, and he'll be on the road.
April bites at her lip. "I guess I can see if Marcus wants to work extra hours. You do realize that I'm only doing this because I know you wouldn't be here asking me if this wasn't something huge? When you get back, you will owe me."
"Thank you." It doesn’t seem like enough, but there's not much else to say. He doesn't know if he will return, but knowing that April wants him back means more than Cas would have expected. Still, he doesn't look behind him as he walks towards the bus stop.
The storage unit had the double benefits of being cheap and close, but very few other redeeming factors. Cas knows it's not the kind of place that Dean would want his baby kept, but Cas hadn't wanted to risk leaving the car on the street. He doesn't think Dean would appreciate that either.
The Impala's engine rumbles to life on the first try, despite the long months on her own. Cas tried to make it out to the unit as often as he could, but there'd still been long stretches when he hadn't been able to visit. The car still smells like Dean-or maybe Dean had smelled like the car-and there's been times when all he'd wanted to do was sit in the passenger’s seat and imagine that Dean was next to him. Usually, he's been able to dismiss the urge as useless sentimentality. Usually.
It takes another half hour to get back to his apartment, make sure everything's turned off, and throw his bags into the back seat. It's a little strange to be leaving. Cas still isn't sure if he's going to be coming back, regardless of what he finds. He's only been in Chicago for six months, but it's the longest he's been in one place since he Fell. His apartment doesn't exactly feel like home, but it's something close. It's familiar, reassuring.
Once he's out of the city, Cas takes I-90 towards Wisconsin. According to the worn maps in the Impala's glove box, it should be a little over two day's drive to Washington, factoring in time to eat and sleep. He eats lunch in the car, wincing as crumbs patter against the leather seats. He carefully brushes them out next time he stops for gas.
He stops for the night in a sleepy looking motel right off I-94, but while he knows he's going to need rest if he's going to get far tomorrow, it's more difficult than he'd expected to settle in for the night. He dreams about Dean again, but it lacks vividness. It's more of an echo of his vision, but he still wakes up shaking with the force of the feeling that he needs to find Dean now.
He presses on the next day, barely seeing Montana and Idaho rush past the windows. The dryness of eastern Washington gradually gives way to green, and Cas spends that night in the car, parked at a way station with the rumble of semi-truck engines around him.
He bypasses Seattle, dipping down past Tacoma and following 101 towards the coast. It takes a little longer than he expected to find the patch of forest where he left Dean and Sam. He'd already been starting to Fall when he and Kevin buried them, and mostly he just remembers the pain. Eventually, he finds what he’s mostly sure is the right deer path leading off the trail. After a few minutes, the forest opens into a small clearing, and Cas freezes at the edge of the trees.
They'd buried the Winchesters next to each other at the foot of a tall Douglas Fir, and Cas still had the presence of mind to carve protective sigils into the trees around them. They should have been protected from restless spirits, demons, angels, and everything in between.
The sigils have been destroyed, the bark where they'd been etched shredded and rent by what looks like huge claws. The ground inside the circle is torn and ugly, like an open wound. In contrast to the chaotic destruction around them, the graves have been neatly excavated, like whoever-or whatever-had done it was being careful not to harm their contents.
Bile rises in Cas' throat, and he swallows hard. Until he'd seen what was left of Sam and Dean's resting place, he'd still thought that maybe his dreams and visions were just the product of a psychotic break and not of impending doom. Now, there's not really any other option. Anyone who would go to so much trouble to remove the warding sigils and take the Winchester's bodies couldn't want them for anything good.
Cas makes himself check the graves, fighting back another surge of nausea, and he's not surprised that there's nothing left. Whatever it was had been thorough. He doesn't stay for longer than it takes to make a quick search of the clearing. The place is contaminated now, and the feeling sticks to him as he walks to the car.
He drives back to Tacoma and checks into a motel; he needs privacy for what he's planning. He finds all the ingredients that he needs in the trunk of the Impala and lays them out on the kitchen table. He'd taken one of Dean’s old shirts for the spell. Hair would be better, but the only hairbrush he could find was Sam's, and while finding Sam isn't necessarily second to finding his brother, he hadn't been lying when he said that his and Dean's bond was closer, regardless of Cas' feelings for him. He's closer to Dean and, even now that he's human, he can still remember the way it felt to remake him, the raw power of his soul as Cas pulled him from Hell. He'll never forget that, and he never wants to.
Drawing the lines and symbols required for the spell is a little more difficult. He hasn't had to work a ritual like this for an age and his memories are already fading. Still, he figures it out eventually, or at least, it looks right. The words are easier, falling heavily from his lips. It's a simple spell, created by demons, used by humans, and old and bastardized enough that it promises no allegiance to Hell or its creatures. It should work for what Cas intends.
The sigils flare brightly and Cas grips the edge of the table as the power surges into him, burning as it dances across his skin. His vision blacks out as the spell takes hold, blurry images flashing through his mind-an abandoned apartment building near the docks, the Seattle skyline, Dean, still as death but whole, lying sprawled on a high table. Then the power's gone, the spell burning out and leaving Cas shaking and gasping for breath.
He doesn't even clean up the remains of the spell, just flips the 'do not disturb' sign around on the door and drives to Seattle. After he reaches the city, it takes an hour of weaving through the warehouses and docks to find the building the locating spell had shown him. It's tall, utilitarian, and completely unremarkable, certainly not the kind of place where any passerby would expect there to be ancient evil lurking. He parks out of sight of the windows and searches through the trunk. The demon-killing knife goes in his belt and an angel sword in his jacket. He takes Dean's pearl-handled Colt too, and its weight oddly comforting.
Cas ignores the front door and slips around into the alley on the side. There isn’t another door at ground level, but there is a fire escape, and a few yards away, a half-full dumpster. It’s easy to push it into place, and once he climbs onto the dumpster, it's simple enough to grab the ladder and pull himself up. He takes the first door into the building-it's locked, but the wood is partially rotted and gives in without much protest.
He tries not to gag at the first rush of air from inside. It's dank and musty, and it smells like something came in here to die. The stench of mold and putridity is strong enough he's half-blinded for a moment. It's not the smell of whatever human inhabitants might have stayed here in the years since the apartments officially closed, but rather of something much closer to Hell.
Cas takes a shallow breath and steps through the doorway. It's dark inside, and he takes a second to fumble for his flashlight. The door opens onto the end of a long hallway, its wallpaper faded and peeling, the carpet unpleasantly spongy under his feet. Cas knows that probably any building left unoccupied in the Pacific Northwest, especially one right on the water, would deteriorate quickly, but there's something about this place that doesn't feel natural. Despite his efforts to keep his breathing even, if shallow, Cas' heart is thudding painfully loud in his ears, every instinct screaming that he needs to leave before he finds whatever it is that's possessing the building.
But Dean's here. He can't turn back now.
He checks every door that he passes, even though he's fairly sure finding Dean isn't going to be that easy. Something that had gone to that kind of trouble to locate Dean's body wasn't going to leave him where anyone could stumble across him. There are corpses in a few of the rooms, perhaps squatters who had been here when whatever it was moved in, but they're not Dean, so Cas moves on. He’s made his way up the fifth floor before he finds anything alive.
Cas turns a corner, sees the two demons standing guard halfway down the hall, and flinches back, switching off his flashlight. The demons are standing guard at an open doorway, backlit by the room’s flickering orange glow. Their hosts are both taller and broader than Cas, and, even in the dim light, their eyes gleam black.
He takes a deep breath and shifts his grip on the demon knife. Its bone handle is slippery against his palm, and he switches it to his other hand for a second so he can wipe his too-sweaty palm off on his jeans. It's a simple, human reaction, but it still irks him. He can't afford to mess this up.
Cas can still move quicker and with more accuracy than a human. His theory is that it has something to do with being able to orient himself in flight, being able to bank and aim for a tiny spot, like the seat of the Impala, while moving at speeds faster than the human mind could comprehend. Now his wings are gone, but the sense memory remains.
He's in the hallway before his brain has completely caught up with his body's decision to act. The demons see him immediately, turning towards him with matching toothy grins.
Cas reaches the first demon and stabs upward. The demon takes a second too long to react. They probably thought that, with the Winchesters out of the world and the angels back in Heaven, there was nothing that could stop them. Cas can prove them wrong.
The knife finds the demon's heart on the first blow, hell-fire burning through the demon's skin and the impact reverberating sickeningly through Cas' arm and up to his shoulder. The second demon had frozen when Cas stabbed his friend and backed up slightly to avoid the falling body. Now that Cas' attention is focused on him, he raises his hands in a mocking surrender.
"So you're the little angel who lost his wings," he says. "Wow, please, don't hurt me with your scary angel powers." The demon smiles. "Oh wait, I forgot. You don't have any."
Cas lunges, but this time the demon is ready. He sidesteps away, and when Cas tries to stop his momentum and turn the blow, he grabs Cas' arm, twisting it up behind him until he drops the knife. Cas flails out with his other hand, landing a glancing, useless blow to the demon’s jaw, and the demon snarls, throwing him across the hallway.
Cas hits the wall badly, shoulder first, and for a second his vision blacks out as the pain hits him. His right arm is on fire and he's not sure he could move it even if he wanted to. Dislocated, probably, the tiny portion of his brain that's still functioning on a calm, rational level tells him, and he hisses a curse through his teeth.
Above him, the demon laughs. "Naughty little angel. Wouldn't want your daddy to know you're using language like that."
The demon picks him up by the front of his shirt and Cas goes limp. It doesn't help. He's thrown again, sliding across the floor back towards the open doorway.
"See, I'd love to kill you, preferably nice and slow, but I've got orders. If you turn up, we're to keep you alive and mostly in one piece. Isn't that nice for you?"
"Go to Hell," Cas gasps, and in answer the demon kicks at his ribs. Cas is fairly sure he can feel one crack, but the pain is too much to really focus on the individual injuries.
"That's original." The demon hesitates. "Still, I guess 'one piece' isn't too tall an order. I can still have a little fun." He raises his booted foot again, smiling as he sees Cas watching it, reviling at the fear and pain Cas has no doubt he can read on his face. So, instead of giving him the satisfaction, Cas turns his head away.
He can see into the room from here. It's like the spell had shown him, a dark room lit by dozens of flickering candles all clustered around a tall stone altar. There's a body on the altar, the angle too high for Cas to clearly make out its features, but one of its arms has slipped off the stone, the thick silver ring on its hand catching the light. He recognizes it immediately, and Cas' stomach clinches in a way that's unrelated to the pain.
The boot comes down. Cas rolls out of the way before it hits. The surge of adrenaline is enough to give him the strength to stand. The knife is five feet away, where it had fallen when Cas had dropped it and he grabs for it, falling against the carpet as his hand closes on smooth bone.
Even with surprise on Cas' side, the demon is still faster than him. He's over Cas before he has time to get back on his feet. Cas strikes out with a leg, kicking the demon in the knee with as much strength as he can. The force is enough to knock him off balance and Cas kicks him again while he wavers, hooking his other leg. He falls like a tree on top of Cas, the demon’s own weight driving the knife into his chest.
Cas heaves him off with his good arm, painfully easing out from underneath him. He uses the wall to pull himself up, holding his right arm tight against his chest. His ribs burn with every shallow breath, but he tries to ignore the pain. He stumbles on the first step, but catches himself on the doorframe. Cas holds himself there for a second and breathes through the throbbing from his arm. He's half afraid to go any further into the room. He can see the figure on the altar fully now, and it's unmistakably Dean.
Unless it isn't. Unless it's a continuation of his hallucination, or a demon trick, or a shape-shifter just pretending to be him. When he touches him, maybe this vision of Dean will just dissolve into smoke like the one in his dream and he'll be left alone. Again.
He inhales deeply, immediately winces, and closes the distance between door and altar.
From the doorway, he hadn't been able to tell if Dean was breathing. Now that he's closer, it's easier to see the soft rise and fall of Dean's chest, the twitch of his eyelids, like he's caught in a dream.
"Dean." It comes out ragged and broken, more a plea than a question. "Dean, can you hear me?"
There's no answer, not even a change in his breathing.
Cas reaches towards him, but checks himself. Dean looks-normal. Like he's just fallen asleep. There aren’t any visible wounds except for a pinprick on Dean’s neck just above his collar, and Cas guesses they’ve been drugging him. He's dressed in a plain, loose-fitting undyed shirt and pants, more sacrificial victim than anything else. He looks younger and more peaceful than Cas has seen in as long time, and it’s a little too much like blankness on his face the last time Cas they’d been together, when he’d cleaned the blood off his face and wrapped him in a motel sheet.
He's grabbing for Dean's shoulder before he can decide if it's a good idea or not. Dean is solid and real under his hand.
"Dean!"
He wakes up with a start, arms flailing out and catching Cas across the chest, which hurts like Hell, but he doesn't care. He holds onto him, keeping Dean from falling off the narrow altar.
Dean's eyes are wide and wild, and as he tries to fight, Cas realizes just how weak he is. He's trying his hardest to get away from Cas, but even one-armed and beat-up, Cas is able to hold him.
"Dean, it's me. You're safe. I'm here." Cas isn't even sure what he's saying, just that right now he'd say anything to make Dean realize that he's not in danger.
"You're not Castiel," Dean spits out, his voice almost lower than Cas', harsh and just a little broken. "Don't think you can fool me."
"Dean, I promise you, it's me. Just-just look at me, you idiot."
Dean freezes, eyes flicking over Cas' face. "I want proof."
"Fine." Cas carefully lets go of Dean's arm. "But can we do it somewhere else? If there are any more demons, I'm not going to be able to fight them. Just trust me until we get back to the car, and you can throw all the tests at me you want. And, no offense, I'll want to do the same to you."
Dean hesitates. "Sounds fair," he says after a second. He slides his legs off the altar easily enough, but almost falls over when he stands. Cas catches him on instinct before he can hit the carpet, and the look Dean throws him is half hope, half fear. Cas knows how he feels.
"Sam-?" Cas hasn't seen any other signs of activity, but he hasn't searched every corner of the building yet. If he were holding the Winchesters hostage, he'd probably try and separate them as much as he could, or rather, that’s what he had done. That’s a whole mess of regret that Cas really can't think about right now.
Dean shakes his head. "He's not here.”
They make it out of the old building without incident. Going back down the fire escape is the most difficult part. Cas has never tried to climb a ladder one-armed before, and Dean is worryingly weak. Still, they finally make it back to the car, and the look on Dean's face when he sees the Impala is just about enough to convince Cas that yes, this is really Dean.
He finds a silver knife and a bottle of holy water in the trunk, and, with Dean watching him like a hawk, quickly slices across his arm with the knife and splashes himself with the holy water.
Dean's already smiling when he takes the knife and bottle from Cas, and after he's gone through the steps himself, he drops both back into the trunk, and pulls Cas into a hug that would be bone crushing even if he didn't already have damaged ribs.
Cas tries to return the hug, but a pained gasp slips out before he can stop it. Dean releases him and steps back, holding him carefully at arm’s length.
"What did you do to yourself, Cas?"
"I didn't do anything to myself," Cas says. "I was thrown into a wall."
"Let me see your shoulder." Dean's fingers are light and quick, carefully pulling back Cas' jacket. "Why don't I fix this once we get somewhere safer-" He grabs Cas' shoulder and pushes the joint back into place. Cas yelps and jerks away, but after a second of blinding pain, it recedes to a dull, manageable throb.
"Thanks."
Dean is watching him carefully, like he's only just starting to work out what's happened. "Are you staying somewhere?" he asks instead, closing the trunk, and walking to the driver's door.
Cas nods.
"Then let's get out of here."
Cas climbs into the car next to Dean, wincing at the pull on his ribs. He thinks Dean notices, because his frown deepens.
They're only a few blocks away from the building when an explosion shakes the car. Dean swears, eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror, and Cas turns in his seat. Flames are licking around the edges of the windows of the old apartment building, and the street around it sparkles with shattered glass. It could have been a coincidence; it was an old building and it probably had bad gas lines, faulty wiring, and a dozen other things that could cause a fire. Somehow, Cas knows it wasn't any of those.
Dean's back to watching the road, jaw a hard line. Cas gives him the directions back to the motel room as they drive towards the edge of the city, ignoring the wail of sirens behind them, but the silence between them feels hard and uncomfortable, a bit too much like it had been when Cas had first regained his memories after living as Emmanuel. It’s a relief when they finally get back to Tacoma.
It’s getting dark by the time they reach the motel. The room’s cold, and he heads for the thermostat as soon as he’s in the door, then shrugs the bag he’s carrying off his shoulder.
"Are you alright, Dean?" Cas empties his various weapons onto the nearest bed and turns back towards the door when he realizes Dean isn't behind him.
"Yeah," Dean says slowly. "Yeah, I'm fine." He steps carefully into the room and lets the door shut, locking it behind him.
He doesn't sound fine, but pushing Dean has never made him more cooperative. Cas gives up on it for the time being and walks into the tiny bathroom, flicking on the light. He shrugs off his button-up and carefully lifts up his t-shirt, wincing at the mottled dark bruises already painting his skin.
He glances up and meets Dean's eyes in the mirror. Dean's made it to the bathroom doorway, watching him carefully, like Cas is going to vanish.
"You're human now, aren't you? One hundred percent genuine article human."
Cas lets go of his shirt, fabric covering the proof of just how mortal he is. "I Fell," he says simply. "After you and Sam died."
Dean shifts. "How? I mean, you didn't tear your Grace out like Anna did, did you?" His eyes sharpen, like he can spot if Cas' Grace is in place. "Did you?"
Cas takes a deep breath, steadies himself. "Back during the Apocalypse, my ties to Heaven were cut off. This-this was not dissimilar. Except this time, I cut the ties myself. There was no place for me in Heaven, not after what I did, and I'm afraid that I wasn't completely in my right mind at the time." That was a bit of an understatement.
"And you've been, what, living as a human for-how long was I gone this time?"
"It's been a year and a half."
Dean blinks, swallows. "Wow. How time flies." He gives Cas a slow once-over, eyes flickering back to rest on his face. "And you-you've been doing okay?"
Cas shrugs, then regrets it. "It's been-difficult-at times. But overall, yes, I am 'okay'."
Dean's face softens, just a little. "Let me take a look at you." He reaches out and eases Cas' t-shirt over his head. Cas' breath catches and it has nothing to do with the pain in his chest. Dean's hands are gentle, but they tremble slightly as he wraps an Ace bandage around the worst of the damage. The pressure helps a little. "An ice pack would be awesome right around now," Dean muses.
"Are you hurt?” Cas asks. Dean doesn't look hurt, just pale and a little unsteady, but Dean's good at hiding pain.
"Just tired," Dean says, and his attempt at a cocky smile doesn't quite have the punch that Cas is sure he intended. "Tell me I still have clothes in the car?"
"Backseat." Cas reaches for his shirt and shrugs it back over his head. The bandage covers most of his torso, but he still feels exposed. Dean had been carefully not looking, but that didn't make it any more comfortable.
Dean tromps outside and comes back with an old duffle bag a few minutes later. He throws it down, unzips it, and staggers back immediately, coughing.
"What the Hell?"
"They were left in a damp trunk for a year and a half," Cas reminds him. "You can wear some of my clothes, and we can wash those in the morning."
"About that… " Dean hesitates, zips up the bag again, and throws it into a corner so he can sit on the bed. "Do you have a plan?"
"I don't know anything about what brought you back," Cas says. "I was hoping you would have more information."
Dean shakes his head. "All I know was that they wanted me for something big, and that it's demons. And that they've got Sammy."
"We'll find Sam," Cas promises. "They wouldn’t kill him after all the trouble they’ve gone through to raise you both."
Dean's face is hard and unreadable. "That's kind of what I'm afraid of."
"He'll be fine." Cas settles onto the bed across from Dean, their knees almost touching in the narrow space.
For a second, Cas thinks Dean is going to say something else, but he just nods. "Thanks, Cas. It's good to have you back."
Not as good as it is to have you back, Cas thinks, but doesn't say it. This wasn't the time to have that conversation with Dean. It probably would never be the right time.
The conversation drifts into silence after that. Cas brushes his teeth, with Dean watching from the bed like he's a scientist that just discovered the strange habits of an elusive, never-before-seen creature. Then they go to bed, Cas shivering slightly under the too-thin comforter.
Cas doesn't sleep.
He's not used to there being another person sleeping in the same room as him, even in a separate bed. He doesn't think his relationship with Daphne truly counts-he never slept and when she fell asleep, he'd go sit in the living room, meditating or reading until morning. Emmanuel wasn't truly him, just as Cas now isn't completely who he was when he was Castiel. And Cas has never shared a room with someone, much less Dean, that he may have had some inappropriate thoughts about in the past year and a half.
He listens to the sound of Dean's quiet breathing, and it's soothing. Before long, he's attuned to the rhythm enough that when it changes, going harsh and quick, Cas is alert in an instant. He throws off the covers, ignoring the sudden cold, and reaches Dean’s side just as he starts screaming.
Dean wakes up before Cas can decide if he should touch him or not. He jolts up, back pressed against the headboard, hands raised and balled into fists, breathing heavy and ragged.
"C-Cas?"
"It's okay, Dean. You're safe."
Dean snorts out a laugh at that, which Cas ignores.
"You had a nightmare?"
There's that laugh again. "No shit, Sherlock."
Cas frowns at him, which accomplishes nothing. "And I'm guessing you don't want to talk about it?"
"Absolutely not. I'm going to go back to sleep and pretend it didn't happen." Dean slides back under the covers, and rolls over on his side, back towards Cas.
Cas gets back into his own bed, but now the adrenaline is flowing and sleep seems even more impossible than it was before. He waits, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, and it's a wonderful relief when Dean talks, his voice small and quiet in the dark.
"Just wondering, are you cold over there? Because I'm freezing. I think we need to complain to management."
"If you want to cuddle, you can just say it." Cas regrets the words the second they're out. All his mental prep, promising himself that he wouldn't say anything, that he wouldn't push his and Dean's friendship, was apparently completely useless.
There's a long silence and Cas' heart is painfully fast against his ribs.
Finally, there's the sound of Dean shifting. "Fine. It's too damn cold to do anything else. Get over here and bring your comforter."
Dean's bed is just as cold as Cas', but he barely feels it. He wraps an arm cautiously around Dean's shoulders, and when Dean doesn't pull away he shifts a little closer. Dean's still on his side, and Cas fits perfectly into the space behind him, pressed up against the warmth of Dean's back. Still, it doesn't feel sexual. Dean's still shaking, either from the nightmare or the cold, and all Cas wants is to hold him until the pain goes away.
"You do realize," Dean says, voice muffled by the pillow, "that this is a totally platonic, sharing-body-heat-to-avoid-hypothermia situation between two dudes who are completely best friends and nothing else? You have figured out the distinction between this and, you know, other stuff, in the time you've been human, right?"
"Of course I have, Dean," Cas says quietly. "I am aware of its applications as a wilderness survival technique. Now go to sleep." He isn't sure what he'd been expecting from Dean. Of course they're friends. Best friends, Dean had said, and a few years ago that would have filled Cas with a kind of warmth that he wouldn't even have been able to understand. Now, the words are just a weight in his stomach, another proof that he and Dean view what they have very differently.
He doesn't expect to fall asleep, not with Dean's words turning over and over in his mind, and his arms wrapped around Dean, but somehow, he does. And despite the cold, Cas sleeps better than he has in as long, long time.
When Cas wakes up, Dean's already awake and in the shower. His off-key singing drifts through the slightly open door and Cas smiles into the pillow. Sam's probably in mortal danger, there's a good chance the world could be ending, again, and he's not sure yet how damaged Dean is-or himself for that matter-but for a few minutes Cas can just be aware of how empty he felt in the last year and half and how, just now, he's starting to feel something close to whole.
Dean comes out of the bathroom and Cas is still in bed, lying there with what he's sure is probably a goofy grin on his face. Dean's wearing Cas' clothes and, while they're not quiet a perfect fit, they're close enough in height that it'll work for now. Cas' t-shirt is a little tighter on Dean than on its previous owner, the fabric stretched snugly across a chest broader and more defined than Cas' comparatively slim build.
Dean shifts. "Yeah, I know, I look ridiculous."
'Ridiculous' is probably not one of the first words Cas would have used, but he just looks away. "It's fine. Clothes are the least of our worries."
Dean crouches down and starts to root through Cas’ duffle bag, finally pulling out a sock. Cas watches him search for a few seconds, then Dean stills and looks up. "About that-last night, when I woke up? I think I had a vision."
Cas blinks. "What makes you say that?"
"It wasn't right for a nightmare and it's not the first dream like that I've had, either. A few nights ago, I dreamed about you. We were in this forest and I told you I needed help. Then you show up."
Cas shifts back the covers, sitting up straighter on the bed. "You asked why I didn't burn your bones."
"How did you know about that?" Dean's expression has gone from tense to something more complex.
"I dreamed it too. That was the reason I came to look for you."
Dean shakes his head. "Wow. Okay, this is seriously weird."
Cas gets up and crosses the room to kneel next to Dean. "What did you see tonight?"
Dean meets Cas' eyes. "I saw where they're keeping Sam."
Next
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It’s four o’clock in the morning and Cas can’t sleep.
He’d woken up gasping from half-remembered nightmares a little after midnight, but it isn’t the dreams keeping him awake. His back aches and his foot throbs where he’d dropped a box on it the day before. His throat scratches with every breath of chilly winter air and he’s been lying awake long enough that his stomach’s starting to grumble. In all, it’s nothing like how Cas had imagined Falling.
Of course, when he'd contemplated the possibility, he'd always assumed that, whatever happened, Dean would be at his side.
Cas turns over, his legs twisting in the sheets. The too-bright red numbers of his alarm clock helpfully inform him that he's got three hours before he needs to start work. Damn.
He sighs and pushes the covers back, wincing as he lowers his feet onto the floor. It's November in Chicago, and it’s cold. His creaky space heater had finally broken for good a week ago, and he doesn't have the funds to buy a new one. He’ll have to make do with multiple sweaters and as many blankets as he can find until spring comes.
Cas wonders how Dean and Sam were able to survive their lifetime of frozen motel rooms. Right now, he's not sure if he would have been able to make it for long living like them. Still, he tries not to think about them for long. Some wounds are still too raw to pick at.
He gets dressed in the dark, the neon lights of the club across the street forming the room's only illumination. He likes it like this, when he can savor the last few quiet moments before the sun comes up and the day begins. He doesn't have to think about work, or what he's going to have for dinner, or, most of all, Dean. Cas is starting to understand exactly why repression is such a common coping mechanism.
Since he moved to Chicago, Cas has been working in a tiny corner store half a dozen blocks from his apartment. It’s still mostly dark when he gets there, and he locks the door behind him. The owner, April, had lectured him with something as close to anger as he's ever seen from her last time he'd left the doors unlocked until opening. He doesn't remember the specifics, but he's fairly sure it had something to do with the store being in a bad neighborhood (which, given some of the neighborhoods around them, Cas finds a little unfair), and Cas looking like he could be knocked down by a stiff breeze, much less the proverbial gang of drug addict adolescents (which Cas thinks is highly unlikely). Still, he keeps the door locked until eight o'clock now, and it's become one of the multitudes of little habits Cas would never have dreamed of adopting as an angel.
The next hour passes quickly. Cas restocks from the back room, starts coffee, and takes in the delivery from the bakery. The early morning rush, or what passes for it here, trickles through after he opens, and the good pastries, the ones that Cas knows Dean would have loved, disappear almost immediately.
April shows up at noon to take over during Cas' lunch. She's about the same age as Cas appears to be, and she’s almost constantly in some state of mild panic. At first, he’d worried for her. Then he realized that was how she liked it.
"It was a nightmare getting the kids off this morning," she tells him as he unpacks his lunch. "Katie forgot her jacket, and then Sean spilt breakfast all over his shirt five minutes before we were going to leave. The twins are still sick-they were coughing and sneezing over everything." She shakes her head. "A total nightmare."
Cas nods. It was an early discovery that he doesn’t need to add much to a conversation for it to go smoothly, and that, in fact, it often works better if he doesn’t try to add too much to the exchange.
"Well, go on then!" April flaps her hands at him. "Go. Eat. Frolic. Do whatever it is you do when you're not working."
There's a little park around the corner from the store. It's not much, just a few trees, enough grass for maybe one and a half families to picnic, and several benches. There are also pigeons.
They cluster around Cas' feet when he sits down, burbling and cooing, iridescent neck feathers catching the sunlight. Not that long ago, Cas would have been able to understand what they were saying, would have been able to decipher the meaning in their sounds and body language. Now, it's just noise.
He eats his too-dry sandwich, swallowing it down with coffee from the store. He crumbles the crust for the birds and brushes off his shirt. The pigeons part away from him when he stands up, but they don't bother to go more than a few inches. They're used to him now.
As he's walking back to the store, something makes Cas pause, an odd shiver that has nothing to do with the cool air. He turns and looks back towards the park.
There's someone standing by his bench, ignored by the still-busy pigeons. He's tall and effortlessly handsome, his hands jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket. He's painfully familiar and it's enough to make Cas' chest tighten, the rush of blood too loud in his ears.
Then Cas blinks and he's gone, leaving nothing but a fading afterimage. Cas takes a shaky breath and lets it out slowly. This isn't the first time he thought he saw Dean. Apparently, hallucinations are one of the more extreme manifestations of human grief. Still, he'd have thought that over a year would be enough for the visions to fade; apparently, he's wrong. There's a part of him that would like to think that somehow this is really Dean, or even just some monster wearing his face, but Cas knows it isn’t. Maybe someday he'll even come to terms with that.
April's reading a gossip magazine at the counter when he gets back to the store. She looks up at the cheery ring of the bell Cas had helped her rig up over the door and double takes when she sees him.
"Jesus, what happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."
It's almost funny.
Cas ends up leaving work early. He doesn't really want to. There's nothing to do at his apartment and while he still feels a little shaky from seeing the apparition of Dean in the park, it's nothing he hasn't handled before. Still, April insists, shooing him out the door and telling him to come back when he's rested.
Going back to his apartment is unappetizing, so Cas doesn't. He catches a bus down the block from the store and rides the city lines for an hour. He's been in Chicago for over six months, but it doesn't feel like home yet. Its streets are still unfamiliar and strange, and he's unused to the press of humanity around him.
He rides the bus back to his neighborhood and goes home.
Inside, even with all the lights turned on, it's still dark. A few months back, April had given him a tiny TV she'd kept in the kitchen until she'd realized that moving four young children out of the house early in the morning was easier without the TV’s distractions. He'd considered selling it to buy a new heater, but it’s been educational, and he doubts it would go for enough anyway.
He flicks it on and settles onto his bed, pulling the blankets around him. Nothing’s on except a soap opera he doesn’t recognize, and he watches it for a while, trying to understand the characters’ dramatic but ultimately illogical actions. Eventually, the past few sleepless nights catch up with him, and he’s half asleep before he realizes it.
"Cas? Cas, can you hear me?"
The sound from the TV has changed. The new voice is charged with tension, but it's familiar enough that it's still soothing. Cas mumbles something noncommittal and burrows deeper into the blankets.
"Please, Cas, I need your help, man."
Cas sits up, the blankets falling off his shoulders. He gets a flash of the TV-Dean, his hands pressed up against the screen like he's trying to force his way out into the real world. His face is drawn and pale, freckles standing out sharply against his skin, eyes wide and pleading-then it's gone. The picture's back to the woman sobbing over the body of her dead lover, and the image is too close to Cas' admittedly fractured memories. He jumps up and switches the TV off with shaking hands.
He knows hallucinations. He'd spent several long months under the influence of Sam's back in the hospital. In the first few months after Sucrocorp, after he'd Fallen and lost the people grounding him to humanity, he'd seen the Winchesters everywhere. He'd grown familiar with seeing things that weren't there and, as much as his eyes tried to convince him what he was seeing was real, he knew the difference. He’s not crazy, not anymore, just troubled.
That hadn't been a hallucination. What it was, Cas isn't sure, maybe some fading echo of Dean used to try and get at him-he'd be an idiot if he pretended he didn’t still have enemies, and while Cas may be a lot of things, he's rarely an idiot- but it hadn't been the product of his own mind.
Part of him wants to up and leave that night, abandon his job and apartment and drive to Seattle to see if the two quiet mounds of earth he'd left in the shelter of a particularly peaceful patch of forest on the Olympic peninsula are undisturbed, but he knows he can't. There's no reason that anyone would bring the boys back. Their chapter is over. The only people who would profit from their return that Cas could think of are the few friends they'd left behind, and they are the ones who have no power over it. The longer he thinks about it, the more convinced he becomes that it couldn't have been Dean, or even some demon spell. It's not like Cas has ever been entirely mentally stable-he could have finally cracked and this is just the first manifestation of it.
Finally, he gets up and makes himself a cup of tea. It goes undrunk, cooling slowly on the nightstand as Cas tries to think of anything but the Winchesters and fails.
Get up, drink coffee, watch the news, go to work, eat lunch, help April's oldest daughter with her history homework, go home, heat up a can of soup for dinner, watch TV, go to bed, wake up calling Dean's name, drenched in sweat from half-remembered nightmares and pretend it didn't happen, start the process over again.
It's not that Cas' life is boring. He's just not sure what to do with it. He has no friends outside of April, who he’s not sure really counts, and while he enjoys the company of her children, sometimes their presence is more painful than anything else. While Jimmy's been gone for years, there are still some traces of him left in Cas' body, and the irrational grief he feels whenever he sees Katie, who's eleven, blonde, and cheerful, has almost been enough several times to make him excuse himself from helping her with homework. He never actually does, though. It's not Katie's fault that she's a reminder of the daughter who was never actually his, and it's unlikely she could find another tutor with as complete a knowledge of Ancient Greece as him.
So he keeps going. It's how he's lived since he left the ruins of the Sucrocorp headquarters with a demon, a prophet, and the broken bodies of two men he'd loved in very different ways. It's how he's lived since he finally, truly, turned his back on Heaven and its power drained away from him like blood, taking his madness with it. He doesn't remember much of those days and he doesn't want to. Some things are better left in the darkness.
It's hard not to think about it, though, with Dean's face filling his dreams. It's been a week since he saw the hallucination-it had to be a hallucination-of Dean on his TV and, apart from the dreams, there haven’t been any further signs of him. That his brief possible break from reality seems to be over should be reassuring, but all he's left with is an overwhelming sense of unease. He still has Dean's voice, tight with panic and fear, ringing in his ears, and sometimes it feels like that sound is drowning out his own thoughts. It's the last thing he hears before he goes to sleep and the first thing he thinks of when he wakes up.
So, it's not a surprise when his dreams shift into something a little more focused than the usual variety of disjointed terror and pain.
He's sitting under a tall fir tree, the roughness of the bark digging into his back. The forest around him is sharper than he's used to, and the awareness that he's dreaming is new, too. He'd used to dream like this as an angel, when he could visit human’s dreams, but he hasn’t experienced anything like this since he Fell.
Dean's sitting next to him, legs sprawled out on the duff, and the dream is real enough that Cas can smell him, leather and sweat, and another scent that Cas could never identify but was always Dean. He can feel him too, burning where he's pressed up against Cas, leaning against his side like he belongs there.
"I gotta say, you picked a nice spot." Dean's looking up at the canopy. "But dude, you really should have burned me and Sammy's bones."
"I couldn't do it," Cas says slowly. "Kevin didn't know, and I-I may have neglected to mention the standard rituals." He turns his head. Dean's close enough that every eyelash is visible and Cas can feel his breathing. "Perhaps it was selfish, but it seemed too final."
Dean huffs out a rough laugh that reverberates through Cas. "Yeah, I know the feeling." He hesitates and licks his lips, and Cas' eyes follow the movement before he catches what he's doing. "But the thing is, it looks like someone wasn't finished with us. You've got to stop them, Cas, you're the only one left who can. I know it's hard, but you can't let them go through with this."
Cas' mouth is dry and the tightness in his chest feels as real as it does when he's awake. "What's going on, Dean? You have to tell me." He reaches out and grabs Dean's shoulder. "Please, just tell me what you need."
"You have to stop them," Dean says again, and he doesn't sound quite like himself now. He's fading away, his body becoming insubstantial under Cas' hand. "Please, I'm begging you, Cas, you have to stop them."
Cas tries to hold onto him, but he's gone, slipping between his fingers like smoke. Cas scrambles to his feet, scraping his palm on the rough bark of the tree, but it's like Dean was never there.
He wakes up with a start, eyes wide and staring unseeingly at the patterns of light on the ceiling, his breath catching in his throat. He knows what he needs to do.
"Cas! What are you doing here?" April is already coming out from behind the counter. She reaches for him, then seems to check herself, her hands falling to her sides.
"I need to ask for a favor."
"Yeah, sure, Cas, what do you need?" She's starting to look genuinely concerned now, and while Cas knows it's unusual for him to go to the store on his days off, surely it's not that shocking.
"A-uh-family emergency has come up," he manages. "If I could have a week off, I would appreciate it." It feels stilted and awkward, and he's fairly sure it is. The not-quite lie is heavy in his mouth.
April's expression shifts from concern to confusion. "I thought you didn't have any family."
"Well," Cas backtracks, "they're more like very close friends. Very old friends. Of the family."
"Oh. Okay." April doesn't look any less skeptical. "Um, where are they?"
"Washington." It's not giving much away. If she were to tell anyone, there would be plenty of area to search.
"The state?"
Cas nods.
"Wow. Uh, do you have someway to get there?"
"I have a car," Cas tells her. "Please, April, if I don't do this, I don't know how I'll be able to live with myself. And if it turns out to be nothing, I'd like to know I have something to come back to." It spills out before he can stop himself. April's not really a friend, and she's nothing like family, but it's still the closest link to true humanity that he has.
"Yeah, of course. When-when are you leaving?"
"Today, if I can manage it." The managing it isn't a question. All he needs after he leaves here is a quick bus ride to a local storage facility, and he'll be on the road.
April bites at her lip. "I guess I can see if Marcus wants to work extra hours. You do realize that I'm only doing this because I know you wouldn't be here asking me if this wasn't something huge? When you get back, you will owe me."
"Thank you." It doesn’t seem like enough, but there's not much else to say. He doesn't know if he will return, but knowing that April wants him back means more than Cas would have expected. Still, he doesn't look behind him as he walks towards the bus stop.
The storage unit had the double benefits of being cheap and close, but very few other redeeming factors. Cas knows it's not the kind of place that Dean would want his baby kept, but Cas hadn't wanted to risk leaving the car on the street. He doesn't think Dean would appreciate that either.
The Impala's engine rumbles to life on the first try, despite the long months on her own. Cas tried to make it out to the unit as often as he could, but there'd still been long stretches when he hadn't been able to visit. The car still smells like Dean-or maybe Dean had smelled like the car-and there's been times when all he'd wanted to do was sit in the passenger’s seat and imagine that Dean was next to him. Usually, he's been able to dismiss the urge as useless sentimentality. Usually.
It takes another half hour to get back to his apartment, make sure everything's turned off, and throw his bags into the back seat. It's a little strange to be leaving. Cas still isn't sure if he's going to be coming back, regardless of what he finds. He's only been in Chicago for six months, but it's the longest he's been in one place since he Fell. His apartment doesn't exactly feel like home, but it's something close. It's familiar, reassuring.
Once he's out of the city, Cas takes I-90 towards Wisconsin. According to the worn maps in the Impala's glove box, it should be a little over two day's drive to Washington, factoring in time to eat and sleep. He eats lunch in the car, wincing as crumbs patter against the leather seats. He carefully brushes them out next time he stops for gas.
He stops for the night in a sleepy looking motel right off I-94, but while he knows he's going to need rest if he's going to get far tomorrow, it's more difficult than he'd expected to settle in for the night. He dreams about Dean again, but it lacks vividness. It's more of an echo of his vision, but he still wakes up shaking with the force of the feeling that he needs to find Dean now.
He presses on the next day, barely seeing Montana and Idaho rush past the windows. The dryness of eastern Washington gradually gives way to green, and Cas spends that night in the car, parked at a way station with the rumble of semi-truck engines around him.
He bypasses Seattle, dipping down past Tacoma and following 101 towards the coast. It takes a little longer than he expected to find the patch of forest where he left Dean and Sam. He'd already been starting to Fall when he and Kevin buried them, and mostly he just remembers the pain. Eventually, he finds what he’s mostly sure is the right deer path leading off the trail. After a few minutes, the forest opens into a small clearing, and Cas freezes at the edge of the trees.
They'd buried the Winchesters next to each other at the foot of a tall Douglas Fir, and Cas still had the presence of mind to carve protective sigils into the trees around them. They should have been protected from restless spirits, demons, angels, and everything in between.
The sigils have been destroyed, the bark where they'd been etched shredded and rent by what looks like huge claws. The ground inside the circle is torn and ugly, like an open wound. In contrast to the chaotic destruction around them, the graves have been neatly excavated, like whoever-or whatever-had done it was being careful not to harm their contents.
Bile rises in Cas' throat, and he swallows hard. Until he'd seen what was left of Sam and Dean's resting place, he'd still thought that maybe his dreams and visions were just the product of a psychotic break and not of impending doom. Now, there's not really any other option. Anyone who would go to so much trouble to remove the warding sigils and take the Winchester's bodies couldn't want them for anything good.
Cas makes himself check the graves, fighting back another surge of nausea, and he's not surprised that there's nothing left. Whatever it was had been thorough. He doesn't stay for longer than it takes to make a quick search of the clearing. The place is contaminated now, and the feeling sticks to him as he walks to the car.
He drives back to Tacoma and checks into a motel; he needs privacy for what he's planning. He finds all the ingredients that he needs in the trunk of the Impala and lays them out on the kitchen table. He'd taken one of Dean’s old shirts for the spell. Hair would be better, but the only hairbrush he could find was Sam's, and while finding Sam isn't necessarily second to finding his brother, he hadn't been lying when he said that his and Dean's bond was closer, regardless of Cas' feelings for him. He's closer to Dean and, even now that he's human, he can still remember the way it felt to remake him, the raw power of his soul as Cas pulled him from Hell. He'll never forget that, and he never wants to.
Drawing the lines and symbols required for the spell is a little more difficult. He hasn't had to work a ritual like this for an age and his memories are already fading. Still, he figures it out eventually, or at least, it looks right. The words are easier, falling heavily from his lips. It's a simple spell, created by demons, used by humans, and old and bastardized enough that it promises no allegiance to Hell or its creatures. It should work for what Cas intends.
The sigils flare brightly and Cas grips the edge of the table as the power surges into him, burning as it dances across his skin. His vision blacks out as the spell takes hold, blurry images flashing through his mind-an abandoned apartment building near the docks, the Seattle skyline, Dean, still as death but whole, lying sprawled on a high table. Then the power's gone, the spell burning out and leaving Cas shaking and gasping for breath.
He doesn't even clean up the remains of the spell, just flips the 'do not disturb' sign around on the door and drives to Seattle. After he reaches the city, it takes an hour of weaving through the warehouses and docks to find the building the locating spell had shown him. It's tall, utilitarian, and completely unremarkable, certainly not the kind of place where any passerby would expect there to be ancient evil lurking. He parks out of sight of the windows and searches through the trunk. The demon-killing knife goes in his belt and an angel sword in his jacket. He takes Dean's pearl-handled Colt too, and its weight oddly comforting.
Cas ignores the front door and slips around into the alley on the side. There isn’t another door at ground level, but there is a fire escape, and a few yards away, a half-full dumpster. It’s easy to push it into place, and once he climbs onto the dumpster, it's simple enough to grab the ladder and pull himself up. He takes the first door into the building-it's locked, but the wood is partially rotted and gives in without much protest.
He tries not to gag at the first rush of air from inside. It's dank and musty, and it smells like something came in here to die. The stench of mold and putridity is strong enough he's half-blinded for a moment. It's not the smell of whatever human inhabitants might have stayed here in the years since the apartments officially closed, but rather of something much closer to Hell.
Cas takes a shallow breath and steps through the doorway. It's dark inside, and he takes a second to fumble for his flashlight. The door opens onto the end of a long hallway, its wallpaper faded and peeling, the carpet unpleasantly spongy under his feet. Cas knows that probably any building left unoccupied in the Pacific Northwest, especially one right on the water, would deteriorate quickly, but there's something about this place that doesn't feel natural. Despite his efforts to keep his breathing even, if shallow, Cas' heart is thudding painfully loud in his ears, every instinct screaming that he needs to leave before he finds whatever it is that's possessing the building.
But Dean's here. He can't turn back now.
He checks every door that he passes, even though he's fairly sure finding Dean isn't going to be that easy. Something that had gone to that kind of trouble to locate Dean's body wasn't going to leave him where anyone could stumble across him. There are corpses in a few of the rooms, perhaps squatters who had been here when whatever it was moved in, but they're not Dean, so Cas moves on. He’s made his way up the fifth floor before he finds anything alive.
Cas turns a corner, sees the two demons standing guard halfway down the hall, and flinches back, switching off his flashlight. The demons are standing guard at an open doorway, backlit by the room’s flickering orange glow. Their hosts are both taller and broader than Cas, and, even in the dim light, their eyes gleam black.
He takes a deep breath and shifts his grip on the demon knife. Its bone handle is slippery against his palm, and he switches it to his other hand for a second so he can wipe his too-sweaty palm off on his jeans. It's a simple, human reaction, but it still irks him. He can't afford to mess this up.
Cas can still move quicker and with more accuracy than a human. His theory is that it has something to do with being able to orient himself in flight, being able to bank and aim for a tiny spot, like the seat of the Impala, while moving at speeds faster than the human mind could comprehend. Now his wings are gone, but the sense memory remains.
He's in the hallway before his brain has completely caught up with his body's decision to act. The demons see him immediately, turning towards him with matching toothy grins.
Cas reaches the first demon and stabs upward. The demon takes a second too long to react. They probably thought that, with the Winchesters out of the world and the angels back in Heaven, there was nothing that could stop them. Cas can prove them wrong.
The knife finds the demon's heart on the first blow, hell-fire burning through the demon's skin and the impact reverberating sickeningly through Cas' arm and up to his shoulder. The second demon had frozen when Cas stabbed his friend and backed up slightly to avoid the falling body. Now that Cas' attention is focused on him, he raises his hands in a mocking surrender.
"So you're the little angel who lost his wings," he says. "Wow, please, don't hurt me with your scary angel powers." The demon smiles. "Oh wait, I forgot. You don't have any."
Cas lunges, but this time the demon is ready. He sidesteps away, and when Cas tries to stop his momentum and turn the blow, he grabs Cas' arm, twisting it up behind him until he drops the knife. Cas flails out with his other hand, landing a glancing, useless blow to the demon’s jaw, and the demon snarls, throwing him across the hallway.
Cas hits the wall badly, shoulder first, and for a second his vision blacks out as the pain hits him. His right arm is on fire and he's not sure he could move it even if he wanted to. Dislocated, probably, the tiny portion of his brain that's still functioning on a calm, rational level tells him, and he hisses a curse through his teeth.
Above him, the demon laughs. "Naughty little angel. Wouldn't want your daddy to know you're using language like that."
The demon picks him up by the front of his shirt and Cas goes limp. It doesn't help. He's thrown again, sliding across the floor back towards the open doorway.
"See, I'd love to kill you, preferably nice and slow, but I've got orders. If you turn up, we're to keep you alive and mostly in one piece. Isn't that nice for you?"
"Go to Hell," Cas gasps, and in answer the demon kicks at his ribs. Cas is fairly sure he can feel one crack, but the pain is too much to really focus on the individual injuries.
"That's original." The demon hesitates. "Still, I guess 'one piece' isn't too tall an order. I can still have a little fun." He raises his booted foot again, smiling as he sees Cas watching it, reviling at the fear and pain Cas has no doubt he can read on his face. So, instead of giving him the satisfaction, Cas turns his head away.
He can see into the room from here. It's like the spell had shown him, a dark room lit by dozens of flickering candles all clustered around a tall stone altar. There's a body on the altar, the angle too high for Cas to clearly make out its features, but one of its arms has slipped off the stone, the thick silver ring on its hand catching the light. He recognizes it immediately, and Cas' stomach clinches in a way that's unrelated to the pain.
The boot comes down. Cas rolls out of the way before it hits. The surge of adrenaline is enough to give him the strength to stand. The knife is five feet away, where it had fallen when Cas had dropped it and he grabs for it, falling against the carpet as his hand closes on smooth bone.
Even with surprise on Cas' side, the demon is still faster than him. He's over Cas before he has time to get back on his feet. Cas strikes out with a leg, kicking the demon in the knee with as much strength as he can. The force is enough to knock him off balance and Cas kicks him again while he wavers, hooking his other leg. He falls like a tree on top of Cas, the demon’s own weight driving the knife into his chest.
Cas heaves him off with his good arm, painfully easing out from underneath him. He uses the wall to pull himself up, holding his right arm tight against his chest. His ribs burn with every shallow breath, but he tries to ignore the pain. He stumbles on the first step, but catches himself on the doorframe. Cas holds himself there for a second and breathes through the throbbing from his arm. He's half afraid to go any further into the room. He can see the figure on the altar fully now, and it's unmistakably Dean.
Unless it isn't. Unless it's a continuation of his hallucination, or a demon trick, or a shape-shifter just pretending to be him. When he touches him, maybe this vision of Dean will just dissolve into smoke like the one in his dream and he'll be left alone. Again.
He inhales deeply, immediately winces, and closes the distance between door and altar.
From the doorway, he hadn't been able to tell if Dean was breathing. Now that he's closer, it's easier to see the soft rise and fall of Dean's chest, the twitch of his eyelids, like he's caught in a dream.
"Dean." It comes out ragged and broken, more a plea than a question. "Dean, can you hear me?"
There's no answer, not even a change in his breathing.
Cas reaches towards him, but checks himself. Dean looks-normal. Like he's just fallen asleep. There aren’t any visible wounds except for a pinprick on Dean’s neck just above his collar, and Cas guesses they’ve been drugging him. He's dressed in a plain, loose-fitting undyed shirt and pants, more sacrificial victim than anything else. He looks younger and more peaceful than Cas has seen in as long time, and it’s a little too much like blankness on his face the last time Cas they’d been together, when he’d cleaned the blood off his face and wrapped him in a motel sheet.
He's grabbing for Dean's shoulder before he can decide if it's a good idea or not. Dean is solid and real under his hand.
"Dean!"
He wakes up with a start, arms flailing out and catching Cas across the chest, which hurts like Hell, but he doesn't care. He holds onto him, keeping Dean from falling off the narrow altar.
Dean's eyes are wide and wild, and as he tries to fight, Cas realizes just how weak he is. He's trying his hardest to get away from Cas, but even one-armed and beat-up, Cas is able to hold him.
"Dean, it's me. You're safe. I'm here." Cas isn't even sure what he's saying, just that right now he'd say anything to make Dean realize that he's not in danger.
"You're not Castiel," Dean spits out, his voice almost lower than Cas', harsh and just a little broken. "Don't think you can fool me."
"Dean, I promise you, it's me. Just-just look at me, you idiot."
Dean freezes, eyes flicking over Cas' face. "I want proof."
"Fine." Cas carefully lets go of Dean's arm. "But can we do it somewhere else? If there are any more demons, I'm not going to be able to fight them. Just trust me until we get back to the car, and you can throw all the tests at me you want. And, no offense, I'll want to do the same to you."
Dean hesitates. "Sounds fair," he says after a second. He slides his legs off the altar easily enough, but almost falls over when he stands. Cas catches him on instinct before he can hit the carpet, and the look Dean throws him is half hope, half fear. Cas knows how he feels.
"Sam-?" Cas hasn't seen any other signs of activity, but he hasn't searched every corner of the building yet. If he were holding the Winchesters hostage, he'd probably try and separate them as much as he could, or rather, that’s what he had done. That’s a whole mess of regret that Cas really can't think about right now.
Dean shakes his head. "He's not here.”
They make it out of the old building without incident. Going back down the fire escape is the most difficult part. Cas has never tried to climb a ladder one-armed before, and Dean is worryingly weak. Still, they finally make it back to the car, and the look on Dean's face when he sees the Impala is just about enough to convince Cas that yes, this is really Dean.
He finds a silver knife and a bottle of holy water in the trunk, and, with Dean watching him like a hawk, quickly slices across his arm with the knife and splashes himself with the holy water.
Dean's already smiling when he takes the knife and bottle from Cas, and after he's gone through the steps himself, he drops both back into the trunk, and pulls Cas into a hug that would be bone crushing even if he didn't already have damaged ribs.
Cas tries to return the hug, but a pained gasp slips out before he can stop it. Dean releases him and steps back, holding him carefully at arm’s length.
"What did you do to yourself, Cas?"
"I didn't do anything to myself," Cas says. "I was thrown into a wall."
"Let me see your shoulder." Dean's fingers are light and quick, carefully pulling back Cas' jacket. "Why don't I fix this once we get somewhere safer-" He grabs Cas' shoulder and pushes the joint back into place. Cas yelps and jerks away, but after a second of blinding pain, it recedes to a dull, manageable throb.
"Thanks."
Dean is watching him carefully, like he's only just starting to work out what's happened. "Are you staying somewhere?" he asks instead, closing the trunk, and walking to the driver's door.
Cas nods.
"Then let's get out of here."
Cas climbs into the car next to Dean, wincing at the pull on his ribs. He thinks Dean notices, because his frown deepens.
They're only a few blocks away from the building when an explosion shakes the car. Dean swears, eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror, and Cas turns in his seat. Flames are licking around the edges of the windows of the old apartment building, and the street around it sparkles with shattered glass. It could have been a coincidence; it was an old building and it probably had bad gas lines, faulty wiring, and a dozen other things that could cause a fire. Somehow, Cas knows it wasn't any of those.
Dean's back to watching the road, jaw a hard line. Cas gives him the directions back to the motel room as they drive towards the edge of the city, ignoring the wail of sirens behind them, but the silence between them feels hard and uncomfortable, a bit too much like it had been when Cas had first regained his memories after living as Emmanuel. It’s a relief when they finally get back to Tacoma.
It’s getting dark by the time they reach the motel. The room’s cold, and he heads for the thermostat as soon as he’s in the door, then shrugs the bag he’s carrying off his shoulder.
"Are you alright, Dean?" Cas empties his various weapons onto the nearest bed and turns back towards the door when he realizes Dean isn't behind him.
"Yeah," Dean says slowly. "Yeah, I'm fine." He steps carefully into the room and lets the door shut, locking it behind him.
He doesn't sound fine, but pushing Dean has never made him more cooperative. Cas gives up on it for the time being and walks into the tiny bathroom, flicking on the light. He shrugs off his button-up and carefully lifts up his t-shirt, wincing at the mottled dark bruises already painting his skin.
He glances up and meets Dean's eyes in the mirror. Dean's made it to the bathroom doorway, watching him carefully, like Cas is going to vanish.
"You're human now, aren't you? One hundred percent genuine article human."
Cas lets go of his shirt, fabric covering the proof of just how mortal he is. "I Fell," he says simply. "After you and Sam died."
Dean shifts. "How? I mean, you didn't tear your Grace out like Anna did, did you?" His eyes sharpen, like he can spot if Cas' Grace is in place. "Did you?"
Cas takes a deep breath, steadies himself. "Back during the Apocalypse, my ties to Heaven were cut off. This-this was not dissimilar. Except this time, I cut the ties myself. There was no place for me in Heaven, not after what I did, and I'm afraid that I wasn't completely in my right mind at the time." That was a bit of an understatement.
"And you've been, what, living as a human for-how long was I gone this time?"
"It's been a year and a half."
Dean blinks, swallows. "Wow. How time flies." He gives Cas a slow once-over, eyes flickering back to rest on his face. "And you-you've been doing okay?"
Cas shrugs, then regrets it. "It's been-difficult-at times. But overall, yes, I am 'okay'."
Dean's face softens, just a little. "Let me take a look at you." He reaches out and eases Cas' t-shirt over his head. Cas' breath catches and it has nothing to do with the pain in his chest. Dean's hands are gentle, but they tremble slightly as he wraps an Ace bandage around the worst of the damage. The pressure helps a little. "An ice pack would be awesome right around now," Dean muses.
"Are you hurt?” Cas asks. Dean doesn't look hurt, just pale and a little unsteady, but Dean's good at hiding pain.
"Just tired," Dean says, and his attempt at a cocky smile doesn't quite have the punch that Cas is sure he intended. "Tell me I still have clothes in the car?"
"Backseat." Cas reaches for his shirt and shrugs it back over his head. The bandage covers most of his torso, but he still feels exposed. Dean had been carefully not looking, but that didn't make it any more comfortable.
Dean tromps outside and comes back with an old duffle bag a few minutes later. He throws it down, unzips it, and staggers back immediately, coughing.
"What the Hell?"
"They were left in a damp trunk for a year and a half," Cas reminds him. "You can wear some of my clothes, and we can wash those in the morning."
"About that… " Dean hesitates, zips up the bag again, and throws it into a corner so he can sit on the bed. "Do you have a plan?"
"I don't know anything about what brought you back," Cas says. "I was hoping you would have more information."
Dean shakes his head. "All I know was that they wanted me for something big, and that it's demons. And that they've got Sammy."
"We'll find Sam," Cas promises. "They wouldn’t kill him after all the trouble they’ve gone through to raise you both."
Dean's face is hard and unreadable. "That's kind of what I'm afraid of."
"He'll be fine." Cas settles onto the bed across from Dean, their knees almost touching in the narrow space.
For a second, Cas thinks Dean is going to say something else, but he just nods. "Thanks, Cas. It's good to have you back."
Not as good as it is to have you back, Cas thinks, but doesn't say it. This wasn't the time to have that conversation with Dean. It probably would never be the right time.
The conversation drifts into silence after that. Cas brushes his teeth, with Dean watching from the bed like he's a scientist that just discovered the strange habits of an elusive, never-before-seen creature. Then they go to bed, Cas shivering slightly under the too-thin comforter.
Cas doesn't sleep.
He's not used to there being another person sleeping in the same room as him, even in a separate bed. He doesn't think his relationship with Daphne truly counts-he never slept and when she fell asleep, he'd go sit in the living room, meditating or reading until morning. Emmanuel wasn't truly him, just as Cas now isn't completely who he was when he was Castiel. And Cas has never shared a room with someone, much less Dean, that he may have had some inappropriate thoughts about in the past year and a half.
He listens to the sound of Dean's quiet breathing, and it's soothing. Before long, he's attuned to the rhythm enough that when it changes, going harsh and quick, Cas is alert in an instant. He throws off the covers, ignoring the sudden cold, and reaches Dean’s side just as he starts screaming.
Dean wakes up before Cas can decide if he should touch him or not. He jolts up, back pressed against the headboard, hands raised and balled into fists, breathing heavy and ragged.
"C-Cas?"
"It's okay, Dean. You're safe."
Dean snorts out a laugh at that, which Cas ignores.
"You had a nightmare?"
There's that laugh again. "No shit, Sherlock."
Cas frowns at him, which accomplishes nothing. "And I'm guessing you don't want to talk about it?"
"Absolutely not. I'm going to go back to sleep and pretend it didn't happen." Dean slides back under the covers, and rolls over on his side, back towards Cas.
Cas gets back into his own bed, but now the adrenaline is flowing and sleep seems even more impossible than it was before. He waits, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, and it's a wonderful relief when Dean talks, his voice small and quiet in the dark.
"Just wondering, are you cold over there? Because I'm freezing. I think we need to complain to management."
"If you want to cuddle, you can just say it." Cas regrets the words the second they're out. All his mental prep, promising himself that he wouldn't say anything, that he wouldn't push his and Dean's friendship, was apparently completely useless.
There's a long silence and Cas' heart is painfully fast against his ribs.
Finally, there's the sound of Dean shifting. "Fine. It's too damn cold to do anything else. Get over here and bring your comforter."
Dean's bed is just as cold as Cas', but he barely feels it. He wraps an arm cautiously around Dean's shoulders, and when Dean doesn't pull away he shifts a little closer. Dean's still on his side, and Cas fits perfectly into the space behind him, pressed up against the warmth of Dean's back. Still, it doesn't feel sexual. Dean's still shaking, either from the nightmare or the cold, and all Cas wants is to hold him until the pain goes away.
"You do realize," Dean says, voice muffled by the pillow, "that this is a totally platonic, sharing-body-heat-to-avoid-hypothermia situation between two dudes who are completely best friends and nothing else? You have figured out the distinction between this and, you know, other stuff, in the time you've been human, right?"
"Of course I have, Dean," Cas says quietly. "I am aware of its applications as a wilderness survival technique. Now go to sleep." He isn't sure what he'd been expecting from Dean. Of course they're friends. Best friends, Dean had said, and a few years ago that would have filled Cas with a kind of warmth that he wouldn't even have been able to understand. Now, the words are just a weight in his stomach, another proof that he and Dean view what they have very differently.
He doesn't expect to fall asleep, not with Dean's words turning over and over in his mind, and his arms wrapped around Dean, but somehow, he does. And despite the cold, Cas sleeps better than he has in as long, long time.
When Cas wakes up, Dean's already awake and in the shower. His off-key singing drifts through the slightly open door and Cas smiles into the pillow. Sam's probably in mortal danger, there's a good chance the world could be ending, again, and he's not sure yet how damaged Dean is-or himself for that matter-but for a few minutes Cas can just be aware of how empty he felt in the last year and half and how, just now, he's starting to feel something close to whole.
Dean comes out of the bathroom and Cas is still in bed, lying there with what he's sure is probably a goofy grin on his face. Dean's wearing Cas' clothes and, while they're not quiet a perfect fit, they're close enough in height that it'll work for now. Cas' t-shirt is a little tighter on Dean than on its previous owner, the fabric stretched snugly across a chest broader and more defined than Cas' comparatively slim build.
Dean shifts. "Yeah, I know, I look ridiculous."
'Ridiculous' is probably not one of the first words Cas would have used, but he just looks away. "It's fine. Clothes are the least of our worries."
Dean crouches down and starts to root through Cas’ duffle bag, finally pulling out a sock. Cas watches him search for a few seconds, then Dean stills and looks up. "About that-last night, when I woke up? I think I had a vision."
Cas blinks. "What makes you say that?"
"It wasn't right for a nightmare and it's not the first dream like that I've had, either. A few nights ago, I dreamed about you. We were in this forest and I told you I needed help. Then you show up."
Cas shifts back the covers, sitting up straighter on the bed. "You asked why I didn't burn your bones."
"How did you know about that?" Dean's expression has gone from tense to something more complex.
"I dreamed it too. That was the reason I came to look for you."
Dean shakes his head. "Wow. Okay, this is seriously weird."
Cas gets up and crosses the room to kneel next to Dean. "What did you see tonight?"
Dean meets Cas' eyes. "I saw where they're keeping Sam."
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