[fic] Triskele - Part VI (b)
While terrible, and dark, and wet, Dean still vastly preferred this newer dungeon to Alastair's. Even after their week in a plain, cold, stone room; even though it smelled about as ripe as a pile of black tomato mush thrice regurgitated by some Hell-spawn, at least this time he had company and he was away from Alastair's hands. He laughed at his misfortune, because of any ending, despite the reality, he'd not seen this one coming. He was used to putting himself in odd predicaments when wondering how he'd die when the time came. He always figured that, since he'd survived so many odd and weird things, he'd probably get stuck with a lame 'normal' death. Shot by some convenience store burglar; heart attack; in surgery; in his sleep. Sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered in front of the London public in 1586, despite how fitting it was with his life, hadn't really ever, ever, been on the agenda.
He wondered just how this was supposed to play out, with Judgement. In the courtroom, or whatever it was called in these times, he thought, in retrospect, that he'd come pretty close to understanding it. Forgiveness, or acceptance, of some kind. Not just judging himself as guilty, but moving on, and releasing all of that from his shoulders. It would be an amazing weight to lose, but seeing only Mary's face since the slam of that door, that forgiveness was something he didn't think he would be getting.
Castiel leaned into him, his weight comfortable, and messed with the fraying rip in his shirt sleeve. "There would still be an issue with the last card, The World, and figuring that out to get home."
"(You can still read minds, can't you?) Yeah, but at least we'd still be one step closer."
Across from Dean and Cas, Sam refused to stop carding through his hair. Dean assumed he was trying to think of a way out and maybe wishing that for just a few minutes he had no soul again, but there was really no getting out of this one. Their shackles were thick, and the door of the dungeon required a key to get in and out. Soul or no soul, they were trapped. …But it didn't stop him from glancing around to every bar, or stone, or chain link he could, and contemplating it.
Watching him, Dean couldn't help but focus on how he'd let Sam down, and how, once more, his mother's last words to him were that angels were watching over him.
"Dean, at the risk of making you uncomfortable…."
Dean grinned, pulling himself away from his thoughts and trying not to laugh. "Yeah, Cas? You gonna go down with me on this one, too?"
"Well obviously, but I thought that perhaps, as it's our last night-"
"Oh, please, no, guys," Sam interrupted. "I know I'm not paying too much attention, but please. Please."
Dean smirked. "What's wrong, Sammy? It's a perfectly normal, natural thing."
"It was nothing pornographic. At least, I'm assuming you thought it would be something carnal."
Sam turned red. "Please stop talking."
"Way to take it there, Sam."
"Shut up, Dean! Go … cuddle your angel, or something. Just-oh, God. I'm. Going to count these pebbles."
Sam turned just a little bit, but Dean managed to catch a small grin sneak its way out for just a brief moment before hiding behind a forced frown. Odd, how sitting in God Knows What for however long, waiting to be executed made you find humor in the smallest things. Dean gave a grin himself, suppressed a yawn, then let his head fall on Castiel's. "You were saying?" he prompted.
"I was going to say, I love you."
"And you're saying it now, hours before being killed in front of a cheering, bloodthirsty audience?"
Cas released an amused huff of air. "It's strange how that works. But you should take comfort in the fact that we're not in Rome doing this, or we'd be facing lions as execution-and for sport." Castiel chuckled again, and Dean wasn't sure he liked that one.
So he shook it off, and grabbed Castiel's hand and interlaced their fingers. He let his thumb rub over Castiel's for a moment, and said, "I love you too."
"Oh, gag me."
Dean smiled this time, and held Castiel's hand tighter. It was nice to finally say it, and without the awkwardness he'd earlier thought would accompany it. (Maybe it was the clearly romantic setting around them.) He closed his eyes, sighed, and slowly his smile morphed into a mere grin, then something somewhere along the lines of a frown. "Hey, Cas."
"What is it?"
This was the awkward part, he supposed. "D'you watch over me? Always?" he asked.
Castiel took their locked hands and added his other hand on top of it. "That's a rather foolish question, don't you think? I believe a more appropriate one would be, 'When are you not watching over me?' and the answer would be, 'Rarely.'"
Dean grinned again, but it didn't matter as Cas continued speaking.
"You realize that following you was entirely mine and Sam's choice, right? You never forced us into doing anything. Our decisions were of our own volition. You needn't worry about feeling guilty about our positions."
Dean drew his bottom lip in to bite it, then sighed. "Even if that's true, it was still me. I was still the cause, or the reason. On that, I'm completely guilty; condemn me all day."
"No, Dean." Castiel's voice deepened just a bit, and he sat up. Dean turned his head a fraction towards him. "You are guilty of nothing. You have done nothing wrong, and following you was a choice Sam and I did not have to make. Sam did not have to go to York. I did not have to fly ahead to Hatsfield. We did not have to follow you to London. We chose to, and that lays on us."
There was conviction in Castiel's voice, one that Dean had heard only a few times. As strong and forceful as it was, it also offered a sense of comfort, and it helped settle Dean down when it was supporting words like that. Dean let it go just a little bit, and he leaned again against Cas one more time.
The only sound for a few of the next moments were chains clanking, Sam's pebbles scratching the ground, and disrupted water. It made the situation all the more depressing.
"And any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain. Don't carry the world upon your shoulders…" Dean sang. His voice was low, and probably out of tune, but he didn't care. Mostly because he barely registered that he was singing aloud. "For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool, by making his world a little colder."
His volume dropped, meaning the end of noise for the night. It was the worst way to fall asleep the night before execution.
***
As it turned out, being dragged through the streets of London on … whatever it was called, it looked like a sled … wasn't as fun as Dukes of Hazard made riding a locked safe appear. It took major control to try and stay on top of it, and poor Sam fit even less on the sled than Dean did. By the time the ride stopped (oh darn), Dean wasn't sure if the shaking he was experiencing would ever stop. From the almost literally heart-stopping thrill ride through London, to hearing the growing cheers of the people around the scaffold, and the growing realization that he was about to die an innocent man, hey-why would it stop? Being released and pulled up, finding his footing was difficult, and walking almost made him nauseous. He wasn't necessarily dizzy, not much if at all, but on his way towards the scaffold, he nearly tripped several times over a few ill-appropriated cobbles. Sam grabbed the back of his shirt once or twice to keep him from falling over completely, and he could only reply with a light grunt of thanks each time. Unfortunately, the shaking only intensified as the scaffold came closer and closer.
For all their time in England, Dean was pretty sure the sun had never shone brighter during their stay than it did now. Awesome. What kind of symbolism was that, anyway? His eyes squinted most of the way shut to block as much of the light as he could, while trying to make his way up the steps in front of Sam and Cas. The executioner grabbed his shoulders, placing him in the middle, and he was jostled to give a once-over of the cheering crowd. Immediately Dean closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He tried so hard not to notice the audience. Seriously, what was wrong with these people?
"At least you'll be mostly dead by the time it gets to the beheading. You're still conscious for eight seconds after it happens," Sam began. "They don't hold your head up to show the crowd that you're dead. They hold up your head so you can see the crowd cheering that you're dead."
No seriously-what was wrong with them?
Dean forced down some bile. "Thanks for that, Sammy. Makes me feel so much better."
Someone, he didn't know who he was, or anything, started reading something. Probably his crimes, and the order of execution, blah blah blah. Dean squinted a glare down as his wrists were tied behind him, cursing his stupidity. It was his fault-well, Crowley's mostly that he was about to be executed-that he was involuntarily forcing others to follow him. He knew and believed Cas when he said that it had been his and Sam's choice to follow him, but Dean hated himself more than anything he'd ever come across. He was pretty good at the whole self-hate thing, but even Lucifer would be impressed, he bet.
"Dean," Sam prompted. He gestured to the audience, then to Dean. Right, right. His little speech, or whatever.
Dean cleared his throat. So, how did those speeches go? Man, and he had rehearsed it last night, too. He could wing it, right? "Good people of, uh, England." Right, right. "I've paid my dues, time after time."
He felt Sam straighten his back next to him.
"I've done my sentence, but committed no crime."
"Really, Dean?"
"And bad mistakes; I've made a few. You brought me fame, and fortune, and everything that goes with it. I thank you all."
Even the crowd seemed slightly confused at the untraditional speech, while Sam shook his head and Cas looked like he was trying to place the words. Dean grinned as well as he could. "Oh, these poor people have no idea what they'll be missing in the future," he muttered.
The executioner stepped up and fit the noose around his neck as Sam gave his own speech, then Castiel. (Theirs were boring. Losers.) Hanged until mostly dead. Extremities cut off. Bowels cut out and burned as he watched. Torn into quarters, and parts put on display. He almost wanted to go get a beer with Alastair. And the crowd-it was cheering. Dean wanted to hate them. He wanted to hate them so, so badly, but he couldn't find it in him to. In fact, the closer the end came, he actually felt kind of light. The lightest he'd felt in a while. Almost like it didn't matter.
"Dean."
Dean turned to face Castiel, and his heart just about broke. For as light as he felt? He still felt bad, if not downright ashamed, that Cas and Sam were beside him. Well, at least Cas and Sam would get to hang until dead. (How nice.)
"I still insist you have no need to feel guilty. But if I did feel that you were a malevolent cause for this, I would forgive you."
Dean tried hard to determine just how round-about Cas was going to be about it, but the point was made, and Dean let it settle inside of him. Sam had stepped up now next to Dean, and he nodded to him. "Guess I'll see you on the other side, huh?"
Dean wasn't going to cry. He was a grown man who had died plenty of times before. He'd seen his brother die God knew how many times; Castiel had died probably more than that. Even though he was some loser, they forgave him. And the ease with which Sam seemed to accept it was the worst part. Dean was unsure if he should take it as forgiveness or disappointment, because of course Dean would screw up.
But he saw the sincerity in their eyes. Sam with that, "Hey, I'm your little brother, and I'm following you everywhere," promise, and Castiel with his own promise of, "I love you and will follow you." They were there with him, because they didn't care that he couldn't figure out some stupid tarot card. They had never cared what he could or couldn't do, and they certainly weren't blaming him for anything that had happened. They were there because they were a team that followed each other anywhere, and supported each other.
Dean had done stupid shit in his life, but who hadn't? There wasn't a single person he'd met who hadn't. What was so special about Dean Winchester than he had to carry all of that with him? He felt responsible for taking care of Sam, and making sure he was okay, but that didn't mean he had to be a perfect role model. Sam understood that. Castiel understood that. Dean finally understood that. There was no point in dying with a heavy conscious after being promised Heaven. He was innocent, he knew that. Sam, Cas, Mary, and John knew it. He was okay with it; he had his greatest hits coming up pretty soon, and he was ready to hit that replay button as many times as he could.
Dean exhaled right as the floor dropped beneath him and his neck snapped back. It was all dark.
***
There was a crashing and a deep, loud intake of air as Dean caught himself in the middle of a fall. He landed on his elbow - ow - and hit the table with his other on the way down. His eyes were opened wide, and as soon as he was sitting up, his hands were around his neck, checking for anything out of place and massaging where it was sore and scratched, and raw. He remembered standing on the scaffold with Cas and Sam, the noose wrapped around his neck. He'd felt his stomach pretty much disappear on him, and he distinctly remembered feeling his neck give a terrifying crack; he was supposed to be hanging until mostly dead, right? (If that drop wouldn't have killed him, anyway.)
But reveling at the new, sudden surroundings, Dean found himself in disbelief. He was at Rufus's cabin. He'd fallen off the couch he went to sleep on after returning from Scotland, and he was dressed in normal clothes again. He was home. Which meant he'd figured out the Judgement (and World?) card just in time. ('Just in time' as in just in fucking time.) He leaned back against the couch, almost panting and still rubbing at his neck. He could still feel the irritation of the rope.
Another crash sounded, and this time from the back of the cabin. Dean scrambled to his feet, rushing to the back through a sudden return of the shakes. He threw the door open and was greeted by Sam wincing from the floor, legs in the air and still miraculously in his chair. His laptop was turned on to a Google search for 'tarot the fool journey'. The first result was, surprise, The Fool's Journey. Dean snapped it shut with a scowl.
"Sam! You okay?" he asked, bending down. His voice was more hoarse than usual.
"Dean?" Sam rolled out of his chair and sat with his legs under him. He rubbed the back of his head, and Dean noticed how Sam starting paying attention to his neck. They both rolled their heads a bit until they heard a light crack. Sam groaned. "Are we-are we dead?" he asked.
Dean laughed, and helped pull Sam up to his feet. "Nope. We're alive and back in Montana. Good ol' US of A."
"Dean, I saw you drop right before I did…!" Sam slowed to a stop, and noticed what he was wearing. He sighed in relief-good ol' flannels and Levi's.
There was then some rustling from back in the main room, and Dean nearly tripped over himself to double-check that it was whom he thought it was. Sure enough, sitting up cross-legged from his makeshift nest was Castiel, peering about and rubbing his neck. He caught sight of Dean, and said, "We can't be dead, because I highly doubt that this cabin is any kind of Heaven for either you or Sam."
Smiling, Dean took several paces towards Castiel, dropped to his knees, and pulled him forward for a rough, brief kiss. Cas' eyes widened in surprise. "We are alive and home." Dean hurried another kiss, then shuffled to check the time and date-same as it was when they'd returned from Beira's cottage. Checking the fridge he found beer, glorious beer, and another pie. Dean would never go another night without a prayer of thanks to God.
"Not to ruin the fun, but … was that seriously it?" Sam asked. He stood at the end of the couch, rolling up his shirt sleeves.
"What do you mean, ‘seriously it'? We were just hanged!"
"No, I mean, wasn't there one more card?"
Castiel stood up, dusting himself off and walking over to join them. "The World is the last card. It signifies new beginnings."
"Well if this ain't a new beginning, then I dunno what is, eh? I am not complaining," Dean said happily. He opened a beer and took a long draught from it. One burp later, his eyes widened. "Oh my god, can we go get a burger? Please? I need something greasy and unhealthy." He spotted the TV. "Television! We can watch our movies!"
"Someone missed the 21st century, eh?"
Dean was almost caught off guard, but he would be lying to say he wasn't expecting it. He turned around to find Brigit sitting on the kitchen counter, legs kicking back and forth. She had a proud grin on her face, hair down and lying over her shoulder. She clapped her hands and jumped down.
"Well, then! I guess congratulations are in order, aye? Yeh made it back home. Only ones to do so!"
"What was the point of that?" Sam asked quickly; accusation laced his voice, and he pulled himself to his full height. Showoff.
"I dinnae which you're talkin' about. Cailleach's, or the Tarot."
"Everything! And what do you mean, only ones?"
"Okay, okay!" Brigit leaned back, arms crossed. "First," she began slowly. "Ye cannae get mad at me, yeh ken?"
Dean coughed. "What? You mind repeating that slower, and in English?"
Brigit rolled her eyes. "Americans," she muttered. "Never opening their ears. I said, you cannot get mad at me, okay?" she said slowly. Dean nodded with Sam, and before Dean could process exactly what she was doing, Brigit lifted her hand and snapped her fingers. Another jolt later, the settings around them shifted, and Dean cursed.
"God dammit! I thought I was done over here! I just started to get rid of the feeling of a rope around my neck!"
They stood once more in Beira's little cottage, again surrounded by spirals, and doilies, and candles. Castiel sniffed a few of the candles and some flowers, Sam rubbed the back of his neck, and Brigit shrugged with a grin. "Aye, aye, you're done. But yeh have to let Beira know."
"What, no magic, Tarot GPS? I am doing no more readings."
Brigit shooed his words away with a wave of her hand, and lead them to the back room where they'd sat for Dean's reading. (Months ago? Days ago? Mere minutes ago?) Beira looked up from her chair, where she sat crocheting a new doily, and smiled. It was still creepy.
"Well, you're back. How was it?" she asked. She set her activity down, and folded her hands over her lap.
"Great!" Sam answered. "Crappy food, no indoor plumbing, no electricity, or toothbrushes."
Dean nodded along as Sam complained, then said, "Yeah, and framed for attempted assassination! Real awesome! Best part of the whole trip!"
"You understood the journey, yes?"
Castiel spoke before either Sam or Dean could. "We were nearly halfway through the cards before we realized what was going on. Sam had an inkling of what was happening, and brought back the information to confirm it."
"And the lessons, Dean?"
He was still angry, but he relaxed as much as he could. He loosened his fists, and took a slow breath. …But he was still angry. "I guess I understood most, or we wouldn't have gotten home, right?"
Beira nodded. "True. What of Judgement? You were having trouble with Judgement."
If it wouldn't make him sound any less manly, Dean would say he was pouting. "What was up with that?! I may as well have just fallen through the noose!"
"You did just fall through the noose. Judgement is a difficult card. Its concept is easy enough to understand. It's the practice that's tricky. It requires understanding the person you once were, or people. It means laying it to rest. Not forgetting, but moving forward. Learning from your past mistakes to become a new man."
Dean kept quiet, not wanting any further lecture on anything Tarot.
"So what about all this crazy weather?" Sam asked. "You gonna slow it down?"
Beira glanced to Brigit, who wore a pretty satisfied smirk, and sighed. "Yes, yes. She can have it back, now."
"Yes!" Brigit hurried away, disappearing off to who-knew-where chanting something in Gaelic. Sam's eyes followed her out, then he returned his attention to the situation at hand.
"And the Scottish and Irish hunters?" he pressed.
Again Beira nodded. "Those that were still alive have returned home, safe and sound." She gave a brief pause, then continued as he crocheted. "Everything is a cycle. Seasons, weather, life-and all things are connected, though they all have their own paths. Roads fork, rivers split, and people separate. But, roads connect, rivers return, and people unite."
She wasn't about to get all philosophical, right?
"When you three walked in, I wasn't sure I'd ever laid eyes on a trio so messed up as you."
"It takes a lot of work," Cas offered. Dean and Sam stared at him.
"It must." Beira stood up before them, akimbo. "You've your cards?"
Without much thought, Dean reached into his back pocket and pulled forth his card. Strange, as he could have sworn he'd put it in his jacket pocket. On either side of him, Sam and Castiel held out their cards, the Wheel of Fortune and The Sun. Dean glanced down at his card, still not pleased with the title of The Fool. He almost wanted to crumple it up, but shook his head. It would do him no good.
"The Wheel of Fortune is as I've said: a cycle. It connects things, it's a game of chance, and a reminder that things come and go, and good things are some of them." Beira took the card from Sam's hand, and turned to Castiel. "The Sun can nurture life, but scorch if you're not careful. Dean, did you feel these influences?"
The focus and attention Beira bore into him made his heart race, and not in a good way. (Plus she was ugly, and isn't staring rude?) "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess?" he began. Beira relaxed, and Dean released a breath. "Yeah, I did. Sam went for info and came back with it. He got married, and that's usually a happy occasion, so, yeah, good luck. And Cas-" Shit, how to play that one? "Cas was always there to help out, always is. He reminds me of that, and tells me when he thinks I'm doing something stupid. Sometimes I forget. About both of them. They're always there when I need them, and. I choose not to see it. I guess."
Oh, God, how much did it cost to renew a Man Card?
He couldn't tell if Beira was convinced or not, but it didn't matter. He'd assume yes, because she went on.
"And The Fool. The Fool is not only a card signifying the beginning of a journey. It is also the end and the beginning of another into a new world. I'm sure I don't have to elaborate the clear and obvious meaning for you?"
Well that was a little harsh. "No, you don't, I got it."
"And you understand the new world you've stepped into?"
Dean's eyes automatically snapped to Castiel, and he coughed. "Y-yeah, I think I do."
He determinedly ignored Sam's grin.
"Dean Winchester, you just nearly died, and made your realizations just in time. I should hope you learned the proper lessons and take them into account without losing who you inherently are."
"What, or you'll mess up the weather again?"
"No, of course not." Beira grabbed his card from him, and Castiel's card right after. "You'll just be unhappy. Don't be unhappy." She slapped the side of his head with the cards.
Beira tucked her cards away, eyeing first Sam, then Castiel, then finally Dean. "Congratulations, boys, you survived. As a reward, you can have your lives back. Here, Castiel." She held out a small, brown paper bag to him. "I gathered some doilies for you."
Castiel took the package with a grin and soft, "Thank you." Great. Doilies around the cabin. Perfect.
"Come back and visit, all right?"
The words, "Yeah, right," were on the very tip of Dean's tongue, but he was all-too-soon back at Rufus's cabin, ready to speak at nothing. The smell of the cabin finally hit him, the comfort of it-he knew now that everything was over. He could relax, enjoy his life again. He could get back to hunts, the yearly trek to Las Vegas, Dr. Sexy MD, and pie.
It was still dark out in Montana. The sun may have been up in Stornoway, the early morning, but it was night time, and man was he tired. "I am going to bed," he announced. "I deserve just a little shut-eye." He yawned and stretched, then said, "I call the bed."
Sam nodded, and read at his watch. "I'm gonna stop at the store. Get some food if all we have left is beer and pie."
Dean gave an animated sigh. "Sadly, man cannot survive on beer and pie alone. Such a shame. Cas, you should'a asked the Big Man about that."
"I have never met God, Dean. I have never had the chance."
"I'll be back in a bit," Sam continued.
Dean rolled his eyes, mostly at Castiel's statement. He turned to Sam with a quick wave. "Grab some extra beer and pie-popcorn, too! Tomorrow is a movie marathon day."
The door shut behind Sam, and outside they heard the Impala rev up. As he drove away and the sound died down, Dean turned his attention to Castiel. Cas was inspecting the doilies Beira gave him, and he seemed to be contemplating where exactly to put them. The sudden return to that kind of normalcy - for any of them - was the most comfort Dean had received since before they'd ended up in England. He'd had a noose around his neck no more than 20 minutes ago. His body had dropped and he'd felt the very beginnings of a jerk on his neck, but here he was: alive, breathing, healthy. He had a few scars and he still was a little shaken, but for the most part? Things were okay, back to okay, and seeing Sam able to focus on something so normal as driving to get food, and seeing Cas worrying about decorating the cabin? It was a confirmation that things would be okay. That he would be okay. He smiled to himself, and kicked off his boots.
"Hey, Cas, c'mon."
Cas was busy fixing a forget-me-not-blue candle on top of a white doily. (Dean felt himself grateful that things had returned to Better Homes and Gardens, too.) "C'mon where and-or what?" Cas asked. He'd not looked away, trying to center the candle perfectly, and place it in just the right spot before the curtain.
"To bed. I'm tired. You tired?"
Take that, Doily. Castiel's attention was all his.
"I'm exhausted, I'm still human here, but are you sure…?" He sounded nervous, and the tips of his ears turned hot pink.
Dean had to roll his eyes. His reputation preceded him. "Relax. We're sleeping."
Castiel nodded, and followed behind Dean.
For as much as Dean wanted to just fall on the bed and snore, snore away, he had to take at least a 2-minute shower and brush his teeth with a real toothbrush and real toothpaste; leaving things alone for much longer would do him no favors. (He'd lamentably discovered that though they were all back, and arrived as they'd left, scars still remained from Alastair's torture session. Awesome.) Cas followed the routine, thankfully having remembered the basics of human hygiene from his last tour as a regular, Grace-less human. So Dean dressed comfortably for bed, all soft cotton and Hanes, and if he didn't know better, he'd say that the bed was literally Heaven. For as old and as creaky as it was; for as many springs were probably poking through it, it was the most comfortable thing Dean had laid on in what seemed like forever.
He'd just pulled the blankets up, and was in the middle of thanking God for pillows when he felt a slow dip in the bed. He peeked an eye open to find Castiel sitting awkwardly on the edge of the mattress, dressed similarly to Dean. His hair was still dripping, and his ears were still pink.
"Jesus, Cas, you're more nervous than a girl on prom night. We're not even doing anything."
"First, I don't understand that reference, and second, please don't say Jesus. I know you don't see it the way I do, but I have met him, and it can make things awkward."
"Oh my God, Cas-"
"Dean, please."
"What the Hell!"
"Dean!"
Dean grumbled, not sure what would be appropriate to say anymore. Apparently the most popular off-the-hand curses had too much to do with religion for Castiel's liking. So instead, Dean just tugged on the blankets and threw them back some. "Just get in bed, Cas."
It was almost agonizing how slowly and carefully Castiel finally settled in. It took him six seconds to even move from his sitting position, and 6 seconds was a long time, and then another 10 to get situated an entire 3 feet away from Dean. Dean rolled his eyes, shaking his head as best as he could before he scooted closer, reached an arm out around Cas' waist, and pulled him close to hold him. He realized that this was the first time he'd actually been able to relax like this with Cas, despite the fact that they hadn't said (done, really) anything. It was different, definitely, but it wasn't uncomfortable, much like the rest of his revelations about Castiel. And that was a good thing.
Cas was definitely not the size of some pretty girl, or as soft, but the comfort and security he offered was greater than Dean had ever actually received. He knew what Dean had been through, he understood Dean-even if there were things they disagreed on, Cas would still be there and never give up on him. Dean attributed it to being wired wrong, but the knowledge that Cas was there, that Cas would continue to be there, and that Cas loved him and would continue to love him made Dean smile that much wider, and pull him even closer.
"This is an awkward position, and the breathing is uncomfortable."
"You just can't stand the silence, can you? Here-then move." Dean loosed his arm, and let Castiel turn on his side, but Dean saw only more trouble. Cas was facing him, staring at him. Dean coughed. "Uh, breathing's only gonna get more uncomfortable like that, and the staring is gonna put me off."
"I'm not staring, I'm looking."
"It's the same damn thing-augh, just. Okay, make sure you're not too close so your breathing doesn't get too hot, and stop staring, or I won't get to sleep."
Cas nodded, and Dean gladly closed his eyes, ready for sleep. He was going to sleep for hours. A day, even, if not more. That was a pretty amazing plan, and one Dean could get behind. So he laid there, more than happy to see the back of his eyelids and more than happy to start sawing logs. It was kind of creepy, he had to admit, that he could feel when Cas finally closed his own eyes to fall asleep.
To have something even vaguely resembling normal back was quite the blessing, and reminded Dean to give a quick, quiet shout-out of thanks to the Big Guy Upstairs. Closer, Dean could feel how chilly Cas' damp hair was, and if his hands carefully searched for Cas', he'd keep it quiet. And if Cas moved closer anyway, he'd keep that quiet, too.
The End
Part VI (a) | * | Author's Notes
He wondered just how this was supposed to play out, with Judgement. In the courtroom, or whatever it was called in these times, he thought, in retrospect, that he'd come pretty close to understanding it. Forgiveness, or acceptance, of some kind. Not just judging himself as guilty, but moving on, and releasing all of that from his shoulders. It would be an amazing weight to lose, but seeing only Mary's face since the slam of that door, that forgiveness was something he didn't think he would be getting.
Castiel leaned into him, his weight comfortable, and messed with the fraying rip in his shirt sleeve. "There would still be an issue with the last card, The World, and figuring that out to get home."
"(You can still read minds, can't you?) Yeah, but at least we'd still be one step closer."
Across from Dean and Cas, Sam refused to stop carding through his hair. Dean assumed he was trying to think of a way out and maybe wishing that for just a few minutes he had no soul again, but there was really no getting out of this one. Their shackles were thick, and the door of the dungeon required a key to get in and out. Soul or no soul, they were trapped. …But it didn't stop him from glancing around to every bar, or stone, or chain link he could, and contemplating it.
Watching him, Dean couldn't help but focus on how he'd let Sam down, and how, once more, his mother's last words to him were that angels were watching over him.
"Dean, at the risk of making you uncomfortable…."
Dean grinned, pulling himself away from his thoughts and trying not to laugh. "Yeah, Cas? You gonna go down with me on this one, too?"
"Well obviously, but I thought that perhaps, as it's our last night-"
"Oh, please, no, guys," Sam interrupted. "I know I'm not paying too much attention, but please. Please."
Dean smirked. "What's wrong, Sammy? It's a perfectly normal, natural thing."
"It was nothing pornographic. At least, I'm assuming you thought it would be something carnal."
Sam turned red. "Please stop talking."
"Way to take it there, Sam."
"Shut up, Dean! Go … cuddle your angel, or something. Just-oh, God. I'm. Going to count these pebbles."
Sam turned just a little bit, but Dean managed to catch a small grin sneak its way out for just a brief moment before hiding behind a forced frown. Odd, how sitting in God Knows What for however long, waiting to be executed made you find humor in the smallest things. Dean gave a grin himself, suppressed a yawn, then let his head fall on Castiel's. "You were saying?" he prompted.
"I was going to say, I love you."
"And you're saying it now, hours before being killed in front of a cheering, bloodthirsty audience?"
Cas released an amused huff of air. "It's strange how that works. But you should take comfort in the fact that we're not in Rome doing this, or we'd be facing lions as execution-and for sport." Castiel chuckled again, and Dean wasn't sure he liked that one.
So he shook it off, and grabbed Castiel's hand and interlaced their fingers. He let his thumb rub over Castiel's for a moment, and said, "I love you too."
"Oh, gag me."
Dean smiled this time, and held Castiel's hand tighter. It was nice to finally say it, and without the awkwardness he'd earlier thought would accompany it. (Maybe it was the clearly romantic setting around them.) He closed his eyes, sighed, and slowly his smile morphed into a mere grin, then something somewhere along the lines of a frown. "Hey, Cas."
"What is it?"
This was the awkward part, he supposed. "D'you watch over me? Always?" he asked.
Castiel took their locked hands and added his other hand on top of it. "That's a rather foolish question, don't you think? I believe a more appropriate one would be, 'When are you not watching over me?' and the answer would be, 'Rarely.'"
Dean grinned again, but it didn't matter as Cas continued speaking.
"You realize that following you was entirely mine and Sam's choice, right? You never forced us into doing anything. Our decisions were of our own volition. You needn't worry about feeling guilty about our positions."
Dean drew his bottom lip in to bite it, then sighed. "Even if that's true, it was still me. I was still the cause, or the reason. On that, I'm completely guilty; condemn me all day."
"No, Dean." Castiel's voice deepened just a bit, and he sat up. Dean turned his head a fraction towards him. "You are guilty of nothing. You have done nothing wrong, and following you was a choice Sam and I did not have to make. Sam did not have to go to York. I did not have to fly ahead to Hatsfield. We did not have to follow you to London. We chose to, and that lays on us."
There was conviction in Castiel's voice, one that Dean had heard only a few times. As strong and forceful as it was, it also offered a sense of comfort, and it helped settle Dean down when it was supporting words like that. Dean let it go just a little bit, and he leaned again against Cas one more time.
The only sound for a few of the next moments were chains clanking, Sam's pebbles scratching the ground, and disrupted water. It made the situation all the more depressing.
"And any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain. Don't carry the world upon your shoulders…" Dean sang. His voice was low, and probably out of tune, but he didn't care. Mostly because he barely registered that he was singing aloud. "For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool, by making his world a little colder."
His volume dropped, meaning the end of noise for the night. It was the worst way to fall asleep the night before execution.
***
As it turned out, being dragged through the streets of London on … whatever it was called, it looked like a sled … wasn't as fun as Dukes of Hazard made riding a locked safe appear. It took major control to try and stay on top of it, and poor Sam fit even less on the sled than Dean did. By the time the ride stopped (oh darn), Dean wasn't sure if the shaking he was experiencing would ever stop. From the almost literally heart-stopping thrill ride through London, to hearing the growing cheers of the people around the scaffold, and the growing realization that he was about to die an innocent man, hey-why would it stop? Being released and pulled up, finding his footing was difficult, and walking almost made him nauseous. He wasn't necessarily dizzy, not much if at all, but on his way towards the scaffold, he nearly tripped several times over a few ill-appropriated cobbles. Sam grabbed the back of his shirt once or twice to keep him from falling over completely, and he could only reply with a light grunt of thanks each time. Unfortunately, the shaking only intensified as the scaffold came closer and closer.
For all their time in England, Dean was pretty sure the sun had never shone brighter during their stay than it did now. Awesome. What kind of symbolism was that, anyway? His eyes squinted most of the way shut to block as much of the light as he could, while trying to make his way up the steps in front of Sam and Cas. The executioner grabbed his shoulders, placing him in the middle, and he was jostled to give a once-over of the cheering crowd. Immediately Dean closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He tried so hard not to notice the audience. Seriously, what was wrong with these people?
"At least you'll be mostly dead by the time it gets to the beheading. You're still conscious for eight seconds after it happens," Sam began. "They don't hold your head up to show the crowd that you're dead. They hold up your head so you can see the crowd cheering that you're dead."
No seriously-what was wrong with them?
Dean forced down some bile. "Thanks for that, Sammy. Makes me feel so much better."
Someone, he didn't know who he was, or anything, started reading something. Probably his crimes, and the order of execution, blah blah blah. Dean squinted a glare down as his wrists were tied behind him, cursing his stupidity. It was his fault-well, Crowley's mostly that he was about to be executed-that he was involuntarily forcing others to follow him. He knew and believed Cas when he said that it had been his and Sam's choice to follow him, but Dean hated himself more than anything he'd ever come across. He was pretty good at the whole self-hate thing, but even Lucifer would be impressed, he bet.
"Dean," Sam prompted. He gestured to the audience, then to Dean. Right, right. His little speech, or whatever.
Dean cleared his throat. So, how did those speeches go? Man, and he had rehearsed it last night, too. He could wing it, right? "Good people of, uh, England." Right, right. "I've paid my dues, time after time."
He felt Sam straighten his back next to him.
"I've done my sentence, but committed no crime."
"Really, Dean?"
"And bad mistakes; I've made a few. You brought me fame, and fortune, and everything that goes with it. I thank you all."
Even the crowd seemed slightly confused at the untraditional speech, while Sam shook his head and Cas looked like he was trying to place the words. Dean grinned as well as he could. "Oh, these poor people have no idea what they'll be missing in the future," he muttered.
The executioner stepped up and fit the noose around his neck as Sam gave his own speech, then Castiel. (Theirs were boring. Losers.) Hanged until mostly dead. Extremities cut off. Bowels cut out and burned as he watched. Torn into quarters, and parts put on display. He almost wanted to go get a beer with Alastair. And the crowd-it was cheering. Dean wanted to hate them. He wanted to hate them so, so badly, but he couldn't find it in him to. In fact, the closer the end came, he actually felt kind of light. The lightest he'd felt in a while. Almost like it didn't matter.
"Dean."
Dean turned to face Castiel, and his heart just about broke. For as light as he felt? He still felt bad, if not downright ashamed, that Cas and Sam were beside him. Well, at least Cas and Sam would get to hang until dead. (How nice.)
"I still insist you have no need to feel guilty. But if I did feel that you were a malevolent cause for this, I would forgive you."
Dean tried hard to determine just how round-about Cas was going to be about it, but the point was made, and Dean let it settle inside of him. Sam had stepped up now next to Dean, and he nodded to him. "Guess I'll see you on the other side, huh?"
Dean wasn't going to cry. He was a grown man who had died plenty of times before. He'd seen his brother die God knew how many times; Castiel had died probably more than that. Even though he was some loser, they forgave him. And the ease with which Sam seemed to accept it was the worst part. Dean was unsure if he should take it as forgiveness or disappointment, because of course Dean would screw up.
But he saw the sincerity in their eyes. Sam with that, "Hey, I'm your little brother, and I'm following you everywhere," promise, and Castiel with his own promise of, "I love you and will follow you." They were there with him, because they didn't care that he couldn't figure out some stupid tarot card. They had never cared what he could or couldn't do, and they certainly weren't blaming him for anything that had happened. They were there because they were a team that followed each other anywhere, and supported each other.
Dean had done stupid shit in his life, but who hadn't? There wasn't a single person he'd met who hadn't. What was so special about Dean Winchester than he had to carry all of that with him? He felt responsible for taking care of Sam, and making sure he was okay, but that didn't mean he had to be a perfect role model. Sam understood that. Castiel understood that. Dean finally understood that. There was no point in dying with a heavy conscious after being promised Heaven. He was innocent, he knew that. Sam, Cas, Mary, and John knew it. He was okay with it; he had his greatest hits coming up pretty soon, and he was ready to hit that replay button as many times as he could.
Dean exhaled right as the floor dropped beneath him and his neck snapped back. It was all dark.
***
There was a crashing and a deep, loud intake of air as Dean caught himself in the middle of a fall. He landed on his elbow - ow - and hit the table with his other on the way down. His eyes were opened wide, and as soon as he was sitting up, his hands were around his neck, checking for anything out of place and massaging where it was sore and scratched, and raw. He remembered standing on the scaffold with Cas and Sam, the noose wrapped around his neck. He'd felt his stomach pretty much disappear on him, and he distinctly remembered feeling his neck give a terrifying crack; he was supposed to be hanging until mostly dead, right? (If that drop wouldn't have killed him, anyway.)
But reveling at the new, sudden surroundings, Dean found himself in disbelief. He was at Rufus's cabin. He'd fallen off the couch he went to sleep on after returning from Scotland, and he was dressed in normal clothes again. He was home. Which meant he'd figured out the Judgement (and World?) card just in time. ('Just in time' as in just in fucking time.) He leaned back against the couch, almost panting and still rubbing at his neck. He could still feel the irritation of the rope.
Another crash sounded, and this time from the back of the cabin. Dean scrambled to his feet, rushing to the back through a sudden return of the shakes. He threw the door open and was greeted by Sam wincing from the floor, legs in the air and still miraculously in his chair. His laptop was turned on to a Google search for 'tarot the fool journey'. The first result was, surprise, The Fool's Journey. Dean snapped it shut with a scowl.
"Sam! You okay?" he asked, bending down. His voice was more hoarse than usual.
"Dean?" Sam rolled out of his chair and sat with his legs under him. He rubbed the back of his head, and Dean noticed how Sam starting paying attention to his neck. They both rolled their heads a bit until they heard a light crack. Sam groaned. "Are we-are we dead?" he asked.
Dean laughed, and helped pull Sam up to his feet. "Nope. We're alive and back in Montana. Good ol' US of A."
"Dean, I saw you drop right before I did…!" Sam slowed to a stop, and noticed what he was wearing. He sighed in relief-good ol' flannels and Levi's.
There was then some rustling from back in the main room, and Dean nearly tripped over himself to double-check that it was whom he thought it was. Sure enough, sitting up cross-legged from his makeshift nest was Castiel, peering about and rubbing his neck. He caught sight of Dean, and said, "We can't be dead, because I highly doubt that this cabin is any kind of Heaven for either you or Sam."
Smiling, Dean took several paces towards Castiel, dropped to his knees, and pulled him forward for a rough, brief kiss. Cas' eyes widened in surprise. "We are alive and home." Dean hurried another kiss, then shuffled to check the time and date-same as it was when they'd returned from Beira's cottage. Checking the fridge he found beer, glorious beer, and another pie. Dean would never go another night without a prayer of thanks to God.
"Not to ruin the fun, but … was that seriously it?" Sam asked. He stood at the end of the couch, rolling up his shirt sleeves.
"What do you mean, ‘seriously it'? We were just hanged!"
"No, I mean, wasn't there one more card?"
Castiel stood up, dusting himself off and walking over to join them. "The World is the last card. It signifies new beginnings."
"Well if this ain't a new beginning, then I dunno what is, eh? I am not complaining," Dean said happily. He opened a beer and took a long draught from it. One burp later, his eyes widened. "Oh my god, can we go get a burger? Please? I need something greasy and unhealthy." He spotted the TV. "Television! We can watch our movies!"
"Someone missed the 21st century, eh?"
Dean was almost caught off guard, but he would be lying to say he wasn't expecting it. He turned around to find Brigit sitting on the kitchen counter, legs kicking back and forth. She had a proud grin on her face, hair down and lying over her shoulder. She clapped her hands and jumped down.
"Well, then! I guess congratulations are in order, aye? Yeh made it back home. Only ones to do so!"
"What was the point of that?" Sam asked quickly; accusation laced his voice, and he pulled himself to his full height. Showoff.
"I dinnae which you're talkin' about. Cailleach's, or the Tarot."
"Everything! And what do you mean, only ones?"
"Okay, okay!" Brigit leaned back, arms crossed. "First," she began slowly. "Ye cannae get mad at me, yeh ken?"
Dean coughed. "What? You mind repeating that slower, and in English?"
Brigit rolled her eyes. "Americans," she muttered. "Never opening their ears. I said, you cannot get mad at me, okay?" she said slowly. Dean nodded with Sam, and before Dean could process exactly what she was doing, Brigit lifted her hand and snapped her fingers. Another jolt later, the settings around them shifted, and Dean cursed.
"God dammit! I thought I was done over here! I just started to get rid of the feeling of a rope around my neck!"
They stood once more in Beira's little cottage, again surrounded by spirals, and doilies, and candles. Castiel sniffed a few of the candles and some flowers, Sam rubbed the back of his neck, and Brigit shrugged with a grin. "Aye, aye, you're done. But yeh have to let Beira know."
"What, no magic, Tarot GPS? I am doing no more readings."
Brigit shooed his words away with a wave of her hand, and lead them to the back room where they'd sat for Dean's reading. (Months ago? Days ago? Mere minutes ago?) Beira looked up from her chair, where she sat crocheting a new doily, and smiled. It was still creepy.
"Well, you're back. How was it?" she asked. She set her activity down, and folded her hands over her lap.
"Great!" Sam answered. "Crappy food, no indoor plumbing, no electricity, or toothbrushes."
Dean nodded along as Sam complained, then said, "Yeah, and framed for attempted assassination! Real awesome! Best part of the whole trip!"
"You understood the journey, yes?"
Castiel spoke before either Sam or Dean could. "We were nearly halfway through the cards before we realized what was going on. Sam had an inkling of what was happening, and brought back the information to confirm it."
"And the lessons, Dean?"
He was still angry, but he relaxed as much as he could. He loosened his fists, and took a slow breath. …But he was still angry. "I guess I understood most, or we wouldn't have gotten home, right?"
Beira nodded. "True. What of Judgement? You were having trouble with Judgement."
If it wouldn't make him sound any less manly, Dean would say he was pouting. "What was up with that?! I may as well have just fallen through the noose!"
"You did just fall through the noose. Judgement is a difficult card. Its concept is easy enough to understand. It's the practice that's tricky. It requires understanding the person you once were, or people. It means laying it to rest. Not forgetting, but moving forward. Learning from your past mistakes to become a new man."
Dean kept quiet, not wanting any further lecture on anything Tarot.
"So what about all this crazy weather?" Sam asked. "You gonna slow it down?"
Beira glanced to Brigit, who wore a pretty satisfied smirk, and sighed. "Yes, yes. She can have it back, now."
"Yes!" Brigit hurried away, disappearing off to who-knew-where chanting something in Gaelic. Sam's eyes followed her out, then he returned his attention to the situation at hand.
"And the Scottish and Irish hunters?" he pressed.
Again Beira nodded. "Those that were still alive have returned home, safe and sound." She gave a brief pause, then continued as he crocheted. "Everything is a cycle. Seasons, weather, life-and all things are connected, though they all have their own paths. Roads fork, rivers split, and people separate. But, roads connect, rivers return, and people unite."
She wasn't about to get all philosophical, right?
"When you three walked in, I wasn't sure I'd ever laid eyes on a trio so messed up as you."
"It takes a lot of work," Cas offered. Dean and Sam stared at him.
"It must." Beira stood up before them, akimbo. "You've your cards?"
Without much thought, Dean reached into his back pocket and pulled forth his card. Strange, as he could have sworn he'd put it in his jacket pocket. On either side of him, Sam and Castiel held out their cards, the Wheel of Fortune and The Sun. Dean glanced down at his card, still not pleased with the title of The Fool. He almost wanted to crumple it up, but shook his head. It would do him no good.
"The Wheel of Fortune is as I've said: a cycle. It connects things, it's a game of chance, and a reminder that things come and go, and good things are some of them." Beira took the card from Sam's hand, and turned to Castiel. "The Sun can nurture life, but scorch if you're not careful. Dean, did you feel these influences?"
The focus and attention Beira bore into him made his heart race, and not in a good way. (Plus she was ugly, and isn't staring rude?) "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess?" he began. Beira relaxed, and Dean released a breath. "Yeah, I did. Sam went for info and came back with it. He got married, and that's usually a happy occasion, so, yeah, good luck. And Cas-" Shit, how to play that one? "Cas was always there to help out, always is. He reminds me of that, and tells me when he thinks I'm doing something stupid. Sometimes I forget. About both of them. They're always there when I need them, and. I choose not to see it. I guess."
Oh, God, how much did it cost to renew a Man Card?
He couldn't tell if Beira was convinced or not, but it didn't matter. He'd assume yes, because she went on.
"And The Fool. The Fool is not only a card signifying the beginning of a journey. It is also the end and the beginning of another into a new world. I'm sure I don't have to elaborate the clear and obvious meaning for you?"
Well that was a little harsh. "No, you don't, I got it."
"And you understand the new world you've stepped into?"
Dean's eyes automatically snapped to Castiel, and he coughed. "Y-yeah, I think I do."
He determinedly ignored Sam's grin.
"Dean Winchester, you just nearly died, and made your realizations just in time. I should hope you learned the proper lessons and take them into account without losing who you inherently are."
"What, or you'll mess up the weather again?"
"No, of course not." Beira grabbed his card from him, and Castiel's card right after. "You'll just be unhappy. Don't be unhappy." She slapped the side of his head with the cards.
Beira tucked her cards away, eyeing first Sam, then Castiel, then finally Dean. "Congratulations, boys, you survived. As a reward, you can have your lives back. Here, Castiel." She held out a small, brown paper bag to him. "I gathered some doilies for you."
Castiel took the package with a grin and soft, "Thank you." Great. Doilies around the cabin. Perfect.
"Come back and visit, all right?"
The words, "Yeah, right," were on the very tip of Dean's tongue, but he was all-too-soon back at Rufus's cabin, ready to speak at nothing. The smell of the cabin finally hit him, the comfort of it-he knew now that everything was over. He could relax, enjoy his life again. He could get back to hunts, the yearly trek to Las Vegas, Dr. Sexy MD, and pie.
It was still dark out in Montana. The sun may have been up in Stornoway, the early morning, but it was night time, and man was he tired. "I am going to bed," he announced. "I deserve just a little shut-eye." He yawned and stretched, then said, "I call the bed."
Sam nodded, and read at his watch. "I'm gonna stop at the store. Get some food if all we have left is beer and pie."
Dean gave an animated sigh. "Sadly, man cannot survive on beer and pie alone. Such a shame. Cas, you should'a asked the Big Man about that."
"I have never met God, Dean. I have never had the chance."
"I'll be back in a bit," Sam continued.
Dean rolled his eyes, mostly at Castiel's statement. He turned to Sam with a quick wave. "Grab some extra beer and pie-popcorn, too! Tomorrow is a movie marathon day."
The door shut behind Sam, and outside they heard the Impala rev up. As he drove away and the sound died down, Dean turned his attention to Castiel. Cas was inspecting the doilies Beira gave him, and he seemed to be contemplating where exactly to put them. The sudden return to that kind of normalcy - for any of them - was the most comfort Dean had received since before they'd ended up in England. He'd had a noose around his neck no more than 20 minutes ago. His body had dropped and he'd felt the very beginnings of a jerk on his neck, but here he was: alive, breathing, healthy. He had a few scars and he still was a little shaken, but for the most part? Things were okay, back to okay, and seeing Sam able to focus on something so normal as driving to get food, and seeing Cas worrying about decorating the cabin? It was a confirmation that things would be okay. That he would be okay. He smiled to himself, and kicked off his boots.
"Hey, Cas, c'mon."
Cas was busy fixing a forget-me-not-blue candle on top of a white doily. (Dean felt himself grateful that things had returned to Better Homes and Gardens, too.) "C'mon where and-or what?" Cas asked. He'd not looked away, trying to center the candle perfectly, and place it in just the right spot before the curtain.
"To bed. I'm tired. You tired?"
Take that, Doily. Castiel's attention was all his.
"I'm exhausted, I'm still human here, but are you sure…?" He sounded nervous, and the tips of his ears turned hot pink.
Dean had to roll his eyes. His reputation preceded him. "Relax. We're sleeping."
Castiel nodded, and followed behind Dean.
For as much as Dean wanted to just fall on the bed and snore, snore away, he had to take at least a 2-minute shower and brush his teeth with a real toothbrush and real toothpaste; leaving things alone for much longer would do him no favors. (He'd lamentably discovered that though they were all back, and arrived as they'd left, scars still remained from Alastair's torture session. Awesome.) Cas followed the routine, thankfully having remembered the basics of human hygiene from his last tour as a regular, Grace-less human. So Dean dressed comfortably for bed, all soft cotton and Hanes, and if he didn't know better, he'd say that the bed was literally Heaven. For as old and as creaky as it was; for as many springs were probably poking through it, it was the most comfortable thing Dean had laid on in what seemed like forever.
He'd just pulled the blankets up, and was in the middle of thanking God for pillows when he felt a slow dip in the bed. He peeked an eye open to find Castiel sitting awkwardly on the edge of the mattress, dressed similarly to Dean. His hair was still dripping, and his ears were still pink.
"Jesus, Cas, you're more nervous than a girl on prom night. We're not even doing anything."
"First, I don't understand that reference, and second, please don't say Jesus. I know you don't see it the way I do, but I have met him, and it can make things awkward."
"Oh my God, Cas-"
"Dean, please."
"What the Hell!"
"Dean!"
Dean grumbled, not sure what would be appropriate to say anymore. Apparently the most popular off-the-hand curses had too much to do with religion for Castiel's liking. So instead, Dean just tugged on the blankets and threw them back some. "Just get in bed, Cas."
It was almost agonizing how slowly and carefully Castiel finally settled in. It took him six seconds to even move from his sitting position, and 6 seconds was a long time, and then another 10 to get situated an entire 3 feet away from Dean. Dean rolled his eyes, shaking his head as best as he could before he scooted closer, reached an arm out around Cas' waist, and pulled him close to hold him. He realized that this was the first time he'd actually been able to relax like this with Cas, despite the fact that they hadn't said (done, really) anything. It was different, definitely, but it wasn't uncomfortable, much like the rest of his revelations about Castiel. And that was a good thing.
Cas was definitely not the size of some pretty girl, or as soft, but the comfort and security he offered was greater than Dean had ever actually received. He knew what Dean had been through, he understood Dean-even if there were things they disagreed on, Cas would still be there and never give up on him. Dean attributed it to being wired wrong, but the knowledge that Cas was there, that Cas would continue to be there, and that Cas loved him and would continue to love him made Dean smile that much wider, and pull him even closer.
"This is an awkward position, and the breathing is uncomfortable."
"You just can't stand the silence, can you? Here-then move." Dean loosed his arm, and let Castiel turn on his side, but Dean saw only more trouble. Cas was facing him, staring at him. Dean coughed. "Uh, breathing's only gonna get more uncomfortable like that, and the staring is gonna put me off."
"I'm not staring, I'm looking."
"It's the same damn thing-augh, just. Okay, make sure you're not too close so your breathing doesn't get too hot, and stop staring, or I won't get to sleep."
Cas nodded, and Dean gladly closed his eyes, ready for sleep. He was going to sleep for hours. A day, even, if not more. That was a pretty amazing plan, and one Dean could get behind. So he laid there, more than happy to see the back of his eyelids and more than happy to start sawing logs. It was kind of creepy, he had to admit, that he could feel when Cas finally closed his own eyes to fall asleep.
To have something even vaguely resembling normal back was quite the blessing, and reminded Dean to give a quick, quiet shout-out of thanks to the Big Guy Upstairs. Closer, Dean could feel how chilly Cas' damp hair was, and if his hands carefully searched for Cas', he'd keep it quiet. And if Cas moved closer anyway, he'd keep that quiet, too.
The End
Part VI (a) | * | Author's Notes