All This Derision [2/3]
Castiel came home early the next day, leaving the museum almost immediately after a rushed lunch with Inias, during which Inias had done his absolute best to convince Castiel that everything was going very well with the exhibit, that there wasn't an imbalance between Native legends and the mythology brought over, and that of course the lighting was bright enough.
Unlike the Friday of two weeks ago, Castiel hadn't left early because of some blackout he had in the middle of a busy restaurant. Although he was a bit surprised that he hadn't had another one of those, considering that he felt like he was going mad.
No, he went home early to neaten himself up, and to make himself presentable. That night was the opening of the Demons exhibit, the big kickoff party. It was a notable exhibition, Castiel knew. Something to attract the dark side in people, and given that Hallowe'en was coming up, people were certain to flock to it.
And because it wasn't a design based on something foolish that no one cared about (Castiel was still a bit bitter at the response, or lack thereof, to the display of 15th-century Greek Orthodox idols that he had managed to accumulate), there were going to be bigwig figures at the party. Men with more money on any given day than Dean and Castiel were likely to earn together in a whole year. Men who could donate to the museum, help put supports under its rapidly sinking financial base.
Zachariah had cornered him before he left work and ordered him to be pleasant, presentable, and polite at the opening. In his own words, to suck up to every single person there. And Castiel had politely said that he would try his best, because even though he would probably be among the last to be fired (they could hardly have a museum without a curator, after all) he knew that Zachariah could make his workload far more unpleasant than it already was. And doubtless he'd be willing to do just that.
So Castiel showered, shaved, and brushed his hair until it lay neatly down. He put on his best suit and tied his tie neatly and professionally.
Dean came home when he was standing in their bedroom, critically examining himself in their mirror. He came up behind Castiel and stretched his lips wide, sticking out his tongue and making his eyes bulge.
Castiel smiled wanly. Seeing that he'd managed that, Dean straightened up and kissed him on the cheek. He laid a hand on Castiel's shoulder and grinned at their reflections. "You smell good."
"I'm drenched in conspicuous amounts of aftershave. I feel disgusting."
"You look like sex on legs, Castiel," Dean drawled. "And it's probably a good thing that I'm not going to your rich-ass bastards gathering, because I'd just shove you up against a wall and start ravishing you right there. Okay?"
"I'm going more for 'professional' than I am 'arousing,' but thank you. I do wish you were going." He covered Dean's hand and sighed. It was a 'plus one' event, but they'd mutually agreed that Dean had best stayed home. Castiel made no secret of their relationship at work; if asked, he would certainly say that they had been living together in their present home for over a year, and that they had been seriously involved for several before that. But it was… well, it wasn't something that he brought up casually, save for with his closest friends. Inias knew; he knew most things about Castiel. And Balthazar, the flippant European registrar, had known Castiel's sexuality from the moment he'd met him.
Zachariah, though, was another story. Castiel had no way of guessing how he would react if he knew, and so he had never talked about Dean in front of him (which wasn't very hard, seeing as Zachariah only cared that Castiel could go and collect some artifact at a moment's notice; whether he was leaving someone behind to sleep in an empty bed was entirely irrelevant to him). And even if Zachariah did know? The rich donors that were going to be there, Castiel was well aware that the majority of them were… not of liberal leanings. He knew of most of them, and how strongly they supported the church. Bringing his boyfriend to that crowd would, at best, cause them to take him far less seriously than they otherwise would. At worst, they would refuse to support an establishment that hired one of his leaning.
And so Dean was left alone to watch the Friday night game and order takeout. Castiel felt impossibly guilty about it, even though he knew that Dean was okay with it, that they had made the most reasonable decision that they could.
"Hey." Dean tugged at his tie. "Earth to Castiel? You spacing out on me?"
"What? No." He shook his head, hands automatically going to straighten the tie, although Dean really hadn't messed it up. "I was just… thinking."
"'bout how I'm not going? Don't sweat it." Dean reached in and pecked him on the lips. He preferred kissing to talking. To tell the truth, so did Castiel. "You know I don't want to, anyway. I mean, if I could I'd go and offer you moral support… let you picture me in my underwear when you're giving that speech of yours… but it's gonna be crowded with a bunch of rich farts. I wouldn't fit in."
That was true. Dean was rather disdainful of the wealthy. Not that Castiel could blame him, given the decidedly working-class background that he had come from. "I appreciate the support that you've given me over the past months, Dean. I've been travelling, I know, and I've been busy, I've been stressed… you're more than I deserve."
"Hey." Dean took his hand off of Castiel's shoulder and stepped back, looking serious. "Don't you go all sentimental on me, Cas."
"I wasn't going sentimental, I was just-"
Dean cut him off by leaning in and kissing him-not a light brush of lips against cheek, nor a two-second instant of lip-touching, but a full-on, hand-cupping-head, lips open kiss. He sucked at Castiel's bottom lip, his tongue tracing over Castiel's teeth. Castiel grabbed his shoulder to steady himself, moaning into Dean's mouth. Dean responded by pushing him against the mirror, and then straightening up. His eyes were completely blown. "How soon do you have to leave?"
"I was going to go in about ten minutes - Dean, I'm already dressed-"
Dean was already on his knees, fingers fumbling around at Castiel's crotch. "Come on, Cas. Don't you trust me not to mess you up?"
"Yes, but-"
"Shh." Dean looked up at him, fingers stilling for a moment, and Castiel couldn't help the low growl that escaped him at the loss of friction. "You're stressed to fucking hell, man. Let me take some of the edge off of you, okay?"
Castiel licked his lips, reminding himself that he was a human being, and he had the ability to speak. "I don't think I'll have time to return the favor."
Dean snorted. "Trust me, I'm not going to need much. Pretty sure my hand'll do." He looked at Cas, his lips already parted. "Please."
Castiel groaned and leaned against the mirror. The glass felt cool against his neck. "Yes. Please."
Dean didn't respond, just went back to what he had been doing before. He worked open the fly of Castiel's suit pants and somehow managed to control himself enough to pull down the zipper, and then lower Castiel's pants until they were halfway down his thighs, reducing the chance of any… unfortunate substances splashing out onto them.
A moan slipped past Castiel's lips as Dean mouthed the bulge in his boxers. The friction of the cloth against his dick was driving him mad, making him desperate for more. It seemed to take far too long for Dean to finally shift the underwear down, just far enough so that he could get to Castiel.
Dean's tongue swirled once around the head of Castiel's dick before he widened his lips and swallowed him down without hesitation. The tight heat made him cry out, run his fingers through Dean's hair even though it was far too short for him to take hold of. No matter how many times they had done this before (and it was a substantial amount, no questioning that) Dean's tongue never failed to reduce Castiel to a gasping, incoherent mess. He cried out as Dean worked on him, rough strokes running up and down the length of his cock. He resisted the urge to thrust his hips forward, even though he knew that Dean could take it - that Dean liked it, even. It still made him feel guilty, somehow; like that would be fucking, not having sex.
His eyes met Dean's, dark green and blown with lust. Holding his gaze, and still sucking at his dick, Dean reached up and ran his fingers lightly over Castiel's testicles.
That did it. Castiel gasped and thrust into Dean's mouth, no longer entirely in control of his body's actions. With Dean's eyes still locked with his he managed to get out, "Dean - Dean, I'm going to-"
He came with a moan, finally closing his eyes as his orgasm rolled over him. His fingers tightened, not quite becoming a fist over the short bristles of Dean's hair.
When logic finally took over from the overload of pleasure, Castiel found himself sagging against the mirror, the glass now sticky with his sweat. He thought, absurdly considering the moment, that it would be smudged when he stood up, and that he would have to wash it off over the weekend.
Dean was still on his knees, face level with Castiel's crotch. He looked rather pleased with himself, only a few drops of Castiel's come splattering his face. Castiel glanced down at the dark pants he was wearing and noted that nothing had spilled on them. "Dean. Are you… are you sure that you don't want any help with… that?"
Dean rose in a swift motion, ignoring the obvious tent in his jeans. He leaned forward and kissed Castiel, and the taste of himself inside Dean's mouth was almost enough to ready Castiel for another round.
When they broke apart, Dean licked his swollen lips and said, "Cas, you gotta get going. Don't worry about me… I've got plenty to think about."
He grinned, and Castiel looked away, almost blushing in spite of himself. He bent down to straighten up his pants. "Thank you."
"Don't worry about it." Dean reached in and kissed him again, but this time it was on his cheek, and it wasn't nearly as arousing. "At least you're relaxed and ready to go, right?"
*
Two hours later, Castiel was standing in front of a podium, and he was decidedly not relaxed. Sweat stuck his shirt collar to his neck, and he thought that his tie was askew. And his pants were most definitely not the neatly-pressed garments adorning the legs of the wealthy men who were staring at him expectantly. They would have been, once upon a time, would still be, if it hadn't been for Dean, and his ability to turn any time into a great time for a blow job.
The opening party was going wonderfully, so far. The museum's cafeteria had somehow become a classy place since Castiel had left; white tablecloths covering tables that were perpetually sticky, and thick napkins that definitely weren't the cafeteria's usual, fall-apart-at-first-touch brand, folded at every place. Golden lights were strung around the place, replacing the normal, irritatingly-buzzing lighting into something that could only be described as 'ambient.' It was a similar, if slightly less classy, version of the dinner parties that Castiel had grown up attending. His parents had been extremely wealthy acquiring money through the stock market with what some called 'luck,' and his father called 'God's will.'
But of course, he wasn't back there now. Now, he was standing in front of Kansas' finest, several pages of paper laying before him. Every eye in the godforsaken room was trained on him, and Castiel loathed it. He was supposed to be dealing with artifacts and oddities stored in the museum, in its extensive archives. He wasn't supposed to be in a jazzed-up cafeteria, being forced to speak to a bunch of men who'd inherited their wealth from families who hadn't disowned them.
Castiel took a deep breath and did his best to clear his mind. None of that mattered now. What mattered were the words in front of him, and the exhibit several halls down from there, which had been Castiel's life for the past months. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to welcome you to the opening of Demons of America: Americana's Fact and Folklore, the latest of many fine offerings here in the Topeka Museum of Human History. Like all of the displays that you'll find housed within these walls, it was only made possible by the generous donations of our loyal sponsors who make it a priority to maintain our heritage."
He rattled on like that, hoping that he was being far more engaging than he thought he was. Which wouldn't be hard, considering that he thought that he was speaking in a perfect monotone, droning on and on about nothing at all, save for praises of America's wealthy.
It felt like an obscenely long time, but finally he got to the interesting part, about the exhibit itself. "American folklore is like no other in the world. Countless cultures have lent their myths and beliefs to be woven into the very fabric upon which we reside. From the initial Puritans and the fear of witches, to the all-American belief in Big Foot, our stories and legends are an amalgamation of the tales of natives from every country - our own included."
Once he began talking about a subject that he actually cared about, everything else became considerably easier. The Demons exhibit was a good exhibit, an interesting one - it focused mostly on beliefs that had sprung up inside America, made entirely by the minds of the people who had emigrated there - things like the Jersey Devil and Roswell. But he had also thrown in bits and pieces about cultures that had come before the melting pot of the country, that were still influencing people today: the beliefs of the Native tribes, the fairy tales that were ever-present in movies and in novels, the vampire legends that had been twisted and warped far beyond their origins in the Balkans.
It was a far more unfocused exhibit than Castiel normally would have come up with, art and photographs alongside copies of eyewitness accounts of Mothman, next to Jersey Devil action figures. There was a display about thunderbirds next to a small section that scratched the surface of how Disney had twisted and perverted dark fairy tales beyond recognition (he could have easily done an exhibition entirely on that; it was hard to just keep it to illuminated pages of The Little Mermaid that showed the story's real ending, and informative paragraphs about Snow White's dark origin).
In a way, though he thought that the patchwork nature of the exhibit worked quite well. After all, America's folklore was hardly a blanket woven all of one thread - rather, it was a quilt. Bits and pieces brought together to make something that wasn't entirely different, but which was beautiful in its own right.
He liked that metaphor, although comparing things to quilts was probably tired and overused. Which didn't bother Castiel much; he'd never been much for creative writing.
And then, finally, blessedly, it was done. He was smiling and thanking the wealthy for coming out tonight, telling them that the exhibit was officially open for their perusal, and they were applauding him. It was polite applause more than genuine enthusiasm for American folklore; he had no illusions about that, but it didn't matter. Now, he just needed to perform the arduous task of standing around in the exhibit, smiling, shaking hands, and answering whatever questions were asked with a brightly faked enthusiasm. Doubtless it wouldn't be fun or exciting; doubtless, he would be absolutely miserable the entire time he was forced to feign interest in socializing like this. But it would only be for two or three hours, and then he could get home, back to Dean, and Castiel liked the thought of that very, very much.
*
It was a quarter to one by the time Castiel came home, the street he lived on dark and deserted. His cheeks hurt from forcibly smiling for over two hours, and he was fairly certain that his knuckles would be bruised in the morning from the tight handshakes that all of Kansas' elite had given him. He had two days' worth of shifts identical to this, save that he would mostly be fraternizing with museumgoers, not the moneybags who were responsible for his paycheck.
Dean was already in bed by the time he came in, though he wasn't asleep. As Castiel padded into the darkened room as quietly as he could, he sat up and switched on their bedside lamp. "How'd it go?"
Castiel glanced at him and had to smile. Dean's hair was already sticking up in uneven tufts, bedhead that had somehow crept upon him in a very short time-Dean wasn't one for going to bed before midnight on a Friday, regardless of where Castiel was. Dean's sheets pooled around him, revealing that he was topless, at the very least. "Comfortable?"
"Very." Dean yawned. "How'd the soirée go?" He drew out soirée as long as he could, as if Castiel couldn't otherwise figure out that he was using it sarcastically.
"I survived." He took off his tie and hung it in the closet, and then ungracefully stripped himself of the rest of his suit. He folded it up and laid it in a corner; he could hang it up tomorrow. Right now, all he wanted to do was sleep.
Dean welcomed him with open arms, pulling him up against his chest as soon as he was beneath their covers. He buried his head in Castiel's hair while Castiel pressed his face into Dean's neck, breathing in his slightly salty, entirely Dean scent. They didn't do this very often, except for after sex, or if one of them had had a particularly bad day, or it was too cold for just their blankets. Dean had too much of a masculinity complex to confess to how much he enjoyed it. But when they did do this… cuddling, for lack of a better (or more accurate) term, it was comfortable and unfailingly enjoyable.
"I missed you," Dean murmured above him. His arms were wrapped securely around Castiel, as Castiel's were around him. "Felt pretty bad for you, too. I mean, at least when you're travelling, I can pretend that you're out doing something fun, you know? Although for you, that's probably sitting around in your motel room and thinking about work. But when you're at one of Zachariah's goddamn begging sessions, I know that all you're doing is sucking rich dick. And that sucks."
"Not literally," Castiel replied, his voice muffled against Dean's chest. "Believe me, there was no one there who could tempt me from your side."
"I hope not." Dean kissed his head. "You need to be up early tomorrow?"
"Unfortunately. I won't wake you."
"You can, if you want to." Dean shifted deeper into the bed. "Rather wake up early with you than later and alone."
Castiel wasn't so tired that he didn't smile at that. Dean Winchester could not be described as a romantic, not by any means of the word. But he had his moments. "I might."
"Good." Dean yawned. "G'night, Castiel."
"Good night, Dean." He tightened his arms around Dean's back almost imperceptibly. He was an electric blanket, Castiel thought, except warmer and far more fun to hold. The nights weren't quite so bad yet as to need the extra heat, but neither were they as warm as Kansas in September should have been.
In any case, Dean was comfortable against him. Castiel buried himself against his chest and just breathed. It was good, he thought, to be home.
*
First there was the woman - probably she had a name; probably she had called herself many things during her long centuries of existence, but he never cared to learn them. She was dark-haired and had wild eyes, and Castiel thought that she was very, very important, but he could not remember why.
She stroked his cheek and smiled, and for a moment he felt fear. She sensed that and shook her head. Her eyes were deadly, but there was an edge of amusement to them. "I'm not so far gone, angel, that I would go back on my word."
He wondered if she was lying - didn't think she was - but then the world went black, and he was in a different place-
"There is a way out," said a sneering, hulking man that he knew wasn't human. "A door that opens once, with the pricking of a living human's thumb. But it's only for two, and I warn you, little bird, I will be one of them."
Castiel nodded, calm although he couldn't say why. "Dean can be taken out? Unharmed?"
"Yes."
"I'll do whatever needs to be done, then."
And then the scene changed, and he was running (floating?) through the forest, something behind him that was large and snarling, and oh, he needed to get away
"Castiel! Wake up!"
Castiel opened his eyes, shivering and feeling like he was entirely boneless. He was curled away from Dean, staring at an empty wall, and he could feel his heart beating frantically in his chest. He blinked, and for a moment he was back in the woods, alone except for the huge thing that had been chasing him.
Once he was awake, Dean had switched from shaking him to gently rubbing his back in small, light circles. "Hey, Castiel. You okay?"
He rolled over, somewhat reluctant to give up the comforting touch. Dean was lying on his side, perched up on his elbow. His concern was evident on his face, even in the dimness of the room. "I. Yes, I think I am. I'm sorry for waking you up."
Dean shook his head. "Don't be. Man, you really scared me. You were… you were shaking, and making these noises… I thought you were possessed or something." He laughed, although it was very clearly forced. "What was it?"
"The same thing as last time. Or at least, the same place. There was a woman…" he described what he could to Dean, although the details of it had already begun to escape him. The forest stayed, though, as clear and unforgettable as his childhood home.
When he'd finished, Dean looked even more worried. "You sure that you're doing okay? I mean, I know nightmares and stuff are normal, and I know you've been stressed, but you don't get them that often. And recurring ones suck."
"This is only the third time that it's happened." Castiel lay down, facing away from Dean. He was mildly annoyed with himself. He disliked showing weakness, which was probably what came from having a series of older brothers who were perfectly willing to exploit any flaw you showed. "Don't worry."
"If you say so." He was worrying, that much was evident from his voice. Castiel hadn't really expected otherwise. "Wake me up if you have another, okay? If I'm not already up."
"I will." He reached behind himself and squeezed Dean's hand. "Go back to sleep, Dean."
He could hear Dean settling back down among the pillows and blankets. "I mean it, Cas."
"I know." He closed his eyes, trying to drive away the image of the unknown woman, but sleep didn't come easily, and he stayed awake for a long time after.
*
The next day at work was… not Castiel's most pleasant day on the job. He hadn't expected it to be, not with the way that he had slept through his alarm and had needed an apologetic Dean to shake him awake. Not with the traffic, which almost made him late, and definitely not with Zachariah greeting him as soon as he hung his jacket up in his office, and demanding that he get upstairs to the exhibit.
There was a large number of people milling around Castiel as he sat at the table that had generously been provided, with a descriptor card set up in front of him. That was good for the museum, he knew. Even for a Saturday it was busy, and it wouldn't be arrogance to say that it was primarily because of his display. And it was a good mixture of people, too-senior citizens and under-fives alike, with the majority of the guests being somewhere in-between. Again, he knew that was good for the museum. There was something for everyone here.
But for himself? It was terrible. He had to sit in the hard plastic chair smiling at everyone who gave him a curious look. He had to tolerate young children coming up to him and just staring in that entirely disconcerting manner that children had.
Some people had actual questions, about the places he had been and what had gone into the making of the exhibit. Those he answered as best he could-and, indeed, he answered them quite well. When asked about the display in the middle on how fairy stories and cultural mythology had been warped by companies like Disney, his answer drew in a crowd of listeners. Apparently, it was quite astonishing for some of them to learn about how the jinn weren't, in many countries, blue smoke that came pouring out of bottles to grant wishes. Or that the little mermaid's original ending hadn't been quite so idyllic.
Inias met him in his office when he managed to slip away to pick at the lunch he'd thrown together that morning. "It's going very well, Castiel. You should feel proud of yourself."
"Thank you." He tossed the core of his apple into the trash can beneath his desk, and it made a dull clang that echoed through the office. "It's a bit overwhelming. I'm not sure how you manage to deal with that, day in and day out."
"The crowds are larger than usual," Inias replied diplomatically, graciously not touching upon Castiel's inability to handle the museum's patrons for a long stretch of time. "It's because of your exhibit, we all know that. You've managed to draw in more people than usual, even for a Saturday."
"I suppose that I need to get back to them." He stood up, cracking his back. He had another five hours of sitting in front of him; by the end of the day, he'd be too stiff even for Dean to take care of. There was a headache, too, pounding a low, steady beat behind his brows. It had been there since the morning. "Thank you, Inias."
Inias just nodded, trailing after him as he began the climb back upstairs to where his office was. "Are you well, Castiel? You look a bit… pale."
"Do I?" He frowned. The headache was still there, certainly not getting any better, and he had slept poorly, but… "I don't feel that bad."
"In any case, take care." Inias paused at the top of the staircase; Castiel knew that he had his own obligations to deal with, and that he had probably shunted them aside just to talk to him. It was flattering, really. "It wouldn't do for you to take sick in the middle of the exhibit."
"It wouldn't." He sighed. It suddenly seemed like a very long time until he could escape the rush of the museum and get back to where Dean waited at home. "Goodbye, Inias."
"Goodbye, Castiel." They parted ways, and it was only a matter of a few minutes before Castiel was back at his table, smiling again, and ready to handle whatever mundane questions the tourists proposed to him.
*
Castiel didn't dream that night, too exhausted from all of Dean's ministrations (and the hands on him - they were incredible, amazing; Castiel was not a romantic man, but he was fairly certain that he could write odes to Dean and his fantastic fingers). He woke up on Sunday morning refreshed and ready to deal with the museum on a day when it wasn't usually open. His head was clear, whatever ache he'd come home with gone.
At 2:00, he passed out.
It was entirely unexpected and a bit humiliating as well. He had just been sitting at the table, waiting for someone to come over and ask him where he had picked up that genuine cast of a Bigfoot print, when his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped over.
The blue eyes shone out at him from the darkness, the only light inside the cave. From somewhere else, Castiel recognized the tangled brown hair of the woman from his previous vision. She was kneeling in front of him, very close, and her small but calloused hands were rough against his cheek. They slid down onto his neck, pressing hard against his jugular, and he felt something inside of him stir-
And then he was running, faster and faster through the woods, with a giant dog behind him (but hadn't that happened before; this wasn't in order; this wasn't right)
"You sure about this, Castiel?" Doubtful green eyes watched him over the firelight. "If it can only be opened once, and it's for two people, and the vamp's demanding right-of-way…"
"I'll stay here." He stretched out, staring up at the horned moon in the sky. It hadn't changed since he had gotten there, as if all of the time was just a single night that would eventually be unfrozen and move on to day. "It's my penance, not yours."
"Hey! Hey, mister, wake up!" A hand on his shoulder was roughing him, and he blinked groggily automatically shaking off the foreign touch. "Mister, you okay?"
Castiel squinted, trying to make things clear. A woman was standing in front of him, a child with wide, frightened eyes at her feet. "I-yes. I apologize, I'm not sure what happened there." He stood up, but the world spun around him, and he had to grip the edge of the table to keep himself from collapsing into a heap. He tried for a rueful smile. "Perhaps I should go to the infirmary."
The woman nodded, stepping back. "Do you want me to walk you there? I mean, no offense, but you look kind of like you might collapse again."
He shook his head, even though that just made him dizzy and really didn't help the situation much. He loathed showing weakness in front of strangers. "Thank you very much for your offer, though. I think I'll be able to make it."
Castiel did. By the time that he was in the small medical area, his head had even stopped spinning, and he felt considerably better.
Raphael was on duty as the nurse that day, a stern-faced man who knew of most of the museum's going-ons, and who Castiel suspected had some influence over Zachariah. He examined Castiel quickly and efficiently, bordering on brusqueness. Castiel rather liked that; it had none of his brothers' condescending nature to it, but it also wasn't too touchy-feely.
"Have you been under stress recently?"
Castiel nodded.
"I expected so. You seem fine in all other regards, so I'm going to conclude that that was what caused you to collapse. I recommend going home now, to rest. In the future, consider taking a vacation. It wouldn't do to have you collapsing in public again."
Which was true enough. He thanked Raphael politely, and then slipped back to the table in the exhibit, ready to take on the next three hours. He knew that Zachariah wouldn't let him off easily unless he was dead (and probably not even then).
By the time that he got home, he was exhausted. Dean looked at him with concerned eyes, but he brushed him off as gently as he could. "I'm fine. Just tired. I wish I'd gotten a weekend."
Dean rubbed his shoulders as he leaned against their kitchen counter, watching the sun set over their tiny backyard. "Call in sick, Cas. You don't look up for going in tomorrow."
"I don't feel up to it." He sighed and slid away from Dean. "Zachariah expects it, though."
"Screw him. Cas, he's your boss, not Darth Vader. He's not going to start strangling you if you say something he doesn't want to hear."
Castiel shook his head. "I'll go in, Dean. It's fine. I think I'll go to bed now, though. I'm tired."
He walked away from Dean, feeling the weight of his partner's concerned eyes on his back. It made him feel guilty, to walk away like that when Dean was just trying to do the right thing, but Castiel knew that he didn't have much choice. Zachariah demanded obedience, or else there would be consequences. He knew that well.
*
The next night, Castiel was in a swamp, and there were things in the muddy water that were trying to pull him down. Dean was there, though, and he pulled him out. When Castiel woke up, heart not pounding quite as quickly as before (he'd had Dean's firm hand grasping his and holding him steady; it was hard to be entirely afraid with that to sustain him) but he was overcome with a decisive sense of self-loathing. He felt weak, as if he should have prevent what had happened in the dream. It was completely foolish, because Castiel was hardly a lucid dreamer, and it wasn't his fault that he hadn't been able to free himself from the dark creatures that had wrapped themselves around his ankles and tried to tug him down. But he still felt as if it was something that he ought to have been able to avoid.
On Tuesday night, after a day of work that was spent mostly catching up with communications in his office, blissfully far away from the crowded exhibits above, he dreamed that he was flying. It was a good dream, at first: the wind was in his hair, the air against his face was cool, and overall there was that sense of freedom, of not being tied down by gravity, let alone the regular obligations of everyday life.
But then he looked down, and he saw that he was just barely coasting above the spindly, leafless trees of the dark forest, and Castiel fell and hit the ground hard.
The scream that ripped from Castiel's throat was probably loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
"Castiel! Christ, Cas, just breathe!" He was conscious of arms - Dean's arms, he knew - on him; of how his throat felt, like it did after he'd been running on a cold day - like he'd swallowed a knife along the way, like there was a blade slicing and splitting his windpipe. He was sweating like he'd run a marathon too, and he was afraid.
He loathed that. He wasn't supposed to be afraid; he'd grown up in a house with so many older brothers that were constantly competing with each other; to show fear among them was to mark yourself as a weakling. Logically, he knew that fear was a perfectly human response to a nightmare. Emotionally, he was furious with himself for the way that he was trembling, for how his stomach was churning, and for how he still felt a little like he was falling.
"Cas," Dean said again, and it was easier to pay attention to this time, because Dean didn't sound scared. "This isn't okay. At all."
Castiel rolled over reluctantly, propping himself up on one elbow to better see Dean. His throat felt thick, and it was an effort to force himself to admit to Dean, "I know."
Dean reached up and gently took Castiel's chin in his hand, and made it so that Castiel had no choice but to look straight at him. "Cas, you gotta go see someone about this. Please. I'll go with you if you want, but man, you can't keep doing this. I'd wake up every night for you, you know that, but I can't stand to see you hurting like this, man. I can't."
Castiel let himself fall back onto his sweat-soaked pillows, and stared at the shadows on the ceiling. The world around him felt unreal, like he was living in a painting and everything about his life was just a bunch of pigments splashed on a sadistic artist's canvas. He felt like he was floating, disconnected from it all. He felt like everything was faked, including Dean's love for him. "I'll think about it."
Dean sighed and kissed him on the cheek. "Please."
"I said I'll think about it, Dean, and I will." He curled his fingers into a fist and dug the nails into his palms, hard and deep enough that he was certain they would leave a mark. He could feel Dean hovering behind him, but then he just sighed again and lay back down on the bed. A moment later his hand was gently rubbing Castiel's back, and Castiel closed his eye and leaned into it. Of course it was real. How could it not be?
*
In the end, Castiel made the appointment mostly just to appease Dean. He cared for him too much to see his worried eyes every day, but he was well aware that they wouldn't go away until he did something specifically to stop them.
The psychiatrist was a woman with kind eyes who let Castiel call her by her first name of Rachel. She listened to him patiently while he described the dreams, and the few vivid hallucinations that he'd had while awake. She asked questions: had he been under stress lately? In his professional life or his home life? As a child, was he a particularly vivid dreamer?
Castiel answered them all as best he could. Yes, there had been some work-related stress recently. He was doing well as far as his personal life was concerned. No, he couldn't recall any particular incidents from his childhood.
"Did it help?" Dean asked as soon as he got in the door. It was shortly past their regular dinnertime; Castiel had left work early for the appointment. It smelled heavenly inside the house, like garlic and some sort of sauce. "I made pork chops," Dean added quickly. "Just fried something up. I hope you don't mind."
"Mind? Why would I mind?" He leaned in and kissed Dean. When they pulled back, he shrugged off his coat and sat down in the chair, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know if it helped. She asked me basic questions, nothing out of the ordinary - about stress, if I'd experienced anything traumatic, what my life with you was like. There were no Earth-shattering revelations, and I didn't suddenly realize that all of my issues stem from my father not loving me enough as a child."
"So it didn't do anything?" Lines of worry creased Dean's face. "Cas, this is serious-"
"I know it is. I wouldn't say it was a wonderful experience, but it wasn't entirely useless. She gave me a prescription, which should be in tomorrow, and I made a follow-up appointment for next month." He loathed the idea of having to take medicine - his mother had been an addict, and her father before. It ran in his family, and it was something that he wasn't particularly keen on experiencing. But it was what Rachel had suggested, and he was reluctantly taking her advice.
"That's good, then." Neither Dean's tone nor his expression matched his words. "Do you think it'll help with the dreams?"
"I don't know. I hope so." He sighed, staring out the kitchen window at the cloudy evening. For a moment he thought that he could see a horned moon. A shiver ran up his back. But then the skies were plain grey again, and he was in his house with Dean, and that was all.
*
The pills didn't help, and Castiel stopped taking them after a week. Dean watched him pour them down the toilet with a frown, but knew about Castiel's family, and so he held his protests.
"You could try seeing another one," he said quietly as Castiel walked out past him. "She's not the only doctor out there."
Castiel shook his head and rubbed at his eyes with his hands. A small but steady headache had mobilized behind his brow; it had begun when he had first taken the medicine. He didn't think it was going to go away. "I don't want to, Dean. I - I don't think it would help, and you know that my insurance is terrible. I don't want to be drugged again."
Dean nodded and didn't push the point, but when Castiel woke up in the middle of the night sweaty and panting, and Dean's arm snaked silently over his chest, Castiel knew what he was thinking.
*
When November came, Dean asked Castiel if he wanted to stay home. Castiel asked Dean if he'd lost his senses.
"You have to see Sam," he said firmly. "You have to meet Jess. You can't put that off, Dean."
They were sitting on the couch together, Castiel doing his nightly crossword puzzle and Dean watching a football game, one hand holding a beer and the other resting on Castiel's hip. It was a Monday night, and Thanksgiving was just over three weeks away.
"I don't want to put it off. But man, if you don't feel like it…" he paused, fingers tracing small circles on Castiel's hip. Castiel waited patiently, his pen hovering above the newspaper. "I don't want to make things worse," he said finally. "Look, I want to see Sam more than you can know. I want to meet this girl and make sure that Sammy's not making a mistake, you know that. But if it's gonna hurt you to travel, I don't want to do that. Capice?"
He would choose Castiel's wellbeing over seeing Sam, that was what he was saying. That meant more to Castiel than any gift Dean could have given him, and on a whim Castiel dropped the newspaper and put his hands over Dean's. For a moment the world flickered a bit around the edges, like a frame of smoke surrounded his frame of view. But Castiel curled his fingers over Dean's, and then everything came back into clarity. "I understand. But I want to go, Dean. I'm going to dream no matter where we are. A change of scenery is more like to do me good than harm."
"Are you sure?"
Castiel craned his neck up and kissed Dean lightly. "I'm sure."
Dean nodded. There was relief on his face, and Castiel didn't begrudge him that. "I'll email Sam tonight, then. Let him lay the sheets down in the guest bed."
"Good." Castiel leaned back into Dean, relishing his warm, solid body. The world around him held firm, and that was good.
*
Three weeks, two days before Thanksgiving, and one grueling plane ride later, he and Dean were standing in the airport in California. Dean looked a bit worn around the edges, his face still sallow from the midflight sickness that had taken him. "Where the hell is he?" he growled, looking agitated. "If he got the time wrong-"
"Dean!"
Dean perked up like a dog hearing the squeak of its favorite toy. "Sam?"
It took half a second for them to find Sam, his height offering him a considerable advantage. He shouldered his way closer to Dean and reached down and embraced his brother immediately, ignoring the vaguely sour smell of him. "God, Dean, it's so good to see you."
A tall blonde woman walked up to them, her long hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She smiled tentatively at Castiel. "Are you… Castiel? Did I pronounce that right?"
"Yes I am, and yes, you did." He reached out and shook her hand. "You must be Jessica."
"Jess, please. It's good to meet you." She had warm hands and a firm, but not punishing, grip. Castiel liked her on the spot.
Sam stepped back from Dean at last, looking a bit self-conscious. "Oh, yeah. Um, Jess, this is Dean and his partner Castiel. Dean, Cas, this is Jess. She's my girlfriend. Roommate."
"I get it." Dean stepped forward, not quite smiling as he sized Jess up. It took a moment before he extended his hand to Jess and said, "Pleased to meet you, Jess."
"And you." She smiled at Dean. His expression grew a fraction warmer.
"It's good to see you, Cas." Sam gave him a quick hug that was easily reciprocated by Castiel. "How've you been feeling?"
"The same, thank you." He was dreaming at least four days a week, the headaches hadn't let up at all (and neither Advil nor Tylenol were having any effect) and he still had those moments of spacing out, times when it felt like he wasn't really living in this world. Or times when things went all… fuzzy around the edges. It was strange, but something told him not to dwell on it, that it wasn't a big deal. He could handle it, just as he'd been handling the dreams. "Should we go and find our bags?
"Of course. C'mon." Sam bounded off like an eager puppy, Dean walked almost as speedily after him, and Castiel and Jess made up the rear. It was warm that day, and Castiel couldn't help but hope that things were looking up.
*
Sam's apartment was small but serviceable, looking out onto a busy Palo Alto street. "It gets noisy at night, sometimes," Sam said as he stood in the doorway of the guest room, "but it's not that bad. You don't really notice it."
Dean bounced down onto the starched white sheets. "Nice place you got here."
"It is." Sam gave him a hesitant smile. "We're proud of it."
There was a pause, and then Dean said quietly, " I'm proud of you, Sam. She… she seems nice. Great, I mean."
Castiel hid a smile and busied himself with emptying out the suitcase. He knew that the brothers were having a moment, and he didn't want to interrupt. He waited with his head more or less in his suitcase until Sam had left, closing the door behind him. "Good talk?"
"Yeah." Dean flopped down on the bed. He didn't say any more than that, but it was enough. The relaxed, content expression on his face said more than enough.
*
Castiel didn't dream that night, and he thought that maybe things were getting better. The next day went well, too - it was spent mostly in either the kitchen or the grocery store down the street; they all took turns between doing cooking duty and picking up whatever ingredients had been forgotten. Things were light and easy between them all; Jess slipped easily into their dynamic. The world around him stayed perfectly clear, and everything was very, very good.
It was at dinner the next day when things went wrong.
One moment, Castiel was walking to the table, laughing with Jessica. The apartment smelled of roasted turkey and pumpkin pie, and Castiel was more calm and relaxed than he had been in months,
A minute later, he had collapsed, and Jess was yelling, and the world around him seemed suddenly very unsubstantial. The only thing that he could think was, Why now? Even though that didn't really make any sense at all.
He could feel a hard floor beneath him, cold through his thin clothes. Everything was cold, all of a sudden. He didn't know when that had happened.
"Castiel?" Dean was leaning over him, his face paler than Cas had ever seen. He had seen many emotions come and go over Dean in their years together, but he'd never seen this: worry, pure and unadulterated, thinly covering panic. "Stay still, man. Just… don't move. Sam's calling an ambulance now."
He blinked. Move? He didn't think he could move, not when the world was spinning out of control, hurtling through a void somewhere. Not when Dean and Sam were worlds away.
"…you with me? Jesus, man, hang on." Dean's hand was clutching his. His calloused fingers wrapped around Castiel's softer ones, and they were warm when everything else had frozen over. Even though Castiel knew that it was, like all of this, fleeting, he didn't care. He forced himself to squeeze back.
"Good. That's it, that's real good. Keep holdin' on, Cas, okay?" His other hand slid under Castiel's head, cradling it off the floor. It was gentle, and tender, and it hurt Castiel more than anything else, because that wasn't Dean. Dean was a good man, a great man, and there was very little in the worlds that Castiel wouldn't do for him. But Dean - Dean would never treat him like this. It wasn't cruel of him, or wrong, or bad - he just wouldn't. Dean Winchester was not a man prone to sweet, kind gestures, least of all ones directed at Castiel himself.
Castiel blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, the world was almost gone. The edges of the dining room were blurry, and the middle of it was fading fast. The table above him was no longer recognizable as such, and even the hard wooden floor - for a moment, it looked like stone. "I'm so sorry, Dean," he said, because in a moment this version of Dean, who didn't carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and who was happy with his life, would stop existing. As it was, he didn't really even exist now, much as Castiel wished otherwise. But he'd be well and truly gone in a moment.
"Don't say that." Dean gripped Castiel's hand with a fierceness that was sharply contrasted by how he was supporting his head. "Damn it, Cas, just hang on. You're gonna be all right."
"I doubt that." He glanced up at Dean one last time, wanting a final memory of him as his lover, but it was already too late. His features were a blurred mess, a wet portrait that the artist had smeared over. "Dean, I-"
Part III | Masterpost