All This Derision [1/3]
When they next wake, all this derision
Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision...
William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream
*
The air around him smelled of dead, rotting things. It was humid and cloying, clinging to every inch of his exposed skin- which, really, was most of it. He had been running for a long time, and the clothes that had at first provided the thinnest shield from the outside air were ripped to the point where they wouldn't even be useful as rags. Sweat had long since soaked through them, anyway, and parts of them were stained with blood that might or might not have been his own.
Trees stretched as far as he could see. Some were too wide for him to wrap his arms around; others were like skeletal limbs reaching up from the ground that wavered dangerously in the occasional breezes. But all of them were tall, all looming above his head. If there was a moon in the black sky, they were blocking it.
There was no one by his side, and that wasn't right. There had been someone before; he was sure of it. But they had left? Was that right; had they found a way out? But if that was so, why was he still here?
And where was here? And who was he?
"Little angel's all by himself now, isn't he?"
Castiel's eyes opened to a dimly lit room. His room, with the beige walls that Dean had painted last spring, and the hardwood floors that had taken them a number of long, sweaty hours to put in. His bedroom, in his house that he had fixed up with his longtime boyfriend. They were in Lawrence, Kansas, and they had been for over a month; Castiel had been travelling for work, but he was home for the foreseeable future. They certainly hadn't been in any forests recently.
He lifted his hand and rubbed at his eyes. When he closed them, an inverted image of the nightmare flashed back up, like a photographic negative: endless gray trees against a milky white sky. It recalled the scent of decaying leaves and overflowing sewers, and even though this room didn't smell like anything (except maybe the Old Spice that he and Dean shared) it made him wrinkle his nose in disgust. The sheer terror that he had felt in the nightmare was slipping away, though, and at least he hadn't had any delusions about it being real. As things went, this was a milder nightmare than most.
So why, Castiel wondered, was there still a low, sick feeling of dread deep in his gut?
Next to him, Dean made a low garbling sound that could have been anything from his name to a declaration of love to the diner across town. Castiel rolled over and pressed his head against Dean's bare shoulder, inhaling the fresh, clean scent of his skin. Later in the day he would be sweaty and greasy, even though it was unseasonably cool for early September in Kansas and the temperatures weren't supposed to exceed 50 degrees. But Dean hadn't just come home from his garage; he had been sleeping for several hours, and had taken a shower shortly before that. Right now, he was entirely free of dirt. About as far removed from some camping trip gone wrong as you could get.
Castiel felt Dean twitch slightly beneath him, and glanced up in time to see his eyes blinking bleary open. Dean yawned and started to sit up, then paused halfway through when he realized that Castiel was lying on him. "Cas? Wha' time is it?"
He forced himself off Dean's shoulder (which, really, wasn't the best pillow anyway) and, propping himself up on one elbow, glanced over at the glowing blue digits displayed on his alarm clock. "3:27. You've got a couple of hours left."
"Hmm." Dean flopped back down and closed his eyes. Castiel followed his lead, lowering himself back onto the mattress and wriggling deeper under the sheets. "What're you doing awake? You usually sleep like the dead."
"I had a nightmare. I think." Castiel frowned, staring up at the shadows on their ceiling. "A dream, anyway."
"Bad dreams? You?" Dean opened his eyes and rolled over. He lay his hand down in the center of Castiel's chest, the closest he'd ever really get to a comforting gesture. Dean wasn't the touchy-feely type with anyone, except maybe his brother (and even that Castiel was just theorizing about; he'd never seen Sam need that much comfort from his brother). "What, did a big, bad manuscript from the fifteenth century trick you into thinking it was from the twelfth?"
Castiel allowed himself a small smile. "Nothing so terrifying. Just a standard nightmare. Trees. Dark places. The works."
"You sure?" Dean leaned in and pressed a quick kiss against his jaw. "Cause if those old papyrus scripts are giving you any trouble, me and my dirty hands will be all over them, messing them up-"
"You wouldn't dare." Castiel reached up and gently squeezed Dean's wrist, the one that was splayed in a comforting weight across his chest. "Go back to sleep, Dean. You've got work to do tomorrow."
"I've got work to do every day." He kissed Castiel again, this time on the lips. "And I own the place; it's not like anyone's going to notice if I come in late…"
"You're the one with the master set of keys. They would notice. And I have to be at work too, Dean." He gently dislodged Dean's arm and rolled over so that his face was pressed against the back of Dean's neck. "I apologize for waking you up. Now go back to sleep."
"You're no fun," Dean grumbled, but Castiel knew that he was smiling. "Good night, Cas. See you in the morning."
He kissed the base of Dean's neck. "Good night, Dean."
It didn't take long for Castiel to fall back to sleep, not with Dean in his arms, softly snoring away. This time, his dreams were quiet and peaceful, and by the time that his alarm clock beeped at 5:30 AM, memories of his waking earlier in the morning were as distant and fuzzy as the nightmare itself.
*
Dean stumbled downstairs twenty minutes after Castiel had gotten dressed. He blinked as he stood at the entrance to the kitchen, wearing nothing but the boxers that he'd gone to bed in. "Coffee?"
"Almost done." Its scent was filling the kitchen now as Castiel stood over the frying pan, intently watching as his bubbling egg whites come together into an omelet. He sprinkled in a handful of green peppers and asked, "Do you want anything to eat?"
"Is that made with that liquid crap you like, or genuine, cholesterol-filled chicken poop?"
"Mine is made with egg whites, but I'll make you one with proper eggs, if you'd like." He glanced at the clock on the stove. "I don't need to be out right away."
"Cas, you're fantastic." Dean walked into the kitchen, still with the vaguely dazed steps of someone who's just emerged from a long stretch of sleeping, and paused near the stove. "I mean, I haven't brushed my teeth yet or anything-"
Castiel leaned over and kissed him, hushing any comments that he might have made with regards to his morning breath. He had been with Dean for the past five years, since they had met at the museum where Castiel still worked. He'd been forced to take over the tours for the day when Inias had suddenly fallen ill. Dean had been twenty-five, with a brother who'd just come down from California from college, and who wanted to do something other than hanging around a house that was absolutely soaked with memories of a dead father who hadn't given his kids the happiest childhood.
Dean had caught his eye halfway through the opening spiel about how the Topeka Museum of Human History was opened in 1985. He had smirked and lifted his eyebrow up, a very, very bold move considering that they were both men, and they were in the home city of the Westboro Baptist Church. Castiel had stumbled in his speech, and then staunchly avoided looking at Dean for the rest of the tour.
Which, of course, hadn't stopped Dean from shaking his hand afterwards and telling him how much he'd enjoyed the tour. It hadn't stopped him from telling Castiel that he'd love to learn more about the museum, and about Castiel's particular area of study, if he had the time?
Later, Dean had admitted that his actions had been bold even for him, that he usually wouldn't have been so forthcoming. But he had been, and Castiel had been curious enough to go along, and now they were living in a house that they had renovated together. Castiel was far past being disgusted by the taste of Dean's breath in the morning.
They broke apart. Dean grinned and Castiel returned the gesture, unable not to. Dean was one of those people who, when they smiled at you, forced you to smile back. "You gonna be home early tonight?"
"I hope so." It was a Friday, and he was usually able to get out early on Fridays. "But you promised Sam that you'd Skype with him, remember?"
"Right." Dean lit up for a moment at the idea of seeing his brother again, and then his expression waned. "I have no idea what the fuck a 'Skype' is."
Castiel smiled and patted Dean's shoulder. For someone who spent his life working with cars, something that Castiel considered to be infinitely more complicated than operating the internet, Dean was hopeless with technology. "We'll figure it out."
"I hope so. Sammy'll be pissed if we miss out on this. Hey, is that your omelet burning?"
He jumped away from Dean and swore, automatically turning down the gas. "It's not burnt. Just well done."
Dean laughed and kissed his cheek. "On second thought, maybe I'll just make my own breakfast."
*
Naturally, that didn't pan out. Castiel made Dean his bacon-and-cheese omelet, and then sat with him discussing the sort of mundane things that couples talked about. He left the house fifteen minutes later than he'd wanted to, quietly cursing how being around Dean made him lose all track of time.
It turned out to be a godsend. There had been an accident earlier, and traffic was just clearing up as Castiel hit the main roads. He ended up at the museum at the same time as he would have if he'd left at the usual time.
The Topeka Museum of Human History was a medium-sized campus devoted to the achievements of mankind. It lacked the finesse or prestige of a place that one might find in Boston or New York, but Castiel was rather fond of it. It was a warm sort of place, the type that a person could return to again and again from their youth to their retirement, and always find something new and welcoming. It wasn't what one could exactly call "modern," with its old-fashion heating system that was liable to break down in the dead of winter, and its flickering lights that kept the maintenance crew on their toes, but it had heart. It was put-together and run by an efficient staff that was (for the most part; there certainly were exceptions) very good at cooperating. Altogether, Castiel was rather fond of working there.
Castiel nodded at Virgil, the current security guard standing at attention near the admission desk, and briskly walked to the staircase to get to his office. It was located on the ground floor, tucked neatly out of the way of the steady streams of visitors. That suited Castiel just fine: he wasn't particularly interested in having lost museumgoers pop into his office every hour of the day to ask him where the restrooms were. And it was quiet. He liked that.
Once he was among the familiar stacks of papers, books, and artifacts, he hung up his suit jacket and sat down at his desk, firing up his computer. He was working on a new exhibit, one set to open in two weeks, and there was an article that he needed to write for the Capital to get the public excited about Demons of America: Americana's Fact and Folklore.
He spent his morning meticulously typing it out. It was a good exhibit, and, quite frankly, he was proud of it. He had majored in Theology, and he was most comfortable when he was building displays relating to his own area of study. But Zachariah, the museum director, had wanted something special for Halloween, and Castiel and the rest of the behind-the-scenes crew had obliged him.
It was noon before he was satisfied with the write-up for the newspaper. He knew that it was probably pointless to labor so long over something so small, especially when the paper's editors would alter it as much as they saw fit, but it was good. Castiel could say that it was, and it wouldn't be lying.
"Castiel?"
He hit 'send' and then sat up and stretched, wincing as his back cracked. "Inias! Hello. Come in."
Inias looked mildly amused as Castiel stood up, rolling his shoulders to get the kinks out. Inias' job rarely involved sitting around isolated in an office for long periods of time: he was an educator, and spent his time making the museum more accessible to the public. He was good at it, too, far better than Castiel was. The one time he'd covered for Inias, he had ended up meeting his partner of the past several years, hardly the most professional of actions. "Are we still on for lunch?"
"That's what I came down here to ask you about. You didn't emerge when you usually do. Are you too busy?" Castiel and Inias had known each other for some time. They had started working together at the museum at approximately the same time, and had actually been roommates before Castiel and Dean had moved in together. Inias was a native to Kansas, had gone to school in Lawrence before going on to work in Topeka. He had been a comforting presence when Castiel had left the rich, left-wing East Coast town in which he'd grown up for Kansas, a state of good people whose political ideals typically didn't align with his. He had never judged Castiel for his relationships, and for that, Castiel was infinitely grateful.
It had been tradition for the two of them to go out to lunch on Fridays for as long as Castiel could remember. They rarely broke from it. "I'm not too busy to go out. Come on." He stood up, automatically stretching again, and walked the two steps that it took to get from his desk to where Inias was hovering in the doorway. "Should we try for a table at Al's?"
"Of course." Inias waited patiently for Castiel to pull on his jacket, and then they left the museum for the streets of Topeka.
They could have easily driven to the diner, but it was only about ten minutes away if they were walking briskly, and with the weather as pleasant as it was, it seemed a waste to get one of their cars. And, truth be told, Castiel preferred walking - the sun on his face was a nice contrast to the fluorescent light that buzzed above his desk, and the air had an edge of crispness not found in his basement office. He spent far too much of his time indoors.
He and Inias walked along in a companionable silence. There was a mutual understanding between them that neither of them had any talent for small talk, and so they never forced it. It was, Castiel thought, one of the main reasons that their friendship had lasted so long.
Al's was an easy-to-miss place tucked between a dry cleaner's and a store selling sporting equipment. The windows looked onto a poorly-lit setup of dark walls with historical photos of the city and booths that seemed tucked against the walls with no particular spacing. Inside, the air was heavy and smoky, and smelled like fryer grease and slightly-charred meat. It was one of Castiel's favorite places.
The lunchtime rush hadn't quite hit yet, and so they were able to take a booth in the corner of the diner. A waitress with tired eyes brought them their menus, but they didn't need them. They came here too often for that.
Once their orders were in and two ice-filled cups were set before them, Inias leaned back and regarded Castiel curiously. "How is that new exhibit going?"
"Very well, thank you for asking." It had been in progress for a number of months, and it had gotten almost tedious, writing to private collectors and asking them to allow their items relating to the unique folklore of America to be put on display. Occult items attracted followers of the… eccentric sort, and Castiel had spent more hours than he could count over the summer flying out to meet with collectors and examine their acquisitions. And then due to budget cuts, the museum hadn't been able to afford a permanent designer, and Castiel had been forced to figure out the arrangements of the displays almost entirely by himself. It hadn't been the most enjoyable experience of his life.
But the result - the result was good; he was very willing to say that. Even though his focus was usually on religion in the States, and displays relating to that, he thought that he had pulled it together quite well. It was an interesting topic, and he thought that it would draw quite a crowd to the museum.
Inias nodded as Castiel related this to him, looking genuinely excited. That was another thing that Castiel valued about their friendship - there was no insincerity about it, no faking for the sake of conversation. Inias was dedicated to the museum; he had been going there since he was a child, and working as a tour guide and educator was essentially his dream. Castiel could see him replacing Zachariah as director in the future.
"And when is it set to open?"
"Two weeks to the day," Castiel replied. "The twentieth of September."
"And you're ready for it?"
"I think so." He pulled a face. It was always nerve-wracking, opening up an entirely new exhibit, especially one that he'd put as much effort into as this. "There are a few final details to go over, but the bulk of the work is done. It's mostly just promotion."
"I'm sure that it's going to turn out wonderfully, Castiel."
Before he could thank Inias for that show of loyalty, the waitress returned to their table. "Bacon cheeseburger and fries?"
Castiel reached out and took the checkered red basket from her hands. His stomach growled, and he was reminded how hungry he was: his burnt omelet hadn't been particularly appetizing, and he had ended up throwing most of it out. "Thank you."
The waitress turned to Inias, ignoring Castiel completely. "All-American Classic basket?"
"That's mine. Thank you." She left, and they began eating. The place gradually filled, mostly with workers from the small shops around them. There weren't many tourists about.
It was pleasant, just sitting there with a friend and eating a burger that, quite frankly, was one of the best that Castiel had ever had - tender, juicy meat with grease that ran down his chin every time he sank his teeth into it; fluffy bread; perfectly melted cheese that pulled away from the burger in long strings with every bite. It was good, it really was, and not just the food. Castiel's life, for all that he was settled in his career and for all that he was in a very, very steady relationship -hadn't grown stale. He greatly enjoyed what he did. He loved Dean, would do anything in the world for him. And he appreciated small moments like these, being able to converse with a friend in a place that they both liked.
He was happy, and it was good. It really, really was.
Castiel was staring out the window onto the moderately busy Kansas street as he contemplated this. It had been cloudy most of the day; brisk and cool, but not in an entirely unpleasant way. He had been out of the state for much of the summer, accumulating items for the new exhibit, but every day that he had spent Lawrence had been stiflingly, miserably hot. The coolness wasn't entirely seasonable, but he hadn't heard anyone complaining about it.
The sun came out as he was looking outside. It hit some glass surface at exactly the right angle, and for a moment the world outside of Al's turned into a flare of sunlight. Castiel automatically lifted his hand up to shield his eyes from the brightness of the street, and-
The doorway made a crackling sound not unlike dry wood being eaten away by flames. This wasn't fire, though: this was pure energy, a gateway of impossibly bright light that led to a different, better world. It turned the everlasting nighttime of the place they were in into noontime on a sunny summer's day. It hurt his eyes if he looked at it too long.
It could only sustain two passing-throughs. One had already been used up, taken by the monster who had been their ally. That meant that only one of them could go through - himself, or the man who stood at his side.
"You take it." His words were almost lost in the snapping sound emanating from the passageway. "I can survive for longer here."
The man next to him shifted uncomfortably. He seemed to think for a moment before he said, in a voice that didn't quite cover up his hesitation, "No, that's not fair. You're the only reason that I made it this long. You go through, Cas."
Frustration coursed through him at the human's damning self-sacrificing nature. "You're forgetting that I'm the only reason that you're here in the first place. Go."
The other man opened his mouth, then shut it, looking away. It was hard to argue with such undeniable facts, and he didn't give him the chance. "I have nothing left on the other side of that doorway. The majority of my brothers are dead; Heaven is a shell of its former self - and were it as great as it once was, it would certainly reject one who has acted in as many terrible ways as I. I would be forced to wander the Earth without purpose or meaning. My existence would be pointless.
"But you - you have family waiting there. Sam is there for you, and you need him far more than you need me. You will always have a purpose on Earth, so long as you have him to protect. I… I could hunt, clean up my mistakes, but even that means little compared to seeing that you get back to Sam. And you have to understand, that's without considering what this place would do to you. It would change you into something that I don't want you to become; you'd try to avoid it all you can, but in the end, you would change into a monster no different from any of the others here. You would. I'm angel enough to keep my being intact."
His companion closed his eyes. His shoulder shook minutely, and it occurred to him that he was suppressing tears. That surprised him - he should be happy. He would be back with his brother, and knew that was all that the other man really wanted. "Don't make me do this."
"I won't push you." Even as the words came out of his mouth, though, he knew that he would if he had to. His duty was to protect this man as best he could, and he'd never be safe as long as he was stuck in this forest of the dead. "But it's what you need to do. I think you know that."
He kept staring down into the bright doorway, even as his friend turned away, like he couldn't bear to face his future. "What are you going to do here? Eternity's a fucking long time, Cas."
"You forget that I'm not like you. My kind was built to handle eternity."
"How can you say that? It's not like you've lived through it." He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. It was a twisted version of what laughter was supposed to be like, and so it fit right in with this place. "I won't leave you here, you know that? I'll find a way when I'm back on Earth."
That meant that he was going to go. Relief washed through him at his companion's reluctant acceptance. "I don't expect you to."
"You should." Now he's facing the doorway again, staring down into its pure white light. "No goodbyes, 'cause this isn't the end."
"Of course not." But, as he watched the only real friend that he had in this place step into the light, he knew that was a lie. This was where one story ended, and another one - one far less pleasant - began.
The light from the doorway winked out, and darkness settled in once more. It was okay. He was used to it.
"Castiel? Castiel, are you all right?"
Castiel blinked. There were no trees surrounding him, no scent of rotting flesh. There wasn't a portal leading to another world, either - just a window that looked onto a mildly busy Kansas street. "Inias. I'm sorry; I seem to have… blacked out for a moment."
"Do you need a doctor?" Inias was frowning, looking at him with a concern that was touching, really. "I could call one…"
"No, that won't be necessary. Thank you, though. I just haven't been sleeping as well as I should be." Which he supposed was technically true - there was that nightmare that had woken him before, the one that also took place in a forest at nighttime. But at the same time, he didn’t think that what had happened was related to sleep deprivation. He didn't know where it came from, and it was… disconcerting. "What happened, exactly? On your end?"
"I was talking, you were looking out the window, and you just froze. You didn't blink, you didn't shake or twitch or anything like that. I don't know what it could have been. Are you certain that you're all right?"
"Yes. I'm fine, really." He looked down at the still-steaming burger that he had yet to eat, and realized that whatever hunger he'd had before was gone. "I'll just rest this weekend; I should be fine."
"You should relax," Inias agreed. "You've been working very hard on that exhibit, Castiel - really, most of us didn't know how exactly you'd manage when Zachariah first assigned it to you, but you've gone well beyond everyone's expectations. Give yourself a break."
"I will." He rubbed his eyes, suddenly very tired. "In fact, I think I might leave early today."
He wasn't actually thinking that until he said it. Castiel didn't ever leave work before 5:30, and often he stayed later. His work ethic forbade him from acting otherwise.
But today - today, it seemed fitting, for reasons that he couldn't quite figure out. He would do his absolute best to get things done at the museum, but maybe he would go home before the usual hour. It had been a strange day.
*
"Before the usual hour" ended up being at precisely 3:48. Castiel sat at his desk. He read the response to his email, sent out by an incredibly quick editor, and agreed to the changes that she had suggested. He set up several interviews with local papers to promote the Demons of America exhibit. He spoke briefly with Balthazar, the registrar and the second of Castiel's two close friends (the first being Inias) at the museum.
It was 3:46 when he realized that he had been sitting in front of his computer trying to write the speech that he would give at the opening of the exhibition for over ten minutes. He didn't have anything written at all.
Castiel sighed and looked away from the glare of his screen. He rubbed his eyes and breathed deeply, aware that the frustration rising in him would result in nothing productive.
He tried to put himself in the presentation. He tried to picture all of the area's elite standing around and laughing as they sipped their cocktails and appreciated the leftmost corner's display of New England-based memorabilia. He thought about greeting all of them with a smile, and launching into a fascinating discussion about the work that had gone into making the museum.
And then Castiel reached over and powered down his computer and his monitor. He stood up, got his coat, and walked out of his office. The frustration that he had tried to quell had risen instead, flooded and soaked his body to its core. He'd get nothing done like this, and would only succeed in going home and spreading his mood to Dean if he stayed put any longer.
Instead, Castiel slipped out of the museum, not bothering to visit Inias or Balthazar before he left. The roads were practically empty on his way home, and that did improve his mood fractionally; God knew that it was rare enough.
At home, he changed from the suit that he always wore to work (even though he rarely interacted with anyone who cared about his dress) into a pair of sweats. He left a note for Dean on their kitchen table, even though he knew that Dean probably wouldn't be back until after him:
Dean-
Out for a run. My turn to make dinner.
-Castiel
Castiel's job kept him indoors for most of the day, and seated as well, and even his lunch breaks weren't long enough to fit in a substantial workout which gave him time to both clean up and eat. So he was forced to exercise either early in the morning (meaning, he would have to pry himself away from Dean) or later in the evening (meaning that he would have to put off having dinner with Dean, which was usually the most enjoyable part of his day). Because of that, he usually ended up keeping his runs under the five mile mark, a far cry from what he used to do when he was in school.
Today was the perfect day for a run, and as he settled into that familiar rhythm, his frustration began to dissipate. It was hard to stay so irritated when the cool air was rushing against his face, and his muscles were straining in the way that signified a good workout. Running like this gave him a feeling that was as close as ever to the flying that he sometimes did in his dreams. It blanked his mind, the wind whipping away whatever concerns weighed him down.
As the sun beat down on him and the smooth landscape, about as far from woodland as you could get, rolled past him, Castiel calmed down. The frustration that had been like thick smog hanging over his mind gradually cleared. It had just been a dream and a hallucination, that was all. He was stressed from all of the work that he had been doing; work that he'd enjoyed, but which had been rather all-consuming through the summer and beyond. Dean had even cancelled their planned trip to California to see his brother, and Castiel knew how much he had been looking forward to that.
Perhaps they needed a vacation themselves, he thought. The museum would need him around to do PR and make sure that everything went smoothly at the exhibit's opening; it was large enough so that they'd want him to be present for at least the following moth. But afterwards, maybe for Thanksgiving, he and Dean could get away.
Castiel made a mental note to bring it up at dinnertime. Dean wanted to meet his brother's girlfriend, he knew, and Sam was always very hospitable. He imagined that Sam would be very open to them going over for Thanksgiving.
After he had been out there for half an hour, though, even thoughts as mundane as those faded from his mind. Castiel faded into nothing but the pound of his footsteps against the pavement, the slap of gravel against his feet. Anything troubling him was left in the dust.
He got home right around 5:00, sweaty and dirty, but feeling better than he had in a long while. He hadn't even realized that he had been feeling out-of-sorts, but he could very clearly feel the difference now. His mind felt ordered; his body, refreshed. If something had been wrong before, it was all right now.
Castiel showered and then promptly set about making supper. Dean came home just as he was finishing boiling the spaghetti.
"Jesus, Cas, that smells awesome." Dean leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. He smelled vaguely of sweat and motor oil, as he usually did. "You're fucking great, you know that?"
"I've been told." He checked the sauce, doing his best not to smile. "Go clean up. This is going to be ready soon."
Fifteen minutes later they were sitting at their kitchen table and eating supper together. Today was Castiel's turn to cook (they rotated; Dean, for all that he seemed the embodiment of the disdainful husband who left all the work to his spouse, was actually a very good amateur chef; he said that it came from cooking for himself and Sam most nights when they were growing up). Castiel had made spaghetti in a white sauce and garlic bread, and had set out a plate of fruit for good measure. He knew that he would be the only one who'd touch it, but it was the thought that counted.
"How'd work go?" Dean asked, licking a streak of sauce from the corner of his lips. "Anything new going on with the Demons thing?"
"No, thank goodness. I spent most of my time writing something for the Capital." He grimaced. "I actually left early today. Went for a run when I got home."
Dean paused with a forkful of spaghetti halfway to his lips, looking concerned. "You feeling okay?"
"I am now." He briefly told Dean about what had happened when he had been out with Inias. "I couldn't concentrate after that."
"That's… kinda disturbing." Dean was frowning in earnest now, leaning forward as though Castiel were displaying physical signs that something was wrong. "It was you in a forest? And someone else?"
"Yes. I'm not sure who it was… it might have been you." It had been too dark in the woods to tell, even with the bright light of the doorway, or whatever it was. And truth be told, Castiel hadn't been looking too closely at his companion, as though he had already known who it was. It hadn't been a lucid dream, or vision, or what-have-you. "The details of it are already getting hazy. It was probably just a one-time thing."
"I hope so." Dean chewed on a slice of garlic bread, looking thoughtful. "Tell me if anything else happens, okay, Cas? I know that you've been under a lot of shit from Zachariah about getting everything done, but that doesn't sound okay."
"Of course I'd tell you." He stabbed at his spaghetti, his hunger gone, for whatever reason. The subject hadn't sat well with his appetite, apparently, and so he did his best to change it. "Sam is still on for Skyping tonight, correct?"
"Yeah, whatever the hell a Skype is." Dean frowned and then added, "Okay, I know it's like a webcam thing, but I thought that only strippers and bored teenagers used those."
Castiel rolled his eyes. It was a wonder that he and Dean were together, he thought, not for the first time. "It's easy enough, I think. We'll set up an account when we're done, and you can email Sam to tell him our username. The reason that I asked, though, was because I wanted to know if you'd thought at all about Thanksgiving?"
"Um, we're probably gonna get a turkey and gorge ourselves and then pass out on the couch together?" Dean raised his eyebrows and took a long sip from the cold beer that he favored with supper. "Sounds about right. I mean, the Halloween candy's just hitting shelves now; I haven't really thought about Thanksgiving."
"I was just thinking that maybe we could take that trip to California that we'd talked about? If you think that Sam would want us. It would be nice to see him again, and truth be told, I could use a vacation." He grimaced. "A change of scenery for something other than work."
"You sure you're feeling okay?" Dean raised an eyebrow, and Castiel knew that as much as he might look like he was joking, there was a deadly seriousness underneath it all. "Never thought I'd see the day when Castiel would say he needed a vacation."
"I'm full of surprises." He stood up, his plate mostly full in front of him, and squeezed Dean's shoulder, pressing a light kiss to his brow. It was the most affectionate that he would be outside of the bedroom (unless Dean suggested something kinky to do outside the boundaries of their bed, in which case Castiel was quick to acquiesce). Castiel was not one for romantic gestures. "I'm going to go get the laptop set up. This could take a while."
It did. Castiel's experience with computers was pathetically limited. His main experience was with the ancient model that the museum's budget afforded him; through college, he'd used the machines for word processing only, preferring libraries for research. Most technology more advanced than a microwave eluded him, including the Smartphone that he'd gotten to keep in touch with work while he was on the job. This was, of course, much to Dean's amusement (which really didn't make much sense, considering how Dean scoffed at anything made after 1967).
But Castiel was persistent, if nothing else, and by the time that Dean had loaded up the dishwasher, he had the webcam set up and an account properly in place. Dean sat down next to him on the fat leather couch that they had picked up at a yard sale and frowned. "The hell is that?"
"It's a webcam, Dean. That's what they look like."
"I don't like it." He sat back against the couch, pulling the laptop over so that it was half on Castiel's lap and half on his. "It's unnatural."
"You say that about everything that isn't a car. And a good deal of today's cars, too."
A sudden chime from the laptop interrupted them. Dean jumped and glanced at it. "That Sam?"
"That's Sam," Castiel confirmed, although he wasn't entirely certain himself. He pressed the button to allow them to receive the call.
A moment later, Sam's face swam into view and Castiel breathed a sigh of relief. Technology was not his strong point; it was always a bit of a treat when something he tried worked out. "Sam? Sam, can you see us?"
"Clear as day," Sam confirmed, grinning. "How are you, Cas?"
"What, nothing for your own brother?" Dean stuck his head right in front of their webcam. "You not seeing me, Sammy?"
"I was getting to you. How are things down in Kansas? How's work, both of you?"
"Pretty good," Dean replied. "Can't complain about business. And Cas's museum hasn't fallen under or anything. His new exhibit's almost done." There was a hint of pride in Dean's voice, and it made Castiel feel warm inside.
"The one about monsters? Awesome. I wish that I could see it." Sam made a face. They both knew that he loved California, and that he would probably stay there even after he was done with law school, but they also both knew that he loathed the distance between them just as much as Dean and Castiel did. Or, well, Dean. Castiel hated being apart from his boyfriend's younger brother; he was quite fond of Sam's company, but he didn't think that he could quite reach Dean's levels of disdain for the miles between himself and the boy he had helped raise.
"Speaking of that, Cas brought something up at suppertime. What are your Thanksgiving plans?" Dean leaned back on the couch, tossing one arm casually around Cas. The laptop was easily balanced between their knees, and Castiel automatically leaned back.
"Uh, I'm not sure. Do you want me to call Jess and ask?"
"Well, you don't need to phone her…"
"That's not what I meant." Sam's cheeks turned pink and he stood up. "I'll be right back."
He turned around and hurried off. Castiel could tell now that he wasn't in a living room like he and Dean were. Instead, he was in a bedroom, one that looked considerably nicer than any college dorm Castiel had been in. And from the look of it, Sam had been lounging on his bed - a double bed…
Dean frowned. "Is this goin' where I think it is?"
Castiel didn't have time to reply. A moment later, Sam showed up with his hand curled in that of a tall blonde woman. She had an intelligent look about her, with sharp blue eyes and a curious, slightly nervous, expression on her face. Sam sat her down on the bed and cleared his throat. Before Dean could make any comments he would regret (and Castiel knew that he was probably thinking of a few - while he didn't doubt Dean's commitment to Sam, Dean was the king of casual innuendo), he said, "Dean, Cas, I'd like you to meet my girlfriend, Jessica Moore. We moved in together last week."
"And you didn't tell me?" Dean's eyebrows had shot up, and he took his arm off of Castiel so that he could lean forward, looking incredulous. "Sammy!"
"I didn't want you to be worried," Sam said quickly. "Seriously, Dean. I know that Cas has been working so hard on the exhibit, and you've been working too, and you had to cancel your trip here, so I thought you'd probably be stressed. And I didn't want to add to that. Anyway, it wasn't that big a change. I was sick of the dorms, and I've been working a paid internship with this firm-"
"What?" Dean crossed his arms, glaring. It would have been comical if Castiel didn't know how genuinely hurt he was at being kept out of the loop.
"Yeah. It's not a big deal. But with our combined paychecks, we could finally afford it." Sam smiled tentatively, stroking Jessica's fingers with his thumb.
"Sam's told me a lot about you," Jess said quickly, like she could sense the tension between the two brothers. "About both of you, I mean. I'd love to meet you."
"The feeling is mutual," Castiel replied, giving Dean another moment to stew in his anger. "Actually, that's what Dean was talking about a moment ago. We've only just discussed it today, and I don't want to impose on you at all, but…"
"You want to come to Thanksgiving?" Sam finished. He gave Cas a wide smile, looking relieved. "I would love that. I mean, seriously, that sounds awesome. Jess can bake up a pretty mean plate of rolls, and I'm sure that we could figure out how to make a turkey together. And there's definitely enough room. We've got a guest room that's kind small; it wasn't originally supposed to be a bedroom, but we managed to fit a mattress in so that our friends could crash when they needed to. We can fix it up all nice for you."
He was rambling a bit, but Castiel let him go on, chiming in only when his input about Sam's plans was needed. It was a bit endearing, honestly. He reached out and took Dean's hand, thumb brushing over it in an imitation of the gesture between Sam and Jessica.
Dean finally got to talking somewhere around when Sam was bringing up the cost of plane tickets, and how maybe he and Jess could return the favor and come see them at Christmas, if her parents were okay with that? The conversation lasted for almost an hour, and while it couldn't be described as relaxed, the tension did bleed out of it some.
By the time that Sam and Jess had to go (dinner reservations), they had solid Thanksgiving plans made, and Cas had seen enough of Jessica to know that he liked her. She was getting her master's in childhood psychology, and had a bachelor's in psychology with a minor in education. Eventually she wanted to work as a counselor for children that had gone through traumatic events, but at the moment she was a classroom aid in a kindergarten class. Castiel, never one for children himself, was suitably impressed.
Dean shut the laptop after they had left, and took a deep breath. Castiel waited patiently by his side.
"I can't believe the little bitch didn't tell me that he had moved in with his girlfriend!" Dean slammed the computer down on the coffee table with more force than was strictly safe. "What the hell!"
Castiel reached up and gently started rubbing Dean's shoulder. "It doesn't mean he doesn't care about you, Dean, or that you're no longer his family."
"I know that," he growled. "But - how could he just not-" he made a gesture with his hand that did little to stand in for the words he couldn't find. "How?"
"He was worried about your wellbeing, and he didn't want to distract you from anything in your life. It's a sign that he cares for you."
Dean flopped back against the couch cushions and let out a noise of frustration that was halfway between a growl and a moan. Castiel kept his hand on Dean's shoulder for a moment longer and then stood up. "How about you put on that football game you were looking forward to, and I get some wine, and we can see where things go? You can't do anything about Sam right now, not until we're over there for Thanksgiving - and besides, you can't deny that he seems happy."
"He's only been with her for, like, five months. What if he's going too quickly?"
"He's an adult, Dean, even if he is and always will be your younger brother." Castiel kissed him again. "Wine?"
"I guess so." Dean sighed.
*
The weekend was, thankfully, uneventful. They slept in both days, and Castiel's dreams were as far from forests as they could get. One was even about flying, and it was the sort of dream that was so pleasant that upon waking, the world seemed considerably duller than it had the night before. (Dean was there, though, and he had woken up only moments after Castiel, and what they had done afterwards had been decidedly not dull. That was very good, considerably better than flying.)
Monday it was back to work, and unlike Friday, he found himself with plenty to do. Two local newspapers were asking for interviews, there was a problem with the design layout (the area on southern mythology was said to focus too much on New Orleans; he had to speak very firmly to Zachariah about how important it was to properly shed light on the oft-misunderstood nature of voodoo), and he had to write his godforsaken opening speech. There were less than two weeks before the public was to be invited to see the exhibit, and Castiel was very aware of how crucial it was that he not mess this up.
He was once again struggling to properly express himself in his opening remarks (there was a reason that he hadn't been an English major; a very, very good reason) when Inias knocked on the door and poked his head into the office. "Castiel?"
"Inias! Hello." He took his fingers away from the worn-out keyboard and stretched, relishing the break. "How are you?"
"Myself? I'm well." Inias stepped into Castiel's room, understanding the unsaid invitation. He was dressed in his usual dark suit, but it looked a bit more rumpled than usual. "I had a presentation at one of the elementary schools this morning. 'How museums make learning fun.'" His lips quirked up. "A bit exhausting, that one."
"I imagine." Castiel didn't work with children. He tried to avoid them as best he could. Which was a bit unfortunate, because Dean was absolutely wonderful with them. "How can I help you? Is there something you need?"
"Oh no, not at all." Inias shook his head. "I just wanted to make sure that you were feeling better. I came to see you on Friday, after we went out to lunch, but you'd already left. I was a bit concerned."
"I'm fine, thank you for asking. I got some sleep; I think that's all that I needed." In truth, he was more awake than he'd been for quite some time, and he'd only had one cup of coffee. He was doing absolutely fantastically, considering that it was a Monday. "I haven't had any more of those… episodes since the first one, so I don't think that it's something to worry about."
Inias nodded. He would have looked relieved, were it not for the worry that creased his brow. "I'm glad to hear that. I still… I think you should go to a doctor, Castiel. At least, if anything else happens."
"I will if I have to." And not a moment before then; he loathed doctors. It was the career path chosen by his eldest brother, an arrogant know-it-all with the empathy of a brick wall. Castiel knew that not all doctors were like that, he really did. But that didn't lessen the negative associations he had with them. "If they repeat. But I think it was just stress, more than anything. With the new exhibit and all."
"I hope so." Inias didn't look entirely convinced, but he didn't press the issue. It wouldn't have done any good, and Castiel suspected that he knew that. Inias was intelligent, far better at reading people than he was. Castiel thought that he would have been a good doctor, far better than Michael was. "Well, if everything is all right, I'll let you get back to your work. Have a good afternoon, Castiel."
"Same to you." And then Inias was gone, out the door and back to whatever it was that he had planned for the rest of the day. Castiel sighed and turned back to his computer. He had work to do.
*
The rest of the week, and the week that followed, were busy enough to make Castiel start to loathe the Demons exhibit, and wonder why it was that he had proposed the idea in the first place. It wasn't the first time he'd opened one, of course, but somewhere along the line, he had forgotten how terrible it was immediately before the opening. How absolutely stressed he and his colleagues were - himself more than anyone; it was mainly his project, after all, but also Inias and the other tour guides and educators who had to know enough about the exhibition to lead a group through, and the security guards who needed to prepare themselves for an influx of enthusiastic people, some of whom would doubtlessly want to touch the allegedly cursed objects that collectors had given to Castiel to be displayed.
And then there were the reporters. Castiel hated the reporters. He could write an article about the exhibit just fine; that was mostly giving factual information about the display and explaining why the public should come. He'd already done a lot of that with the advertising team, and he could handle a formal article. But interviews, having to field questions from reporters who knew absolutely nothing about what they were talking about? Who expected him to joke around, fulfill that image of the museum curator who was inept at dealing with the present, and spent all day in the bowels of the museum, digging up ancient treasures that had long since been forgotten? It was terrible. Having to guide reviewers through the exhibit in advance was almost as bad, although the reviewers were mostly professional critics, who asked intelligent questions that he could answer. He didn't mind them as much as the others.
Dean, naturally, was mildly amused by all of this. The night before the opening, after all of the dishes had been washed and Castiel had spent the entire time loading up the dishwasher venting about the terrible reporters who had the nerve to be taken aback by his reserved, decidedly sane nature Dean looked at him and laughed. "Cas, you are a, how did you put it? A kooky museum curator. Your office is in the basement. You do spend all of your time focusing on the past; you're completely out-of-touch with today's pop culture. They're probably not taken aback by your 'reserved nature' so much as they are surprised by how you're exactly what they expect."
Castiel sank into the couch and glared at him. "They're terrible. They expect me to be all… all jovial, all joking with them. I just want them to stop asking me stupid questions." Like whether he was scared to walk around the museum at night; if he thought it was haunted; whether he'd met any vampires during his time building up the exhibit's catalogue. "I wish this was over."
Dean sat down next to him and began to rub his shoulders with his strong, rough hands. Castiel closed his eyes and took several deep breathes. Had Dean not taken over his father's garage, he would have made a fantastic masseuse.
They stayed like that for several minutes, with Castiel letting his breath even out and his body slowly loosen up, releasing the tension that the day had built up. Dean didn't say anything; he just moved his hands around in slow circles, rubbing away some of Castiel's frustration.
When Castiel was all but boneless beneath him, he leaned forward and kissed the base of Castiel's neck for a long moment. Castiel shuddered as he pulled away only enough to speak, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin there. "I know, Cas. Man, I wish that it was over too, and we could just go back to you hiding in your office all day, instead of you having to deal with all of this shit. But it's not long now, right? We got that party tomorrow, and then it's open, and you can stop worrying."
"I still have to work on maintaining it," he mumbled, his cheek pressed up against the soft leather of the couch. "And Zachariah wants me aboveground for a few days. Being a face for the public, answering their questions, things like that." He sighed. Obedience to his old, balding boss was important, he knew, but he loathed the man sometimes. He was supposed to be putting things together and dealing with other displays, not standing around talking to tourists and residents alike with a fake smile plastered on his face. "I'll have to work this weekend."
"Yeah, but when you come home…" Dean chuckled. One of his hands traced the line of Castiel's collarbone, trailed up along the center of his neck. Castiel automatically lifted his head up, letting out an embarrassingly high noise. "Trust me, when you get home all of your troubles are gonna go away."
Castiel let himself go lax against Dean. In response, Dean lay back on the couch, pulling Castiel down with him. He wriggled over so that he was lying face to face with Dean, Dean's arms wrapped securely around his waist. "You shouldn't make promises that you can't keep."
Dean reached up and kissed him, slow and unrushed. When he pulled away Castiel saw how flushed his face was, and felt his cock twitch in response. "Trust me on this. By the time I'm done with you, the last thing you're gonna be thinking about is work."
"I believe you." He sat up reluctantly and sighed. "It probably wouldn't benefit me to stay up late."
"Mmm. Probably not." Dean sat up too and stretched his arms high above his head. Castiel noted the sharp outline of his Adam's apple against his throat and resisted the urge to lean over and start necking him. That would hardly be fitting behavior; he was a grown man, not some horny teenager. "But there are some things that we can probably do before you go to bed…"
Castiel glanced at Dean, who was also sitting up now, perched against the arm of the couch. He raised an eyebrow and smirked, all of the impossibly cocky man that Castiel had first fallen for. "C'mon, Cas. What do you say?"
Castiel sighed and stood up. Then he leaned over and pulled Dean up and on to his feet. "I say that I have to get to bed by 10:30, at the very latest… but all the time until then is yours."
Dean grinned and tugged on his hand, leading him in the direction of their bedroom. "Good choice."
Part II | Masterpost