[Fic] But, Honestly - 10/11
Title: Defining Happiness
Author: omnomster
Rating: PG-13
Genre: AU, Angst, Romance, Hurt/Comfort
Pairing: Dean/future!Cas
Spoilers: If you know what 2014!cas is like, you should be okay.
Warnings: internalized homophobia, mentions of drug abuse, recovering from alcoholism
Word Count: 4,106
Summary: “Affection is responsible for nine-tenths of whatever solid and durable happiness there is in our lives.” - C.S. Lewis
Chapters: 0 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | +
Defining Happiness
When Sam and Gabriel came home, Castiel wanted nothing to do with them. He was buried in his bed, beneath mountains of sheets and comforters and pillows. His head hurt in a way he couldn’t describe and everything was pissing him off. He almost punched his younger brother when the blonde tried to pull the covers off of him. The high schoolers took that as their cue to leave.
Cas had nightmares for the first time in ages. Apparently, today was perfect for that kind of stuff. After Dean’s departure, when his shaking hands and headache had become too much to deal with, Cas had tried taking a nap, which only made everything worse. He didn’t have another panic attack, though, so there was at least one highlight to his afternoon. There were plenty of times where he thought about leaving the apartment to get a beer or crawling back to Meg and begging for a drink, but he managed to talk himself out of everything. However, he wasn’t sure how long that would last.
Dean came in about an hour or so after his brother, looking rather suspicious. Cas didn’t even notice his entrance; he was still surrounded in a mess of fabric. The guest did notice the man, though, when he could feel something jabbing him. Anger welled up in his chest, and he tried to lash out, yelling muffled threats through the pillow before he finally poked his head out to see who was bothering him.
“What’s up with you, Grumpy?” Dean asked, brows raised in amusement.
Cas’ hair was more of a mess than it usually was, and his face was screwed up in irritation.
“I have a headache and want to sleep,” he grumbled.
He meant to bury his head back into the covers, but Dean reached down and grabbed him by the collar. The bed-ridden man whimpered in exasperation rather than pain as Dean forced him to sit up. Castiel suddenly felt uncomfortable as green eyes flicked to the jacket he was still wearing from lunch. Nonetheless, he grabbed the lapels and pulled it closer to his body before crossing his arms over his chest.
“What, Dean?” and there was more than a little bite to the two words.
“Sam and Gabe said you were being cranky and sent me in to investigate,” the Winchester replied, a smirk playing on his lips. “They’re pretty interested in finding out what happened last night; I think they’re just surprised we didn’t kill each other.”
Cas half-heartedly rolled his eyes. “Well, it looked like that was gonna be the case for awhile there.”
A slight smile crept onto Dean’s face, and he shook his head. “Yeah, it definitely did.” He took a moment to pause, standing next to the bed and looking nowhere in particular. A few seconds passed, and he asked, “So, what’s up with you?”
The guest sighed, lying back down on the bed. “I haven’t had a drink in almost twenty-four hours. So now I’m tired, my head hurts, and I’m trying to resist the urge to steal your money and go get myself something,” he replied flatly.
Dean was taken aback, surprise written all over his face as he inspected his friend. “Well, I’ll make sure not to leave my checkbook laying around, then.” Narrowed blue eyes inspected his face, but the man just gave a morose smile. “Hey, we’re going to set you right, okay? We’re going to fix you.”
The other buried his pale face in the bed, hiding it from his friend. “What if I don’t want to be fixed, Dean?” He’d intended for the words to come out sharp and scathing, but instead they were quiet, slightly muffled, and perhaps even scared. The position he was in caused the stitches in his abdomen to pull, so he adjusted himself and curled his knees up as close to his chest as he could manage.
He couldn’t see Dean, but he could imagine the perplexed countenance he must have been sporting. “Well… Why wouldn’t you?”
Castiel closed his eyes, feeling warm air brush over his nose and cheeks as he breathed into the pillow. “You would not understand,” he replied softly. “I have been living in a fog of decadence for two years. I have surrounded myself in pleasures, and why would anyone want to leave that? Why would anyone want to leave sustainable, near-constant bliss for the real world?”
He heard a sharp exhale. A few seconds passed, and then the bed creaked as Dean sat on the edge. “You’re right. Reality can seriously suck,” the man conceded, “but it can be pretty awesome, too.”
“The first time I tried acid,” Castiel murmured, “I imagined that I grew wings and that I could fly. I traveled across time, the world, and history. I watched Lucifer be cast out of Heaven. I watched the creation and the Fall of Man. I watched the flooding of the world and its ultimate rebirth. I watched as Lot’s wife was turned into a pillar of salt. I stood witness to Hammurabi’s Code being chiseled into stone. I saw the rise of Greek democracy. I saw infuriated nobles write the Magna Carta, and then I heard the bickering and squabbles as our founding fathers drafted our own constitution. I saw pagans battle in the names of their gods. I observed Rome’s triumph and its tragic downfall. I listened to the sound of Nero’s violin as the once great city burned to the ground. Tell me, Dean, what occurrence in my real life could compete?”
Dean didn’t respond for a long time, and Castiel didn’t expect him to. After all, the answer was simple: nothing. Life was cruel and boring; the skeletal creature curled beneath the sheets was but a pinprick on the map of the world’s history. Of course, he’d had bad trips before - terrible, terrible trips - but he generally got to experience a much more fantastic reality than what he usually endured, a place of escape. And who would not want that?
“Were you happy?”
The question struck Castiel, causing him to look up at Dean. The man was barely seated on the bed, giving plenty of room between them. His elbows leaned on his knees, and he stared at his clasped hands.
“I was fascinated,” Castiel replied, blue eyes watching the other inquisitively.
“But were you happy?”
He shrugged, huffing through his nose. “Not in that instance. However, I have had trips where I was happy.”
“What about after you came down?”
Cas gave a sigh and twisted around so that he was lying on his back. “Why are you asking-“
Dean cut him off harshly, “Just answer. Were you happy afterward?”
He let the silence fester for a moment before he finally answered, “No. Never.”
The man sitting on the bed nodded, looking up at the wall as if he’d made his point.
“You know, life can suck. You and I both know that pretty damn well. But I… I don’t have to rely on something to make me happy. I can go out and experience it in the real world. But you… It seems to me like you’ve gotta find some kind of drug or beer or whatever to make you feel that way, and it doesn’t actually help you. Like you said, it only lasts while you’re on it. I guess… I mean, what I’m saying…” Dean fumbled over his words, and his lips pursed together as he tried to find the right phrasing. “When you’re actually happy about something, it stays with you. But the kind of… ecstasy, or whatever, that you get from all that crap doesn’t.” He ran a hand through his hair, obviously unsatisfied with his explanation.
Castiel understood, though. He could at least see where the other man was going. A difference existed between the real world and the fantasy world. The bliss found in the latter could only last in that realm, and upon sobering, the joy found in unreality could never carry over into true reality, because it was an artificial feeling to begin with. No matter what he might experience while he was high, it would only reveal itself again if he did more drugs, and it would never expose itself in real life.
“It’s not just about happiness, Dean,” he responded, closing his eyes. “It’s about separating from one’s surroundings and one’s self.”
“Well, suck it up.”
The young man’s eyes snapped back open, and he stared incredulously at his friend. “Excuse me?”
Dean finally looked at him, as well, and his face was completely serious. “Suck it up. We’ve all got shit to deal with in our lives, and we gotta face it. You can’t just run from your problems, or they’re gonna build up and come back to bite you in the ass. It ain’t easy, but it’s just what we gotta do.”
Blue hues flashed dangerously, and the injured one managed to push himself into an upright position. With a rising voice, he said, “Dean, you are-“
“No, listen to me. Life can suck, but it can be awesome, too. Stuff that happens in reality is what’s gonna make you happy, not some… Some shit that’s slowly killing you and leaves you feelin’ even worse when it’s all over.” His voice was building in exasperation and anger. “And I don’t get it. Why don’t you like you? I mean, sure, you’ve been doing some pretty fucked up stuff lately, but...”
Castiel licked his lips, breathing in the silence. “You don’t know everything about me,” he replied, his voice meek and quiet compared to the other’s.
“That doesn’t matter, because you’re still Cas. You’re still smart; I mean, your acid trip was about history and friggin’ Bible stories. Who else would have an experience like that? But you’re also so fucking stupid.” He stopped, breathing in deeply through his nose. “I mean, what don’t I know about you? What deep, dark secret could you be hiding that you think you’re such a terrible person? Did you kill someone? Kick a puppy? What?”
Castiel could see the outrage and confusion in his friend’s face and hear it ringing in his words. The young man squirmed in his seat and stared at his lap. “It was bad enough to get me kicked out of my own house, Dean… Doesn’t that tell you enough?”
Dean smirked, shaking his head. “Not really, because Michael’s kind of an all-around douchebag.”
The insult managed to make Cas smile. Even after everything, he still loved his brother… But he had to agree with Dean; Michael was a dick. Still, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Dean turned so that he was facing him more completely. Leaning forward, the man reached out and gripped the other’s sharp, bony shoulder, looking him in the eye. “Come on. Give me the benefit of the doubt here.”
Castiel stared at him, eyes wide and frightened. They were so close, and he knew that it would only take the slightest effort to lean forward and show him exactly what was nearly impossible to say. But he couldn’t do that; he knew he couldn’t do that, and his hands started shaking again, though he couldn’t tell if it was from anxiety or the lack of alcohol.
“I can’t,” he choked out again.
Dean recoiled, affronted by the sound, and stood up abruptly. The trembling man stared at his lap again as he waited. His friend would have a tantrum; he would storm out; he would leave so that he could go be angry somewhere else.
But, astonishingly, he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Fine. You don’t have to tell me now, but… I wanna… I hope you’ll tell me eventually.”
Sky-colored eyes drifted upward, inspecting the other carefully. Dean seemed so out of character in these talks. After all, he’d avoided anything that involved serious matters or emotions like the plague when they were kids. When he finally would open up and talk about them, though, it had always been reluctant and graceless. He’d never heard Dean as open as he had been these past two nights, and it made him wonder if this really was the same man from years ago.
“Maybe,” he yielded.
There was a tense silence, and Dean ran a hand through his hair. “So, I was gonna make dinner - fish.” Castiel silently chuckled at the look of disgust on his man’s face. “When I’m done… would it be cool if I came and ate with you guys?”
His face was screwed up in a small, hopeful smile with raised brows. The bed-ridden man could do nothing but beam warmly and nod. “Of course.”
When he left, Dean took the breakfast plate with him, giving his friend a comment about how he should eat more. His departure signaled to Sam and Gabriel that it was time to reenter. Despite his headache, shakes, and quickly growing fatigue, Castiel managed to remain in high spirits for them. Dinner was… Well, it was nice. They chatted through commercials of some stupid, funny show. They all teased each other, and Dean freaked out when he discovered that Gabriel had already eaten a quarter of the not-so-cleverly hidden apple pie. Cas smiled at the scenes as they unfolded around him, because it felt so much like home and family that warmth spread through his chest. It was one of the rare moments of happiness that he found in real life, and watching his brother and the Winchesters with fond eyes as they quarreled and laughed sealed his decision for him. Dean was right about experiencing real delight, and Cas determined that he wouldn’t call Meg back.
The boys filed out, and Gabriel said his goodbyes. Sam was forced to carry all the dishes. They plates had all been practically licked clean except for Castiel’s, which was only half-eaten. His glass of water, on the other hand, had been filled five times since they’d all sat down (the youngest Winchester had been made the water boy). It was hardly a substitute for alcohol, though.
“Dean.”
The man in question turned around, countenance questioning. Castiel stared at him for a moment, tongue flicking out nervously to wet his lips.
“Thank you,” he finally managed.
Grass-colored eyes crinkled around the edges in contentment. “No problem, Cas.”
The door closed softly behind him, and the sickly man sighed. He spent the next hour watching television before dismissing himself to the bathroom for a shower. When he returned, he fell into the bed (as much as someone with a broken leg, broken ribs, and ruptured spleen could) and nuzzled back into the sheets. The clothes he’d been wearing earlier had been unceremoniously thrown to the floor, all except Dean’s jacket. He told himself he was keeping it because he tended to get cold at night, even with the blankets, so he pulled it on and wrapped it snugly about his emaciated torso. Face buried in the pillow, he slowly inhaled. Moments later, the young man fell asleep.
He was awoken by the rough shaking of his upper body, forcing him awake as a voice urgently called his name. His throat felt raw, and his injured chest and leg screamed in pain alongside old and new bruises. In the first few moments of consciousness, he recognized the absolute terror that had flooded his entire body. It took a few tear-blinded, gasping seconds to get a hold of what was going on and where he was.
He was lying on the ground - well, mostly on the ground - beside his bed. His top half was uncomfortably nestled in someone’s lap, and electric blue eyes worked hard to get the image above him into focus. The terror racking his body lessened slightly at the sight of Dean Winchester’s worried face staring at him from above. He watched the man release a breath, his shoulders relaxing and gaze flicking somewhere more distant. Castiel followed his eyes and saw Sam standing in the doorway, looking just as scared.
“You okay, Cas?” Dean asked, and the two were looking at each other again.
The young man nodded, lifting a bone-thin arm up to brush it over his eyes. “Y-yes. I just… What happened?”
“You had a nightmare, I guess,” he replied, gaze flickering between Sam and Castiel. “You were screaming and when we came in, you were face down on the floor.” He pursed his lips together, then locked eyes with his brother. “Help me get him into the bed.”
The Winchesters carefully picked up their guest, flinching at the pained noises that hissed from between his teeth. When they propped him up, they allowed him to lean against the wall. Blue eyes went wide when Dean’s hand slipped beneath the jacket, pressing against the wound on his chest. When the man pulled it away, he examined his fingers.
“Your stitches might have popped open. Do you mind if I check?”
Cas shook his head, causing the eldest Winchester to look back at his brother. “Uh, go ahead and go back to bed. If we end up needing to go to the hospital, I’ll let you know.”
Sam’s nervous eyes flicked between the two men, and he shifted in his spot. “Are you sure? I mean, I could help…”
His brother just shook his head. “We’ll be fine, Sammy.”
The youngest brother ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair, obviously not convinced. After a moment of awkwardly standing in the doorway, though, he finally left. That was Dean’s cue to sigh and turn back to his friend, taking a seat on the bed. He grabbed the dark green lapels, gingerly working the jacket off of Castiel’s thin shoulders. Blue eyes stared everywhere but at him, his heart beating violently in his pale throat. The coat was laid to the side.
“Arms up.”
The young man did as he was told, staring at the ceiling as the white shirt was pulled up over his head. When it came off, he finally dared to glance at his friend. Green eyes were looking disdainfully at the snakes tattooed on one of the thin arms, and the dark, ugly bruises covering his withered frame and concave stomach. He didn’t stare long, however, and reached forward to peel back the large piece of gauze just under Cas’ pectoral.
There was one long, vertical slice close to the edges of his ribs that ran several inches long. Delicate black stitches surrounded the pink area, keeping the skin together. There seemed to be no bleeding or tearing.
“You’re all right,” Dean concluded. “Good thing you’re getting these things taken out tomorrow. Michael’s coming by at noon to take you to your appointment.”
Castiel bit his lip, looking between his hands and the ceiling, looking anywhere but at Dean because the man’s fingers were gently gliding over his bare skin, trying to delicately reapply the gauze. He didn’t like the idea of seeing Michael. After all, he’d spent the last four and a half years trying to avoid his brother. It had been awkward enough seeing him at the hospital, having to listen to his condescending, bitter, disgusted voice…
Cas took in a deep breath, staring at the black television screen. “Dean, would you be willing to take me instead? I just… I don’t feel comfortable going with Michael.” A more accurate statement would have been I don’t feel comfortable being in a small, confined space with Michael for more than two minutes.
The man furrowed his brows, but gave a small nod. “Uh, yeah. Sure, I guess. I’ll call him in the morning,” he agreed slowly.
Cas nodded, exhaling in relief. “Thank you.”
Dean pressed around the edges of the bandage, hand falling away after what seemed like way too long. The shirtless man’s heart was racing, but not because of his nightmare’s aftermath. He tried to focus on that, though, tried to think of what had scared him so badly.
“Do you… Do you wanna talk about it?”
The messy-haired man adjusted his gaze to stare at Dean. He smirked slightly, because he could hear the effort it took for his friend to say those words. After all, the Winchester didn’t talk about his feelings, and the fact that his face was screwed up in an attempt to look pleasant was enough to make Cas smile.
“No,” he said, chuckling quietly. “It’s okay.”
Slightly offended, the brunette asked, “Why are you laughing?”
“Because, Dean… You’re amusing when you try to make sympathetic conversation.”
The other rolled his eyes and shook his head, though it couldn’t hide the smile creeping up his face, as well. “Like I said… I’m trying to help.” Green eyes fell on Cas, and once more he gave him that look. The look that the pale, thin man had tried to ignore and had tried not to recognize as fondness. “But, seriously… You wanna talk? I’m all ears.”
Castiel shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I actually don’t remember what I had a nightmare about. I’m trying to recall it, but I’m coming up empty.”
“That’s not what I was talking about.”
They stared at each other, and he knew exactly what his friend had meant. He was asking about Michael. He was wondering why Castiel didn’t want to see his brother, why the two Novaks were so estranged. And for an insane moment, Cas thought about telling him. What was the worst that could happen?
He could leave again.
Castiel had to admit, talking to Dean, going out to lunch, just hanging out with him again… It was nice. It was more than nice. It was like he had his best friend back. It was like they were fifteen again, and he’d missed that feeling so bad. Sure, it was probably foolish to think that. He had no reason to believe that he wouldn’t get hurt, but he didn’t particularly care. At least not right now.
But he still couldn’t tell him. Even if he wanted to, he wasn’t sure he’d actually be physically capable of it. After he’d confessed to Michael and it had all blown up in his face, he had never really said it out loud again. Perhaps once or twice while under the influence but never sober. He was afraid of what Dean would think of him, and it was childish because he shouldn’t care. He was smart enough to know that he shouldn’t be ashamed, but that didn’t stop him from trying to ignore it, deny it, sleep with every woman Meg brought to him because maybe one of them would be the one to prove him wrong.
Maybe he’d tell Dean one day, but it wasn’t going to be tonight.
“Will you hand me my shirt?” he asked.
Dean appeared exasperated but did as he was asked anyway. The young man struggled to put it back on, grimacing as his knuckles brushed over new bruises. He felt worse than he had when he’d gone to sleep. As if sensing this, his friend stood up and walked around the bed to the miniature refrigerator. It was stocked with only water, juice and milk now, no trace of liquor. Dean grabbed the milk and filled a plastic cup from the top of the fridge. After handing it to Cas, he rounded the bed to grab the bottle of aspirin from the end table.
“I could’ve gotten that, Dean,” Cas said.
The man shrugged, popping a couple pills into his hand before giving them to his friend. “It’s alright. I don’t mind. I can’t imagine you’re feeling too good, so go ahead and take these.”
Cas swallowed them, and quickly finished the rest of the milk. He handed the cup back to Dean and smiled. “Thank you for taking care of me, Dean,” he murmured sincerely.
He was met with upturned lips, though it looked tired and sad on Dean’s face. “No problem. You gonna be okay?”
Castiel bobbed his head in an answer. “I’m a grown man. I can handle myself.”
“Yeah right,” the brunette snorted. He waited a moment, still staring at his friend before glancing at the door. “Well, I guess I’ll leave… Don’t have any more nightmares, got it?”
“Heh. I got it.”
The lights went out, and the door proclaimed that Dean had left. Castiel slid back into the bed, grabbing the jacket that was still folded near his knees and putting it back on. I don’t want to get cold, he told himself. He fell asleep soon after he laid his head on the pillow, and, thankfully, there were no more nightmares.
Next Chapter
Author: omnomster
Rating: PG-13
Genre: AU, Angst, Romance, Hurt/Comfort
Pairing: Dean/future!Cas
Spoilers: If you know what 2014!cas is like, you should be okay.
Warnings: internalized homophobia, mentions of drug abuse, recovering from alcoholism
Word Count: 4,106
Summary: “Affection is responsible for nine-tenths of whatever solid and durable happiness there is in our lives.” - C.S. Lewis
Chapters: 0 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | +
Defining Happiness
When Sam and Gabriel came home, Castiel wanted nothing to do with them. He was buried in his bed, beneath mountains of sheets and comforters and pillows. His head hurt in a way he couldn’t describe and everything was pissing him off. He almost punched his younger brother when the blonde tried to pull the covers off of him. The high schoolers took that as their cue to leave.
Cas had nightmares for the first time in ages. Apparently, today was perfect for that kind of stuff. After Dean’s departure, when his shaking hands and headache had become too much to deal with, Cas had tried taking a nap, which only made everything worse. He didn’t have another panic attack, though, so there was at least one highlight to his afternoon. There were plenty of times where he thought about leaving the apartment to get a beer or crawling back to Meg and begging for a drink, but he managed to talk himself out of everything. However, he wasn’t sure how long that would last.
Dean came in about an hour or so after his brother, looking rather suspicious. Cas didn’t even notice his entrance; he was still surrounded in a mess of fabric. The guest did notice the man, though, when he could feel something jabbing him. Anger welled up in his chest, and he tried to lash out, yelling muffled threats through the pillow before he finally poked his head out to see who was bothering him.
“What’s up with you, Grumpy?” Dean asked, brows raised in amusement.
Cas’ hair was more of a mess than it usually was, and his face was screwed up in irritation.
“I have a headache and want to sleep,” he grumbled.
He meant to bury his head back into the covers, but Dean reached down and grabbed him by the collar. The bed-ridden man whimpered in exasperation rather than pain as Dean forced him to sit up. Castiel suddenly felt uncomfortable as green eyes flicked to the jacket he was still wearing from lunch. Nonetheless, he grabbed the lapels and pulled it closer to his body before crossing his arms over his chest.
“What, Dean?” and there was more than a little bite to the two words.
“Sam and Gabe said you were being cranky and sent me in to investigate,” the Winchester replied, a smirk playing on his lips. “They’re pretty interested in finding out what happened last night; I think they’re just surprised we didn’t kill each other.”
Cas half-heartedly rolled his eyes. “Well, it looked like that was gonna be the case for awhile there.”
A slight smile crept onto Dean’s face, and he shook his head. “Yeah, it definitely did.” He took a moment to pause, standing next to the bed and looking nowhere in particular. A few seconds passed, and he asked, “So, what’s up with you?”
The guest sighed, lying back down on the bed. “I haven’t had a drink in almost twenty-four hours. So now I’m tired, my head hurts, and I’m trying to resist the urge to steal your money and go get myself something,” he replied flatly.
Dean was taken aback, surprise written all over his face as he inspected his friend. “Well, I’ll make sure not to leave my checkbook laying around, then.” Narrowed blue eyes inspected his face, but the man just gave a morose smile. “Hey, we’re going to set you right, okay? We’re going to fix you.”
The other buried his pale face in the bed, hiding it from his friend. “What if I don’t want to be fixed, Dean?” He’d intended for the words to come out sharp and scathing, but instead they were quiet, slightly muffled, and perhaps even scared. The position he was in caused the stitches in his abdomen to pull, so he adjusted himself and curled his knees up as close to his chest as he could manage.
He couldn’t see Dean, but he could imagine the perplexed countenance he must have been sporting. “Well… Why wouldn’t you?”
Castiel closed his eyes, feeling warm air brush over his nose and cheeks as he breathed into the pillow. “You would not understand,” he replied softly. “I have been living in a fog of decadence for two years. I have surrounded myself in pleasures, and why would anyone want to leave that? Why would anyone want to leave sustainable, near-constant bliss for the real world?”
He heard a sharp exhale. A few seconds passed, and then the bed creaked as Dean sat on the edge. “You’re right. Reality can seriously suck,” the man conceded, “but it can be pretty awesome, too.”
“The first time I tried acid,” Castiel murmured, “I imagined that I grew wings and that I could fly. I traveled across time, the world, and history. I watched Lucifer be cast out of Heaven. I watched the creation and the Fall of Man. I watched the flooding of the world and its ultimate rebirth. I watched as Lot’s wife was turned into a pillar of salt. I stood witness to Hammurabi’s Code being chiseled into stone. I saw the rise of Greek democracy. I saw infuriated nobles write the Magna Carta, and then I heard the bickering and squabbles as our founding fathers drafted our own constitution. I saw pagans battle in the names of their gods. I observed Rome’s triumph and its tragic downfall. I listened to the sound of Nero’s violin as the once great city burned to the ground. Tell me, Dean, what occurrence in my real life could compete?”
Dean didn’t respond for a long time, and Castiel didn’t expect him to. After all, the answer was simple: nothing. Life was cruel and boring; the skeletal creature curled beneath the sheets was but a pinprick on the map of the world’s history. Of course, he’d had bad trips before - terrible, terrible trips - but he generally got to experience a much more fantastic reality than what he usually endured, a place of escape. And who would not want that?
“Were you happy?”
The question struck Castiel, causing him to look up at Dean. The man was barely seated on the bed, giving plenty of room between them. His elbows leaned on his knees, and he stared at his clasped hands.
“I was fascinated,” Castiel replied, blue eyes watching the other inquisitively.
“But were you happy?”
He shrugged, huffing through his nose. “Not in that instance. However, I have had trips where I was happy.”
“What about after you came down?”
Cas gave a sigh and twisted around so that he was lying on his back. “Why are you asking-“
Dean cut him off harshly, “Just answer. Were you happy afterward?”
He let the silence fester for a moment before he finally answered, “No. Never.”
The man sitting on the bed nodded, looking up at the wall as if he’d made his point.
“You know, life can suck. You and I both know that pretty damn well. But I… I don’t have to rely on something to make me happy. I can go out and experience it in the real world. But you… It seems to me like you’ve gotta find some kind of drug or beer or whatever to make you feel that way, and it doesn’t actually help you. Like you said, it only lasts while you’re on it. I guess… I mean, what I’m saying…” Dean fumbled over his words, and his lips pursed together as he tried to find the right phrasing. “When you’re actually happy about something, it stays with you. But the kind of… ecstasy, or whatever, that you get from all that crap doesn’t.” He ran a hand through his hair, obviously unsatisfied with his explanation.
Castiel understood, though. He could at least see where the other man was going. A difference existed between the real world and the fantasy world. The bliss found in the latter could only last in that realm, and upon sobering, the joy found in unreality could never carry over into true reality, because it was an artificial feeling to begin with. No matter what he might experience while he was high, it would only reveal itself again if he did more drugs, and it would never expose itself in real life.
“It’s not just about happiness, Dean,” he responded, closing his eyes. “It’s about separating from one’s surroundings and one’s self.”
“Well, suck it up.”
The young man’s eyes snapped back open, and he stared incredulously at his friend. “Excuse me?”
Dean finally looked at him, as well, and his face was completely serious. “Suck it up. We’ve all got shit to deal with in our lives, and we gotta face it. You can’t just run from your problems, or they’re gonna build up and come back to bite you in the ass. It ain’t easy, but it’s just what we gotta do.”
Blue hues flashed dangerously, and the injured one managed to push himself into an upright position. With a rising voice, he said, “Dean, you are-“
“No, listen to me. Life can suck, but it can be awesome, too. Stuff that happens in reality is what’s gonna make you happy, not some… Some shit that’s slowly killing you and leaves you feelin’ even worse when it’s all over.” His voice was building in exasperation and anger. “And I don’t get it. Why don’t you like you? I mean, sure, you’ve been doing some pretty fucked up stuff lately, but...”
Castiel licked his lips, breathing in the silence. “You don’t know everything about me,” he replied, his voice meek and quiet compared to the other’s.
“That doesn’t matter, because you’re still Cas. You’re still smart; I mean, your acid trip was about history and friggin’ Bible stories. Who else would have an experience like that? But you’re also so fucking stupid.” He stopped, breathing in deeply through his nose. “I mean, what don’t I know about you? What deep, dark secret could you be hiding that you think you’re such a terrible person? Did you kill someone? Kick a puppy? What?”
Castiel could see the outrage and confusion in his friend’s face and hear it ringing in his words. The young man squirmed in his seat and stared at his lap. “It was bad enough to get me kicked out of my own house, Dean… Doesn’t that tell you enough?”
Dean smirked, shaking his head. “Not really, because Michael’s kind of an all-around douchebag.”
The insult managed to make Cas smile. Even after everything, he still loved his brother… But he had to agree with Dean; Michael was a dick. Still, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Dean turned so that he was facing him more completely. Leaning forward, the man reached out and gripped the other’s sharp, bony shoulder, looking him in the eye. “Come on. Give me the benefit of the doubt here.”
Castiel stared at him, eyes wide and frightened. They were so close, and he knew that it would only take the slightest effort to lean forward and show him exactly what was nearly impossible to say. But he couldn’t do that; he knew he couldn’t do that, and his hands started shaking again, though he couldn’t tell if it was from anxiety or the lack of alcohol.
“I can’t,” he choked out again.
Dean recoiled, affronted by the sound, and stood up abruptly. The trembling man stared at his lap again as he waited. His friend would have a tantrum; he would storm out; he would leave so that he could go be angry somewhere else.
But, astonishingly, he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Fine. You don’t have to tell me now, but… I wanna… I hope you’ll tell me eventually.”
Sky-colored eyes drifted upward, inspecting the other carefully. Dean seemed so out of character in these talks. After all, he’d avoided anything that involved serious matters or emotions like the plague when they were kids. When he finally would open up and talk about them, though, it had always been reluctant and graceless. He’d never heard Dean as open as he had been these past two nights, and it made him wonder if this really was the same man from years ago.
“Maybe,” he yielded.
There was a tense silence, and Dean ran a hand through his hair. “So, I was gonna make dinner - fish.” Castiel silently chuckled at the look of disgust on his man’s face. “When I’m done… would it be cool if I came and ate with you guys?”
His face was screwed up in a small, hopeful smile with raised brows. The bed-ridden man could do nothing but beam warmly and nod. “Of course.”
When he left, Dean took the breakfast plate with him, giving his friend a comment about how he should eat more. His departure signaled to Sam and Gabriel that it was time to reenter. Despite his headache, shakes, and quickly growing fatigue, Castiel managed to remain in high spirits for them. Dinner was… Well, it was nice. They chatted through commercials of some stupid, funny show. They all teased each other, and Dean freaked out when he discovered that Gabriel had already eaten a quarter of the not-so-cleverly hidden apple pie. Cas smiled at the scenes as they unfolded around him, because it felt so much like home and family that warmth spread through his chest. It was one of the rare moments of happiness that he found in real life, and watching his brother and the Winchesters with fond eyes as they quarreled and laughed sealed his decision for him. Dean was right about experiencing real delight, and Cas determined that he wouldn’t call Meg back.
The boys filed out, and Gabriel said his goodbyes. Sam was forced to carry all the dishes. They plates had all been practically licked clean except for Castiel’s, which was only half-eaten. His glass of water, on the other hand, had been filled five times since they’d all sat down (the youngest Winchester had been made the water boy). It was hardly a substitute for alcohol, though.
“Dean.”
The man in question turned around, countenance questioning. Castiel stared at him for a moment, tongue flicking out nervously to wet his lips.
“Thank you,” he finally managed.
Grass-colored eyes crinkled around the edges in contentment. “No problem, Cas.”
The door closed softly behind him, and the sickly man sighed. He spent the next hour watching television before dismissing himself to the bathroom for a shower. When he returned, he fell into the bed (as much as someone with a broken leg, broken ribs, and ruptured spleen could) and nuzzled back into the sheets. The clothes he’d been wearing earlier had been unceremoniously thrown to the floor, all except Dean’s jacket. He told himself he was keeping it because he tended to get cold at night, even with the blankets, so he pulled it on and wrapped it snugly about his emaciated torso. Face buried in the pillow, he slowly inhaled. Moments later, the young man fell asleep.
He was awoken by the rough shaking of his upper body, forcing him awake as a voice urgently called his name. His throat felt raw, and his injured chest and leg screamed in pain alongside old and new bruises. In the first few moments of consciousness, he recognized the absolute terror that had flooded his entire body. It took a few tear-blinded, gasping seconds to get a hold of what was going on and where he was.
He was lying on the ground - well, mostly on the ground - beside his bed. His top half was uncomfortably nestled in someone’s lap, and electric blue eyes worked hard to get the image above him into focus. The terror racking his body lessened slightly at the sight of Dean Winchester’s worried face staring at him from above. He watched the man release a breath, his shoulders relaxing and gaze flicking somewhere more distant. Castiel followed his eyes and saw Sam standing in the doorway, looking just as scared.
“You okay, Cas?” Dean asked, and the two were looking at each other again.
The young man nodded, lifting a bone-thin arm up to brush it over his eyes. “Y-yes. I just… What happened?”
“You had a nightmare, I guess,” he replied, gaze flickering between Sam and Castiel. “You were screaming and when we came in, you were face down on the floor.” He pursed his lips together, then locked eyes with his brother. “Help me get him into the bed.”
The Winchesters carefully picked up their guest, flinching at the pained noises that hissed from between his teeth. When they propped him up, they allowed him to lean against the wall. Blue eyes went wide when Dean’s hand slipped beneath the jacket, pressing against the wound on his chest. When the man pulled it away, he examined his fingers.
“Your stitches might have popped open. Do you mind if I check?”
Cas shook his head, causing the eldest Winchester to look back at his brother. “Uh, go ahead and go back to bed. If we end up needing to go to the hospital, I’ll let you know.”
Sam’s nervous eyes flicked between the two men, and he shifted in his spot. “Are you sure? I mean, I could help…”
His brother just shook his head. “We’ll be fine, Sammy.”
The youngest brother ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair, obviously not convinced. After a moment of awkwardly standing in the doorway, though, he finally left. That was Dean’s cue to sigh and turn back to his friend, taking a seat on the bed. He grabbed the dark green lapels, gingerly working the jacket off of Castiel’s thin shoulders. Blue eyes stared everywhere but at him, his heart beating violently in his pale throat. The coat was laid to the side.
“Arms up.”
The young man did as he was told, staring at the ceiling as the white shirt was pulled up over his head. When it came off, he finally dared to glance at his friend. Green eyes were looking disdainfully at the snakes tattooed on one of the thin arms, and the dark, ugly bruises covering his withered frame and concave stomach. He didn’t stare long, however, and reached forward to peel back the large piece of gauze just under Cas’ pectoral.
There was one long, vertical slice close to the edges of his ribs that ran several inches long. Delicate black stitches surrounded the pink area, keeping the skin together. There seemed to be no bleeding or tearing.
“You’re all right,” Dean concluded. “Good thing you’re getting these things taken out tomorrow. Michael’s coming by at noon to take you to your appointment.”
Castiel bit his lip, looking between his hands and the ceiling, looking anywhere but at Dean because the man’s fingers were gently gliding over his bare skin, trying to delicately reapply the gauze. He didn’t like the idea of seeing Michael. After all, he’d spent the last four and a half years trying to avoid his brother. It had been awkward enough seeing him at the hospital, having to listen to his condescending, bitter, disgusted voice…
Cas took in a deep breath, staring at the black television screen. “Dean, would you be willing to take me instead? I just… I don’t feel comfortable going with Michael.” A more accurate statement would have been I don’t feel comfortable being in a small, confined space with Michael for more than two minutes.
The man furrowed his brows, but gave a small nod. “Uh, yeah. Sure, I guess. I’ll call him in the morning,” he agreed slowly.
Cas nodded, exhaling in relief. “Thank you.”
Dean pressed around the edges of the bandage, hand falling away after what seemed like way too long. The shirtless man’s heart was racing, but not because of his nightmare’s aftermath. He tried to focus on that, though, tried to think of what had scared him so badly.
“Do you… Do you wanna talk about it?”
The messy-haired man adjusted his gaze to stare at Dean. He smirked slightly, because he could hear the effort it took for his friend to say those words. After all, the Winchester didn’t talk about his feelings, and the fact that his face was screwed up in an attempt to look pleasant was enough to make Cas smile.
“No,” he said, chuckling quietly. “It’s okay.”
Slightly offended, the brunette asked, “Why are you laughing?”
“Because, Dean… You’re amusing when you try to make sympathetic conversation.”
The other rolled his eyes and shook his head, though it couldn’t hide the smile creeping up his face, as well. “Like I said… I’m trying to help.” Green eyes fell on Cas, and once more he gave him that look. The look that the pale, thin man had tried to ignore and had tried not to recognize as fondness. “But, seriously… You wanna talk? I’m all ears.”
Castiel shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I actually don’t remember what I had a nightmare about. I’m trying to recall it, but I’m coming up empty.”
“That’s not what I was talking about.”
They stared at each other, and he knew exactly what his friend had meant. He was asking about Michael. He was wondering why Castiel didn’t want to see his brother, why the two Novaks were so estranged. And for an insane moment, Cas thought about telling him. What was the worst that could happen?
He could leave again.
Castiel had to admit, talking to Dean, going out to lunch, just hanging out with him again… It was nice. It was more than nice. It was like he had his best friend back. It was like they were fifteen again, and he’d missed that feeling so bad. Sure, it was probably foolish to think that. He had no reason to believe that he wouldn’t get hurt, but he didn’t particularly care. At least not right now.
But he still couldn’t tell him. Even if he wanted to, he wasn’t sure he’d actually be physically capable of it. After he’d confessed to Michael and it had all blown up in his face, he had never really said it out loud again. Perhaps once or twice while under the influence but never sober. He was afraid of what Dean would think of him, and it was childish because he shouldn’t care. He was smart enough to know that he shouldn’t be ashamed, but that didn’t stop him from trying to ignore it, deny it, sleep with every woman Meg brought to him because maybe one of them would be the one to prove him wrong.
Maybe he’d tell Dean one day, but it wasn’t going to be tonight.
“Will you hand me my shirt?” he asked.
Dean appeared exasperated but did as he was asked anyway. The young man struggled to put it back on, grimacing as his knuckles brushed over new bruises. He felt worse than he had when he’d gone to sleep. As if sensing this, his friend stood up and walked around the bed to the miniature refrigerator. It was stocked with only water, juice and milk now, no trace of liquor. Dean grabbed the milk and filled a plastic cup from the top of the fridge. After handing it to Cas, he rounded the bed to grab the bottle of aspirin from the end table.
“I could’ve gotten that, Dean,” Cas said.
The man shrugged, popping a couple pills into his hand before giving them to his friend. “It’s alright. I don’t mind. I can’t imagine you’re feeling too good, so go ahead and take these.”
Cas swallowed them, and quickly finished the rest of the milk. He handed the cup back to Dean and smiled. “Thank you for taking care of me, Dean,” he murmured sincerely.
He was met with upturned lips, though it looked tired and sad on Dean’s face. “No problem. You gonna be okay?”
Castiel bobbed his head in an answer. “I’m a grown man. I can handle myself.”
“Yeah right,” the brunette snorted. He waited a moment, still staring at his friend before glancing at the door. “Well, I guess I’ll leave… Don’t have any more nightmares, got it?”
“Heh. I got it.”
The lights went out, and the door proclaimed that Dean had left. Castiel slid back into the bed, grabbing the jacket that was still folded near his knees and putting it back on. I don’t want to get cold, he told himself. He fell asleep soon after he laid his head on the pillow, and, thankfully, there were no more nightmares.
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