The Butterfly Effect [2/3]
THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT;
PART TWO
Author/Artist: devilsduplicity
Recipient: imisspadfoot21
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas/future!Dean/future!Cas (and every variation thereof), Prophet!Chuck (if but briefly).
Rating: R
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for 5x04. Angst, slash, dub-con, bittersweet endings.
Notes/Prompt: There were so many amazing prompts, but I only had the time to do one of them properly. Mainly because I'm a word-whore and I get carried away. >> Prompt was, 5x04 fic...kind of. Present!Cas somehow gets sent into the future with Dean. Future!Cas shows present!Dean how his relationship with present!Cas will end up. Future!Dean and present!Cas watch...or participate. Would love some present!Cas/future!Cas with future!Cas not being gentle. I didn't entirely stay true to all of it, but I hope you like it all the same!
Word Count: 21,000~
Summary: Castiel is sent to the future with Dean. Chaos ensues.
Many thanks to painted_pain for beta'ing the first few parts of this story, and of course sin_unforgiven for listening to me babble about my woes and cheering me on through the whole process.
"This is bullshit."
"This is bullshit."
"You're tellin' me."
Dean bumped beer cans with Dean.
His mind would never get used to thinking those kinds of things.
"So you're stuck here until he comes back to get you?"
"Yep."
"Sucks."
"Yep."
If Zachariah's ass-hattery was any indication, the past people would probably be there for a very long time. Dean took a swig of his beer, peered over at his younger self, and then took a few silent moments to contemplate his options here. This could actually be a good thing, when he thought about it. The last time an angel had set foot on earth had been years ago. He'd been screaming his throat raw, begging to say yes to no avail for about the same amount of time, but no one had listened because no one was there. With an angel finally thrown back into the mix, maybe his pleas would finally be heard?
Aside from that optimistic outlook, he had his past self to think about.
He didn't really like to think about the Dean sitting beside him as "himself", because the differences between the both of them stretched further than the jackets they wore. Sure, on the surface they were twins, but it was obvious that past-Dean was more pig-headed and sympathetic. Soft.
The Croatoan virus had turned Dean into his own sort of monster. If he didn't block bad experiences out, if he didn't compartmentalize his mind and focus on one thing at a time, one goal, one mission; if he didn't quell his emotions and fight to remain level-headed, he would have died a long time ago. He would have died, or he would have gone crazy.
And sure, he wasn't entirely complete as is, what with his broken morals and shattered dreams; the helplessness that came of literally losing every hope he ever had. Of losing--
Yeah, there were a lot of things wrong with him, but he was tough, and he'd been tried, and he'd been beaten so many times his bruises had turned into scars. He would survive.
Past him, though? That guy didn't have a lick of sense, and he was utterly clueless when it came to the customs and traditions of this day and age. He had too much hope, fought too hard for Dean's tastes. It would only break him in the end; would only wear him down.
Dean took another long draw on his beer, his attention only half wavering in and out of this particular plane of existence. His mind was wandering, he knew that, but he'd had a rough day, and all things considered, he was pretty damn sure he deserved a break from thinking.
"Got another?" asked his younger self, and Dean just shrugged.
"Sorry. We're running low."
"Cas got three," the other Dean pointed out.
"Cas is a whore," future-Dean said in reply, and even though he was only directing that statement towards the once-angel's drinking habits, it somehow applied in vastly different ways.
The silence that threaded between them was short and heavy.
"What--" began the man sitting to his left, and then he broke off to take in a deep breath. "What happened to him?"
It was the very question past-Dean been afraid of asking Cas himself. He wanted to know, truly, desperately wanted to know, but he was also terrified of the answer, and admittedly very confused by Cas. His mind just simply couldn't reconcile the differences in character.
Dean leaned forward in his chair. His legs, which before had been stretched out and crossed at the ankles, drew in until he could rest his elbows on his knees.
He thought about it.
He thought about it for a very long time, his brow creasing in concentration, and when he finally found the answer he was looking for, he downed the rest of his drink and leaned back in his chair.
"Life."
~*~*~*~
Castiel was hanging out with Castiel, and fortunately neither of them had a headache because of it. One was still an angel, after all, so there was some distinction between them. Both Deans had secluded themselves away in the kitchen while both angel and ex-angel were having their own little staring contest in the main room.
It was the future version of Cas that broke away first, though not out of defeat. He seemed to have something a little different in mind, or perhaps his attention span just wasn't long enough to deal with the bullshit of intimidating himself. He didn't know; he didn't particularly care.
The other two men were talking quietly to themselves, and then the other room fell silent, and it was at that time that Cas had an idea.
A craving, to be more accurate.
"Let's go back to Dean's place," he said, turning before the other could answer, shuffling through his cabin and raiding the various drawers. He pocketed a few items -- little orange bottles, small vials of what looked to be something decidedly alcoholic -- and busied himself by taking a general sweep of the entire area. For all intense and purposes, it looked like he was stocking up.
Castiel tipped his head to the side, watching the strange mannerisms of the man in the room. Dean had, tentatively, also told him about this, so the initial recognition hadn't been much of a shock. He studied his twin like a peculiar specimen, somewhat confused as to what, exactly, the other person was doing. But he asked no question, said no words, until a pair of eyes flashed his way, slightly more lucid than before.
"What d'you say?"
Castiel didn't think they should leave. He said as much, and Cas merely shook his head.
"Oh, come on. You've gotta learn to stand on your own two feet sometime. Might as well do it now, while you've got yourself to show you the ropes."
The logic was knotted, at best; twisted so thoroughly it hardly made any sense.
But Castiel didn't really have anything better to do, and Dean could take care of himself, so he finally relented and soon found himself being dragged out the door by grasping fingers.
Dean's cabin wasn't too far away. It was right down the road, in fact, and that served to put Castiel's nerves at ease. At least the hunter wouldn't worry about him too much. His possessiveness, which had at first been flattering and had since then quickly fallen to annoying, was once again rising to the rank of endearing, so he allowed it quite magnanimously.
This cabin had an actual, honest-to-God front door which Cas practically kicked open. He pulled Castiel inside by the sleeve of his trench coat, then back-kicked the swinging door closed and trekked further into the room, perfectly at ease invading the other Dean's private space.
"Take a load off," he said, then did as much himself, flopping down into a chair and kicking his feet up on the table. Dean hated it when he did that, especially in his own home, but, well, Dean wasn't there, so he could just suck it.
Castiel remained standing, his muscles tight and his features tighter.
Cas shrugged, unfazed and unaffected, then started digging through his pockets and deposited his goodies on the table like candy treats stolen from Halloween.
Amphetamines. Rolls of cigarettes. Cocaine. Pot. Bottles of an indeterminable origin. Vials filled with an unknown liquid.
For Cas, it was like candy, and he sifted through each find with the steady, warm excitement of a child opening up their first gift on Christmas morning.
"What's your poison?" he asked amiably, then continued to section off the various items he'd brought with him, separating them into little piles.
Castiel blinked, slid his eyes down to stare at the various substances, then raked his gaze back up to the other man.
"These aren't good for you." He could tell instinctively.
"Damn straight," came the reply, and then Cas proceeded to pop the cap off of one of his bottles, shook out a few small, white capsules, and then swallowed them dry. "Want some?"
There was something very wrong here, and not even just by obvious means. Castiel could see himself, his future self, and he was fully conscious of his own essence, of his own dwindling grace, but the gap between what he was now and what he was expected to become was something he was truly incapable of filling. He couldn't understand how he could fall so far, though in a way it sort of made sense. He was pretty much entirely certain that he'd do anything for Dean -- anything. And if that 'anything' consisted of walking a path that led to this, then, well... yes. Yes, it made sense.
He swallowed thickly, caught in his own gaze, and he suddenly felt very trapped, even though it was obvious that his was the superior power in the room. His future self just had an air about him. The easy-going nature was friendly, open, welcoming, but what unfurled literally just beneath the skin was a huge swell of emotion, a giant coil of bitterness and anger and danger. Castiel was, quite simply, taken aback by it. Stunned, so to speak. Intimidated, if he was being entirely honest with himself.
Which he was. Brutally.
"No," Castiel replied, his eyes drifting to the outstretched bottle. He had no desire to feel the same ecstasy coursing through the other man's body.
Even though he was curious.
But, no. No.
"Hmm," Cas mumbled in the back of his throat, pulling back his hand and dragging the bottle of pills with him. "Maybe not amphetamines, then." He peered at the table, at the rest of his treats, then glanced back at Castiel as if judging his tolerance for recreational drugs.
Decision made, he reached forward, picked up one of the hand-rolled cigarettes, then popped out a lighter and flicked the flame towards the tip.
"Here," he said, watching the smoke rise up off the end. "Have a joint."
Castiel figured that this was a really bad idea.
"I don't--"
"Come on," said Cas, his eyes turning from demanding to somewhat pleading. "I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. I may be self-destructive, but I'm not suicidal." He flashed a grin then, all teeth and smiles and pleasantries, and it was that look that got Castiel to finally settle down into a chair beside his future self.
He leaned forward, fingers sliding against his knees, and peered over at the man with an air of weariness he usually only reserved for Dean.
"Two-thousand nine, right?" Cas asked.
Castiel nodded, his eyelids drooping slightly, as if he was fatigued.
"Then here." And the joint was thrust in the angel's direction, chanting at him, tempting him with little curls and wisps of smoke.
This was a bad idea.
His fingers curled around the joint anyway.
A little smoke never did anyone harm, and Castiel wasn't one to get addicted to anything. He may have rebelled, but he hadn't fallen, and he still knew his boundaries, still knew what was morally right and what was morally wrong. Something that made him feel so good... there was no way it could be too bad, right? Dean had told him to loosen up -- many, many times before -- so he was really only doing what Dean had asked. The sense of weightlessness was definitely interesting, and a weird coil of emotion jumbled up inside his chest and loosened his lips, making him feel, for all intents and purposes, quite ethereal. Which was just plain funny, because he was already ethereal, so how could he be even more of what he was?
The twisted thoughts spiraled around in his head, but instead of overwhelming him, they only made his lips tip upwards.
Cas had abandoned his bottle several minutes ago, and now both of them were sitting on the floor -- one cross-legged, the other with legs outstretched -- and were passing the joint back and forth between each other.
Sharing was good, wasn't it? There was nothing wrong with this.
Dean found him like this. Both of them.
Cas smiled up at his familiar babysitter, and Castiel shied away from the glare his friend was giving him.
"What do you think you're doing?" Dean demanded, barging into the cabin with all the fury of a freight train. His twin hung back and leaned against the door frame, shamelessly unfazed.
"Sharing a... joint," Castiel answered, staring down at the cigarette in his hand. His good mood had flown right out the window the second Dean had raised his voice at him. He didn't understand why the other man was so mad. Cas had said it was alright -- Cas wouldn't hurt him.
"Oh, are you, now?"
~*~*~*~
Dean was... well. Dean was out of his mind or something, because his nerves were buzzing like crazy and he was overreacting to the entire situation, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. If he'd caught Sammy with his pants down, he would have applauded his brother for finally getting up enough courage to go out and have some fun. Cas, though? Cas was a naive little angel that could be taken advantage of so terribly easily, and the principle of the matter hurt Dean more than the act itself.
"Give me that," he said, and snatched the cigarette out of Castiel's hand, then whipped around and pointed an accusing finger at the other Cas. "You," he practically hissed, nose curling up in frustration. "This is all your fault, isn't it?"
Cas blinked, grabbed the knees of his crossed legs reflexively.
"Calm down," he said, then opened his mouth to say something else, but Dean cut him off.
"Calm down? You're taking advantage of yourself, and I'm supposed to calm down." His anger was steadily spiraling down, down, down into a hole that just kept getting bigger. "You're drowning out the damned world with all these fucking pills, dragging Cas into that pit with you, and I'm supposed to calm the fuck down?"
It was when Cas flinched, when he drew his legs in further and curled in on himself like a kicked animal, that Dean realized he had gone too far.
The other Dean stepped in about then, muted heat flashing in his eyes. He crossed the room, put himself between past-Dean and his Cas, then crossed his arms and jerked his head towards the open door.
"You need to leave," he said. "Both of you."
Neither dared protest.
When they were gone, out the door and down the road without a word spoken between them, Dean turned back to Cas and regarded him for a very long time.
"Get up," he said, uncrossing his arms, and though he'd meant to be compassionate, he only sounded cold.
"No," Cas said in reply, so coiled up by now that his shoulders were hunched remarkably forward and he was practically curled up in the fetal position on Dean's dirty wooden floor.
Dean sighed, turned to his little kitchen area and poured himself a glass of warm scotch. When Cas didn't get up immediately to demand a glass of his own, he knew something was definitely wrong.
Not that he'd ask about it. They were way past that. Dean didn't question why Cas did what he did, and Cas didn't question why Dean did what he did. The steady decline of morals had been inevitable, but at least this way they didn't grow to actually hate each other; they just disliked each other every now and then.
Cas had left the building a long time ago. Dean was bitter about that, and he downed his cup and refilled it to make himself forget his own emotions.
Dean had stopped caring a long time ago. Cas had been hurt because of that, and so had withdrawn into himself to try and handle his human emotions on his own.
They were both a little fucked up.
"Stop whining," Dean barked out gruffly, drowning his tone of voice with another shot. He was trying here, dammit, and he couldn't even do that right.
Cas didn't care. He sort of gave a little chuckle, though with his face buried in his arms, it was hard to tell.
"No," he mumbled again, and now he was just being petulant, but he wanted to act childish, and that was just that.
There was a sigh to break the monotony of silence, which was quickly accompanied by harsh footsteps clacking against the wood. Two booted feet came into view, and Cas didn't bother to look up or attempt eye contact. He was completely satisfied to sit there and study those shoes as if they were his last lifeline to sanity.
Dean broke a rule.
"What's wrong?"
They never asked each other that question. It was always either a blatant disregard of the other's feelings, or a simple understanding that some things were best left unsaid. They'd worked together in that manner for years, and though the slip of their friendship had been about as pleasant as a knife sliding through skin, it had been, on many accounts, the only way to cope.
Cas did glance up at that one, his brows knitting together out of confusion.
"What's it to ya'?"
And, yeah, he might have sounded horribly defensive, but Dean didn't ask things like that, and Cas didn't really think the other man was capable of sympathy. He smelt suspicion, but he'd been wrong before. It was hard to always be right when you were always high. Cas only had about a ninety-five percent perfection rate.
Dean, for his part, felt like grinding his teeth together and just giving up, but the reappearance of their past selves had struck something in him that had been laying long dormant. Being witness to his other self's intensely protective nature had made him live vicariously for just half a moment.
Half a moment was all he needed to realize that he didn't hate Cas, and that, okay, maybe he was a dick, and maybe he had some attitude problems, but he still sort of wanted to protect the guy. And for a while he'd thought that Cas didn't need protecting, because they'd shown him the ropes, taught him how to use a gun, how to shoot down a damned Croat in the blink of an eye with little to no reaction time whatsoever; had taught him self-defense, and how to drink, and how to gamble, and how getting laid was totally awesome. He'd taught him a lot of things, and then had set him loose in that big, wide, dangerous world, and he'd felt a little cold because the only person he had left obviously didn't need looking after any more.
Only, he did.
Cas needed to be protected.
From himself.
Shaking his head, Dean set his glass on the table with a sigh. Then, without warning, he folded his legs and settled down on the ground beside the other man, sitting close enough that their knees clanked together.
"Spill."
Cas stared at the point where their bodies touched for longer than was absolutely necessary. He was drawn to it, though, as if the slight heat of Dean's clothed knee scraping against the edge of his jeans was some sort of lifeline.
"Nothing to say," he said back, licking his bottom lip.
"Bullshit," Dean replied, stiff and unmoving. "I'm not gonna ask again."
Sure, it was a threat, but Dean didn't have a lot of time to waste and needed to get to the heart of the matter before he closed up again like he always did.
Cas sensed this, because he was just good at sensing the subtleties that made up Dean's psyche -- he'd had plenty of practice. So instead of avoiding the subject, again, he opted to lean forward and lay his head in his hands, sighing a sigh so deep, it rattled Dean's bones.
"He doesn't like me."
Dean had to do a double-take at that one.
"Who? Castiel?"
Cas shook his head, smiling slightly, though the motion was hollow and unfulfilled.
"How can I not like myself?" he asked, touch of humor to his voice, and though he was only kidding, Dean could definitely think of at least one person who didn't like himself.
He didn't respond, only waited.
Cas continued, "No. You. You don't like me."
The silence that followed was absolutely dreadful. Were they really having this talk? It all seemed entirely too surreal. There Dean was, trying to console the only person who had stuck with him through it all, and now things had taken a decidedly awkward turn.
"That's not true," Dean hedged, eying the guy with trepidation.
Cas barked out a cough that was somewhat similar to a laugh.
"You can lie to yourself all you want, Dean. But you don't like me."
"Don't put words in my mouth," was the harsh reply.
"You won't say anything otherwise."
And sure, it had been a low blow, but it was also entirely true. When Dean Winchester didn't want to talk, Dean Winchester didn't talk. And feelings? Those were something he liked to keep blissfully silent.
"Look," he said coldly, jerking up off of the floor and stretching his legs far enough to take him to the other side of the room. "I'm just trying to help. You don't have to be all-- I just want to-- Fuck, I don't even know why I try." He ran a hand through his hair, slid it down the side of his face, then spun around and gripped the kitchen counter so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Fine," he bit out. "Think what you want."
A chest was pressed flush against his back half a moment later, and Dean felt extremely stupid for letting anyone sneak up on him like that. When Castiel spoke, though, instead of relaxing, his body only tensed up all the more.
"Do you like me, Dean?" he asked, his mouth barely a whisper away from resting against the curve of Dean's neck.
Dean shivered, felt like whipping around and socking Cas in the jaw, but resisted the urge and forced his heart to stop thumping so violently in his chest. Cas was practically a nymphomaniac, and the only person Dean had to blame for that was himself. He'd shown the angel decadence, had thrown every immoral satisfaction in the other's face, and had watched as his grace burned ever so slowly from his body. Instead of consoling him, though, instead of trying to understand, he'd had way too many problems to deal with to focus on anyone else for too long -- Sam -- and so had done the only thing he knew to do: he'd taken all of the worldly pleasure that he'd once used to hide behind, and had pushed it all onto the other man.
Cas had taken to sex quite well. Dean knew from personal experience, and he supposed that's what hurt all the more. They'd been close, once; closer than anyone knew. And somewhere along the way, everything had just... fallen apart.
The memory of jagged lines and rough, masculine curves was pressed harshly into his spine, mocking him with an intimacy that had been ripped away from him; mocking him with the promise of something he could never have again.
It used to be about something more than sex. Now, carnal pleasure was all Cas sought.
That was alright, though. Dean had nothing else to give.
~*~*~*~
The early evening found Dean and Cas sitting on the steps just outside of one of the cabins. Dean was hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and Castiel sat stiff-backed beside him, though his posture was a little more fluid than before. The silence between them was forced and awkward and nearly painful, but it seemed nothing could keep it from stretching further, invading the night like something physical. Neither one of them really wanted to talk about what had just happened, about Dean's freak-out and the subsequent yelling, but something had to be said, and in the end, it was Dean who cracked.
"You're really a piece of work, you know that?"
No apology, of course. He was convinced he was in the right, and so he would fight tooth and nail to prove it.
Castiel canted his head to the side just enough to regard the other out of the corner of his eye.
"I did nothing wrong," he pointed out, and though he didn't really mean to sound high and mighty, the holier-than-thou voice was blatantly obvious in his tone.
Leave it to an angel to profess holiness after having just smoked a joint.
That was where the conversation started to derail.
"Really?" Dean shook his head, stiffened up until his features were as cold as stone. "Really? You thought sharing a good 'ole toke with your evil twin was a perfectly normal thing to do?"
"This situation could hardly be classified as 'normal'," Cas replied, his own presence clenching in on itself until he'd veritably clammed up emotionally.
Dean was about two seconds away from beating something with a stick.
"Cas," he said, then leaped up and twirled around to point an accusing finger at his friend. "You're just-- I don't even know how to handle you. Look, if you don't wanna cooperate, if you don't wanna fucking be around me, all you've gotta do is leave. Door's open, it swings both ways, got it? I'm not--"
He twisted again, sucked in a deep, burning breath, and stared out at the slowly darkening sky, tried his hardest to gather his thoughts and calm his nerves, but currently they were buzzing around like vicious bees, and it took everything within him to not whirl around and introduce Castiel's face to his fist.
Again.
Cas didn't move, didn't bother to waste a breath on the one-sided conversation he was currently witnessing. Though, for every rising word, his eyes had gotten rounder, more confused, until he was left staring at Dean's back with no way to respond to the emotion he felt rolling off of the other in waves. Castiel could barely grasp the reasoning behind Dean's frustration, only that he was upset, and it was apparently the angel's fault, somehow, and therefore it was his duty to fix whatever wrong he had committed.
People were just plain confusing, if you asked him.
The sound of shuffling fabric broke the stillness in the air, and a moment later Cas was standing beside Dean, shoulder-to-shoulder, peering up at the night sky with the same intensity as the hunter. Nothing was said for a very long time, but unspoken things were felt, breaths curling out into the air with a coolness that better calmed the anger that had been suffocating the general area before.
Even though the world was ending, life, of all shapes and sizes, kept moving on. It was how it had always been, how it always would be, Devil or no, and there was something almost comforting in the monotony, the very drum beat, of existence.
Castiel could find peace in these things.
Dean needed more.
Dean was... Cas had a hard time putting his name to a specific personality. It was hard to pinpoint what made that particular human tick, and the mystery of it all, the err of judgment and imperfections that littered his frame, the purity and marred spirit, the kind heart, it was all an intriguing enigma that drew the angel in like a moth to a flame.
Relating Dean to fire was definitely an appropriate allegory. He could be warm at times, and bright, and wholly comforting. And at other times he could be brash, and fierce, and raging. He flipped like a switch, and Castiel simply didn't know how to handle him. He didn't know what to do to make things better, because Dean needed someone who was well accustomed to human ways, who could grasp his jokes and toss in their own remarks; who could soothe his frustration with logic and reason and the kind of knowledge only a native human could ever really possess.
"I'm sorry."
Apologizing was the only thing Castiel knew to do.
Dean deflated immediately. His shoulders slumped forward in defeat, and after another long, several minutes of staring up at the sky, he finally lowered his head and let his gaze burn a hole through the dirt.
"It's okay, Cas," he relented, and Castiel took note of how his clenched fingers loosened, how they pressed into his thighs instead, rose up and curled around the belt loops of his pants.
Castiel nodded once, dipped his head down then back up, and his eyes traveled from the hem of Dean's pants up to his curious, world-weary eyes.
What next? Cas had served to quell Dean's anger, sure, but now he just looked sad and that was almost worse. He'd apologized, which was something he figured would be the right thing to do, but after that he was treading on tentative territory, with no indication of how to continue on from there. Cas wanted to fix this, somehow, and he really had no idea where to start.
Except.
But, no. Dean wouldn't like that.
Only...
Sam had suggested it once, and Castiel had tucked it away in his mind for further consideration at another time, but he'd never had a reason to utilize the particular strategy that the younger Winchester brother had proposed.
Until now.
Well. In the very least, it wouldn't hurt matters.
Castiel took in a breath, steeled himself for what he was about to do -- he only knew the technique in theory, had seen it occur between others, but had never before had occasion to do it himself -- and turned to Dean with a steady stance.
Dean watched him, his relaxed, somewhat depressed mood sliding into suspicion.
"What're you doin--"
Cas stepped forward, thoroughly invaded his personal space, then set his chin atop Dean's shoulder and wrapped his arms stiffly around the other's waist. He tugged the human closer, pulled him into the tight circle of his arms, until their chests were pressed flush together and the other's warmth seeped into the layers of his trench coat.
Several seconds passed while their bodies got accustomed to this new shift in positions.
"Uh, Cas?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow and shuffling around in unmoving arms. "What do you think you're doing?"
Castiel didn't move his body, but lifted his head until he was literally nose-to-nose with Dean. The proximity made Dean go cross-eyed just trying to look at the angel, so he focused on the other guy's shoulder instead, eyes trailing down along the clavicle, and then up against his throat.
"Embracing you."
"Right." Dean shook his head, tried very hard not to come back with some sort of biting retort. "And why are you embracing me?"
The look Cas gave him suggested that Dean ought to know these things.
"Because it will make you feel better."
Okay. Corny, dorky, smushy, and utterly ridiculous, Castiel may have been. But there was no denying how those simple words struck an almost painful chord in Dean's heart.
"Oh."
He wrapped his arms around Cas and hugged back.
They stayed like that for a while, longer than what was probably absolutely necessary, but... it felt nice, and Dean would be damned if he was going to stop doing something that felt good for a change. For some reason, it was as if he'd not done something just outright pleasant in what felt like years. He didn't care if it was corny or stupid or pathetic; not right now. He felt like shit, had been dragged through this whole future mess once before, and fuck it all, he wanted a hug!
Leave it to a little nerdy dude with wings to know exactly what he needed.
They hadn't had a heart-to-heart. They hadn't even really spoken a word after Castiel had gotten all touchy-feely and decided to express his emotions with physical contact. They hadn't moved very far from the hug, either, even once they'd disentangled themselves from the other's embrace and rocked awkwardly back on the heels of their feet.
So why Dean felt inclined to apologize to future-Cas, he would never know. But the inclination was there, nevertheless, and it was an itch he simply had to scratch.
He'd departed his Cas with a wave and a short explanation, and then had set off back towards the cabin they'd earlier left both future copies. Over an hour had passed; surely they'd knocked out all the kinks by now, right?
Calm in this assurance, Dean had traipsed on up to the cabin, taking his good time in getting there, and enjoying the scenery on the trip.
There wasn't much to see.
The trip was short.
His first thought was to go bursting through the doors with a regular loud entry, announce his presence outright, and demand a few private moments to talk to Cas and get a few things straightened out. He didn't want to spend the rest of his time here with the guy thinking Dean hated his guts, or something. That just wasn't right, and was something that could easily be rectified.
His second thought, however, was the hesitant perception that, hey, they might not be done talking in there, and if he went kicking in doors, he'd really ruin any kind of consolation the other Dean was trying to give. So he got the bright idea, instead, to creep up to the door, peek in briefly, and if all seemed well, he'd go ahead and push all the way through. Simple enough, and his intentions were good. Dean Winchester wasn't no fucking peeping tom.
The wooden steps creaked as he crept up them, his boots making nary a sound in his resolve to remain quiet. He could be stealthy when he wanted to be. At the top, he maneuvered around the front porch, avoiding various obstacles that got in his way, focusing so intently on not tripping and dying that he didn't notice the sounds coming from within the cabin.
Once he reached the door, he pushed it open lightly (unlocked, heh), and peered inside. It was dark, not even a single candle lit to break the solidity of grey on grey on black, so it took his eyes several moments to adjust. He blinked them rapidly, making out the blurry silhouette of two bodies, the faded edge of a table, and the jagged black line of a chair.
Oh, and Cas giving Dean a blowjob.
Three breaths later, Dean closed his eyes, shook his head lightly, then opened them again.
Nope. Blowjob still in progress.
He backed away slowly, crept back down the stairs, took a few calm steps out into the open night, and then proceeded to hyperventilate.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
~*~*~*~
In the morning, Yeager was dead.
The bullet wound in his chest was a conundrum, certainly, but that wasn't what had killed him. Or so said Cas, when both Dean's walked into the locked down cabin on the outskirts of camp that morning with Castiel in tow.
"He was already dead when I got here," he protested when future-Dean bitched about his stepping out of line, and that killing the hunter-turned-Croat had been his job.
Dean, still furious, asked, "Well then why'd you put the damned bullet in him?"
And Cas shrugged.
"Better safe than sorry."
Dean deflated at that. He'd been the one to teach Cas that very phrase, after all, and the only thing safer than a dead Croat was a shot dead Croat.
The fact still remained, however, that Cas had taken a romp to the holding cell to end the man Dean had been determined to kill himself, and though the situation was apparent, the reason behind it wasn't quite as clear. The man's reasoning could be hazy at times, so there was a possibility even Cas didn't know why he'd attempted to do the deed.
But Dean, the past one, had a pretty good inclination as to what had went down.
He'd spent all of the night before trying to scrub out the image of their mirror images’ coupling from his mind, but some things were just impossible to un-see, no matter how much he tried. Any other time, he'd have snatched up a porn magazine and flipped through the blessed pages to try and take his mind off of what he'd been witness to, but, much like the shortage of toilet paper in the future, porn was equally as difficult to find.
First thing was first. When Dean got back to his own time, he was going to re-arrange his list of priorities, and add stock piling Busty Asian Beauties somewhere near the top.
But still, even standing there now, with both future versions bantering back and forth, halfway between an argument and halfway between friendly jest, he couldn't help but notice that they sounded like an old married couple. And it was freaky -- beyond belief freaky -- because even though none of it seemed possible, it still sort of made sense. Cas was the only one who'd stuck with him for so long, after all. If he lost his brother, his father-figure, and anyone and everyone else he ever cared about aside from his creepy angel friend... Well. He couldn't be held accountable for his actions. It was like an intricate system of dominoes. Once one toppled over, the rest fell into place.
Dean was so enthralled with the others' mindless conversation that he barely noticed Castiel creeping up beside him until their shoulders brushed. He nearly jumped out of his own skin, but managed a soft, croaked, "Hey," instead.
Castiel, too, was staring at the others, but at Dean's soft word, he pitched his head to the side and peered up at the hunter.
"Dean," he said by way of greeting, then turned his attention back to the other two people in the room.
A few minutes passed in which Dean became somewhat hyper aware of his proximity to the angel, and also, in the same instance, became somewhat hyper aware of what standing so close to Castiel was doing to his poor beating heart. It stuttered and fluttered and did all kinds of acrobatics inside of his chest, and he had to curse at it for several seconds straight just to get it to fucking stop.
"Are you alright?" Castiel asked, and when Dean looked over, the angel was staring up at him once again, this time his entire focus pinning Dean to the spot.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he said, lying through his teeth, but he knew it was useless because, damn it all, Cas could feel his emotions, couldn't he? And that was just plain fucking unfair.
Cas, blunt little guy he was, pointed this out.
"Why are you lying?" He sounded genuinely perplexed, as if the thought of conscious deceit was a completely foreign concept.
They'd been over this before, though, and Dean didn't really feel like giving his buddy another lecture on human nature, so he just shrugged instead.
"Don't know," he replied honestly, because he really didn't know why he felt compelled to hide the fact that he wasn't entirely okay, except maybe to keep on keeping on, which was a very difficult thing to do when pity was hanging over his head in the guise of concern.
"Don't get your panties in a twist," the other Cas was saying, and suddenly Dean had a flashback of last night, of the brief image he'd been subject to, and how, yep, his underwear had been bunched up around his ankles, and, okay okay, maybe it wasn't technically him that future-Cas was molesting, but it was still his future-self, and that was practically the same thing in Dean's book. Especially when they were look-a-likes, and it was impossible to tell one's subconscious the difference between twins.
Dean hadn't been very successful in quelling his rampant thoughts. Needless to say, he hadn't gotten very much sleep last night, but that was okay, because Castiel didn't sleep, period, and it was highly doubtful that the other two bothered to try and feign sleep at all.
Okay, thoughts derailing, back on track.
There was a dead man lying on the floor, after all.
"You said he was dead when you got here?"
Cas turned to him, his eyes a little more lucid than yesterday, and Dean suspected that was because he hadn't had time to dope up yet.
"Yep," Cas said, and though Dean couldn't entirely place the tone, he realized that it did sound a little different; a little more rigid, and clipped.
He hadn't gotten a chance to apologize. Right.
A part of Dean absolutely shuddered at the thought of being alone with that other guy for any extended amount of time, but in the end he did realize that he wasn't a fucking lightweight, that he'd hunted a lot of things bigger and badder than just your every day, average, used-to-be-an-angel man, and that, if push came to shove, he could hold his own against Cas.
But he wasn't entirely sure he would want to. The thought of physically harming future-Cas made something stutter to a jolting halt the moment that idea flit inside his head. It made his stomach clench, and for some reason he instantly felt sick. The guy was just way too fragile to harm. Castiel, sure, he could take a hit, but that was because he was an angel, and apparently angels were made out of steel and were wrapped in iron. Cas, though... he was different.
"Hey," Dean said suddenly, interrupting whatever it was Cas was saying -- he didn't know, he hadn't been paying attention.
He stepped forward, brushing Castiel's shoulder in passing without much notice, then reached forward and laid his hand on the other Cas' arm.
"We need to talk," he said lowly, and tried not to notice how all sets of eyes turned to him when those words left his mouth.
His other half didn't seem very pleased.
"You can talk later," he practically barked out, then reached in and snatched up Cas' other arm, jerking the man towards him. Dean held on fast to his half of future-Cas, narrowing his eyes and practically hissing with his tone of voice.
"No, we can't."
He tugged back, pulling Cas to him.
"Yes, you can."
Another tug in the opposite direction.
"This is important."
Cas stumbled towards past-Dean, blinking in sheer, utter confusion.
It was future-Dean who relented first. When he let go, Cas nearly toppled into the other Dean's arms, but stopped himself just in time, staring over at his Dean with wide, incomprehensible eyes.
"Easy, guys," he said when he noticed how both Deans were glaring at each other. Caught in the middle like that, he felt like he was burning up. "There's plenty of me to go around." He flashed a grin, then waved a vague gesture towards past-Cas.
Castiel stared. It wasn’t an obtrusive, nosy kind of stare, but simply an act of habit and curiosity. The power play between Dean and Dean had been rather fascinating to watch. Both were stubborn, both were hard-headed, but it seemed future-Dean had enough diplomacy (or enough petulance) to finally relent his hold and allow whatever much-needed conversation Dean was planning on having with future-Cas.
Dean grinned in satisfaction when he won the little tug-of-war, but huffed in exasperation at Cas' comment.
"C'mon," he said forcefully, and started to drag Cas out of the cabin when Dean bodily stopped him by blocking the exit.
"And where do you think you're going?" he asked, arms crossing over his chest to somehow make him appear bigger, more intimidating.
Dean was currently gripping Cas' arm so tight it might leave a bruise, which only meant he wasn't capable of crossing his arms and fluffing his plumage at the moment.
"Outisde," he said tightly.
Castiel could hear the sound of iron wills clashing.
"No, you're not."
Dean blinked, stared at himself.
"Why not?"
"Anything you can say to him, you can say to all of us."
Future-Dean was kind enough to sweep his arm towards Castiel, including him in on the argument. Castiel would have rather remained innocuous.
"Uh, no." Dean replied, then bulled his way forward and knocked his other half to the side, toting Cas along behind him. Cas merely canted his head back, gave a wicked little grin, then waggled his fingers in passing.
"Gotta go, see ya' soon," he said, then laughed as he was dragged out the door and future-Dean was left staring at the desolate, weather-worn wood.
The silence was dreadful. Thankfully, Castiel was too oblivious to really notice, and Dean was too cold-hearted to really care.
Odd events, those, when two people were left alone in a dank little cabin with no one else to keep them company except the dead body lying on the floor. The smell was starting to become intrusive, but neither figure paid it any mind. It would have to be cleaned up eventually, but now was not the time for the big picture. Now was the time for reflection, and self-loathing, and perhaps a little more whiskey, but Dean had left his bottle at his house, and he figured it was probably drained dry anyways, because Cas had drank a helluva lot last night.
Dammit.
Dean slumped into one of the few ratty old chairs in the room. Gravity pulled him, compelled him to curl his knees closer to the legs of the chair, for him to drop forward, head lax, shoulders tight, elbows sitting on his thighs, fingers curling upward to grip his hair. His face was hidden from view, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that he was struggling.
The silence may have currently been ignored, but it was still there, and it was still hot and heavy and terribly oppressive. Dean was choking, and he didn't even know it yet.
He sighed deeply into the crook of his arm, then started rubbing his thumbs in slow circles along his scalp. The motion was soothing, but mostly pointless. He couldn't garner comfort from himself; all sympathy had been wrung from his unwilling body years ago. It was no use to try and squeeze a rock for water.
He still felt eyes on him, and seriously thought about telling the angel to go fuck off, but he had to remind himself that the Castiel currently standing in the room was not the Cas he was used to.
Everything was so very jumbled up; logic and reason had been all shot to hell.
"You can go," he said instead, wondering, briefly, if this was at a point in Cas' time where he relied solely on Dean's commands to get him through his day-to-day routine. Maybe the angel didn't realize he was allowed to leave? There really wasn't any other reason he would hang around, right?
"I am aware," Cas said in reply. He didn't budge an inch.
Dean exhaled so loudly, he was halfway afraid his breath wouldn't come back to him.
"What do you want, then?"
He was good at cutting to the chase. He didn't have enough time for bullshit anymore. Everything ran on a schedule; tight and cluttered, beating and rhythmic. If one cog in the machine didn't turn at a certain hour at a certain day, then the entire mechanism might very well fall apart, and Dean simply couldn't afford for that to happen.
Truth was, he would've liked to just lie down and go to sleep; to take a nap and not wake up again. But he had other people to look after now, and even though he'd lost everything (Cas included, really), there were others out there that didn't deserve the same fate.
Yeager didn't deserve to die.
Dean was ashamed that he was relieved he hadn't had to kill the man.
How pathetic was that? He was such a poor excuse of a leader, but he was all they got, and damn, did they ever draw the short end of the stick. Dean Winchester, savior of humanity? Ha! He couldn't save his dad, couldn't save Ellen or Jo. He couldn't save Bobby, and he couldn't damn well save Sam. He couldn't save Cas. He couldn't even fucking save himself.
What a joke. The whole thing was one big fucking joke, with a dragging lead-up and a shitty punchline.
He was in the midst of mentally berating himself when the edge of a trench coat brushed against his knee, and he glanced up to find Castiel standing not three inches away. Personal space was a foreign concept to the angel, and even when Dean grumbled something about backing off before he was forced to punch Cas in the face again, his fingers loosened their hold of his own head and slowly fell to rest against his legs.
There was nothing intimidating about the Castiel standing in front of him now. His Cas, the one who was world-weary and road-worn, would have pressed forward and used his proximity as a weapon; strategic, and frightening, and pushy. This Cas, though, he was little more than pensive, just a dash sympathetic. And wasn't that just the icing on the cake? Castiel could sense his emotions, and the very thought made Dean want to crawl into a hole and never come out again.
Because he was ashamed.
It was a stupid thing to feel, really. How else was he supposed to cope with the end of the world? If he hadn't warped his insides into something hard and terrible and sharp and biting, he would've died a long time ago, and everyone else would've died right along with him. His death wasn't just suicide -- it was murder.
But there it was. The hesitation, the wilting sense of degradation. It seared his insides like a hot iron, pressing into him, poking around at the scars he'd used to fill up the void all his loss had left behind. If he changed, if he morphed, if he adapted, then he was spared the curse of feeling.
It was survival at its most basic understanding.
"What?" Dean said again, and didn't realize how he had straightened up and leaned so far back into his chair he was practically huddling against it in an effort to put some distance between him and the angel standing too close for comfort.
Castiel tilted his head to the side, regarded the other man for a long moment. To be honest, he hadn't really ever stopped regarding this future version of Dean. He'd been fascinated the moment he'd laid eyes on the other's soul, and in a way, a little drawn, as if the writhing mass within was calling out to him. He'd always felt compelled to follow Dean, to obey him, to help him and seek out his consolation and wisdom on many matters, but this... this felt different.
This felt protective.
He was a little confused by the swell of emotion, because for one, he didn't really feel emotion all that acutely, and for another, he'd not felt this sort of sympathy for Dean since that incident with Alistair, and even then that had only occurred when the hunter had been bruised and bloodied into a nearly unrecognizable state.
Castiel couldn't shake the feeling, however; couldn't quite keep himself from caring as much as he did.
Nor could he quite keep himself from laying a hand over Dean's shoulder and pressing inward that little bit that indicated an intent to comfort.
Dean shrugged him off immediately, groused something about keeping his hands to himself, but Cas only frowned and did it again, this time more firmly.
He could be stubborn, too, when he wanted to be. And as he'd found out earlier with his time's Dean, sometimes touch was a simple but effective means of communicating good intentions.
Castiel had nothing but good intentions for the many currently huddled almost pathetically in the chair. He didn't know what to do or say to fix him, but he had faith that those matters would resolve themselves if he simply kept trying.
Dean was a little taken aback. Not only had Castiel incited physical contact (which wasn't really uncommon nowadays, but he distinctly remembered it being far different several years ago), but he'd insistently done so, and, what's more...
It was kind of working.
But only kind of, because otherwise Dean would have been an emotional pushover.
As it was, it took very little out of him to lean into the touch, to loose his inhibitions and fall into the unearthly strength the other man provided. Dean wasn't used to this. It hurt him to realize just how much he'd missed it; missed the feeling of comfort, missed the acute sense of protection. Castiel used to be there for him. Castiel had stuck with him through everything, no matter how many times Dean had feared waking up to find the angel-turned-man gone; to hear that he'd packed up and headed out into the woods, never to be seen again. To find that, maybe, he'd killed himself; done something stupid like overdosed on purpose, or cut his wrists open and let them bleed onto the floor, or drank himself to death. Dean lived in a world of fear, because he knew he couldn't control Cas, and he knew the other man's presence did nothing but burden him even further with worry, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He couldn't stop watching the rise and fall of Cas' shoulders with every inhale and exhale he took, couldn't persuade himself to leave Cas' side when they were on a mission together, couldn't help the uncoiling of fumbling nerves every morning he woke up and found Cas in the same cabin he'd deigned his own, unmoved, unhurt, unaffected.
Dean was so busy worrying about the physical, he'd completely disregarded the mental, the spiritual. Cas might have stayed, yeah, but he wasn't really around anymore. His mind was too far gone, his thoughts spiraling anywhere but where Dean thought it mattered: Him. Them. The unspoken "us". The oft ignored "we".
Dean couldn't say anything to his rejection; he could hardly blame him.
Castiel anchored him. Castiel's hand, clamped along his shoulder, the bony wrist of his vessel digging against Dean's bare neck, it kept him planted firmly in his seat, in the here and the now. If Dean wandered too far, he would never come back. He'd stumble, and he'd trip, and he'd fall.
Just like Cas.
God, it hurt to think.
Dean leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and let out a breath about as bone-deep as any breath could get. Castiel moved with him, kept safe within the confines of propriety, but pressed forward steadily, kept up their simple contact.
It was funny, too. Dean had felt so much more, had been subject to the heat of Cas, the muscles and the tension, the hard lines and soft skin, the even softer tongue. He knew Cas from the inside out, and yet Castiel's touch, the one here, the one standing just in front of him and staring down at him so heatedly that Dean could feel the burn of it dig into his chest, was so foreign, and so alien, and absolutely, one-hundred percent awe-inspiring.
He didn't want to think anymore. Didn't want to feel -- hell, he hardly even wanted to breathe, to continue his existence with those tiny puffs of air. But there he was, and there Cas was, and when Dean wrenched his eyes open and peered up at the angel to do or think or say God-knew what, he found himself doing and thinking and saying things he was certain would send him right back down to Hell.
"Cas," he said, and cleared his throat where it felt thick and clumsy. "Come here."
It was a stupid thing to say. Castiel was already there, already as close as he could get without toppling over into Dean's lap.
"There" wasn't close enough.
When Dean tugged down, jerked Cas towards him and offset his balance in a coldly calculated manner, he did it with the assurance that an angel -- a freakin' angel -- couldn't be jerked around by any man unless he wanted to be manhandled.
So when Cas fell into his lap, when the other's knees buckled and slid easily, instinctively, around Dean's hips, Dean forced himself to calm his beating heart and go through with the act he had just started. He was standing at the top of an incline, peering down at the result below, something so far away he couldn't clearly make it out, and he'd just tipped the first rocky boulder over the edge, had just skipped the first smooth stone along the lake, and was now watching the affect, the way the boulder picked up speed, the way the ripples expanded and expanded and expanded until they faded against the backdrop of the deep.
He would wait for the crash later, would bask in the oil and the burn of twisted metal and screaming wreckage when the chance arose, but for now, there, with an angel pressed tight to his body and with frighteningly lucid shades of blue blinking down at him in mortified confusion, Dean chose to feel.
PART ONE || PART TWO || PART THREE
PART TWO
Author/Artist: devilsduplicity
Recipient: imisspadfoot21
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas/future!Dean/future!Cas (and every variation thereof), Prophet!Chuck (if but briefly).
Rating: R
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for 5x04. Angst, slash, dub-con, bittersweet endings.
Notes/Prompt: There were so many amazing prompts, but I only had the time to do one of them properly. Mainly because I'm a word-whore and I get carried away. >> Prompt was, 5x04 fic...kind of. Present!Cas somehow gets sent into the future with Dean. Future!Cas shows present!Dean how his relationship with present!Cas will end up. Future!Dean and present!Cas watch...or participate. Would love some present!Cas/future!Cas with future!Cas not being gentle. I didn't entirely stay true to all of it, but I hope you like it all the same!
Word Count: 21,000~
Summary: Castiel is sent to the future with Dean. Chaos ensues.
Many thanks to painted_pain for beta'ing the first few parts of this story, and of course sin_unforgiven for listening to me babble about my woes and cheering me on through the whole process.
"This is bullshit."
"This is bullshit."
"You're tellin' me."
Dean bumped beer cans with Dean.
His mind would never get used to thinking those kinds of things.
"So you're stuck here until he comes back to get you?"
"Yep."
"Sucks."
"Yep."
If Zachariah's ass-hattery was any indication, the past people would probably be there for a very long time. Dean took a swig of his beer, peered over at his younger self, and then took a few silent moments to contemplate his options here. This could actually be a good thing, when he thought about it. The last time an angel had set foot on earth had been years ago. He'd been screaming his throat raw, begging to say yes to no avail for about the same amount of time, but no one had listened because no one was there. With an angel finally thrown back into the mix, maybe his pleas would finally be heard?
Aside from that optimistic outlook, he had his past self to think about.
He didn't really like to think about the Dean sitting beside him as "himself", because the differences between the both of them stretched further than the jackets they wore. Sure, on the surface they were twins, but it was obvious that past-Dean was more pig-headed and sympathetic. Soft.
The Croatoan virus had turned Dean into his own sort of monster. If he didn't block bad experiences out, if he didn't compartmentalize his mind and focus on one thing at a time, one goal, one mission; if he didn't quell his emotions and fight to remain level-headed, he would have died a long time ago. He would have died, or he would have gone crazy.
And sure, he wasn't entirely complete as is, what with his broken morals and shattered dreams; the helplessness that came of literally losing every hope he ever had. Of losing--
Yeah, there were a lot of things wrong with him, but he was tough, and he'd been tried, and he'd been beaten so many times his bruises had turned into scars. He would survive.
Past him, though? That guy didn't have a lick of sense, and he was utterly clueless when it came to the customs and traditions of this day and age. He had too much hope, fought too hard for Dean's tastes. It would only break him in the end; would only wear him down.
Dean took another long draw on his beer, his attention only half wavering in and out of this particular plane of existence. His mind was wandering, he knew that, but he'd had a rough day, and all things considered, he was pretty damn sure he deserved a break from thinking.
"Got another?" asked his younger self, and Dean just shrugged.
"Sorry. We're running low."
"Cas got three," the other Dean pointed out.
"Cas is a whore," future-Dean said in reply, and even though he was only directing that statement towards the once-angel's drinking habits, it somehow applied in vastly different ways.
The silence that threaded between them was short and heavy.
"What--" began the man sitting to his left, and then he broke off to take in a deep breath. "What happened to him?"
It was the very question past-Dean been afraid of asking Cas himself. He wanted to know, truly, desperately wanted to know, but he was also terrified of the answer, and admittedly very confused by Cas. His mind just simply couldn't reconcile the differences in character.
Dean leaned forward in his chair. His legs, which before had been stretched out and crossed at the ankles, drew in until he could rest his elbows on his knees.
He thought about it.
He thought about it for a very long time, his brow creasing in concentration, and when he finally found the answer he was looking for, he downed the rest of his drink and leaned back in his chair.
"Life."
~*~*~*~
Castiel was hanging out with Castiel, and fortunately neither of them had a headache because of it. One was still an angel, after all, so there was some distinction between them. Both Deans had secluded themselves away in the kitchen while both angel and ex-angel were having their own little staring contest in the main room.
It was the future version of Cas that broke away first, though not out of defeat. He seemed to have something a little different in mind, or perhaps his attention span just wasn't long enough to deal with the bullshit of intimidating himself. He didn't know; he didn't particularly care.
The other two men were talking quietly to themselves, and then the other room fell silent, and it was at that time that Cas had an idea.
A craving, to be more accurate.
"Let's go back to Dean's place," he said, turning before the other could answer, shuffling through his cabin and raiding the various drawers. He pocketed a few items -- little orange bottles, small vials of what looked to be something decidedly alcoholic -- and busied himself by taking a general sweep of the entire area. For all intense and purposes, it looked like he was stocking up.
Castiel tipped his head to the side, watching the strange mannerisms of the man in the room. Dean had, tentatively, also told him about this, so the initial recognition hadn't been much of a shock. He studied his twin like a peculiar specimen, somewhat confused as to what, exactly, the other person was doing. But he asked no question, said no words, until a pair of eyes flashed his way, slightly more lucid than before.
"What d'you say?"
Castiel didn't think they should leave. He said as much, and Cas merely shook his head.
"Oh, come on. You've gotta learn to stand on your own two feet sometime. Might as well do it now, while you've got yourself to show you the ropes."
The logic was knotted, at best; twisted so thoroughly it hardly made any sense.
But Castiel didn't really have anything better to do, and Dean could take care of himself, so he finally relented and soon found himself being dragged out the door by grasping fingers.
Dean's cabin wasn't too far away. It was right down the road, in fact, and that served to put Castiel's nerves at ease. At least the hunter wouldn't worry about him too much. His possessiveness, which had at first been flattering and had since then quickly fallen to annoying, was once again rising to the rank of endearing, so he allowed it quite magnanimously.
This cabin had an actual, honest-to-God front door which Cas practically kicked open. He pulled Castiel inside by the sleeve of his trench coat, then back-kicked the swinging door closed and trekked further into the room, perfectly at ease invading the other Dean's private space.
"Take a load off," he said, then did as much himself, flopping down into a chair and kicking his feet up on the table. Dean hated it when he did that, especially in his own home, but, well, Dean wasn't there, so he could just suck it.
Castiel remained standing, his muscles tight and his features tighter.
Cas shrugged, unfazed and unaffected, then started digging through his pockets and deposited his goodies on the table like candy treats stolen from Halloween.
Amphetamines. Rolls of cigarettes. Cocaine. Pot. Bottles of an indeterminable origin. Vials filled with an unknown liquid.
For Cas, it was like candy, and he sifted through each find with the steady, warm excitement of a child opening up their first gift on Christmas morning.
"What's your poison?" he asked amiably, then continued to section off the various items he'd brought with him, separating them into little piles.
Castiel blinked, slid his eyes down to stare at the various substances, then raked his gaze back up to the other man.
"These aren't good for you." He could tell instinctively.
"Damn straight," came the reply, and then Cas proceeded to pop the cap off of one of his bottles, shook out a few small, white capsules, and then swallowed them dry. "Want some?"
There was something very wrong here, and not even just by obvious means. Castiel could see himself, his future self, and he was fully conscious of his own essence, of his own dwindling grace, but the gap between what he was now and what he was expected to become was something he was truly incapable of filling. He couldn't understand how he could fall so far, though in a way it sort of made sense. He was pretty much entirely certain that he'd do anything for Dean -- anything. And if that 'anything' consisted of walking a path that led to this, then, well... yes. Yes, it made sense.
He swallowed thickly, caught in his own gaze, and he suddenly felt very trapped, even though it was obvious that his was the superior power in the room. His future self just had an air about him. The easy-going nature was friendly, open, welcoming, but what unfurled literally just beneath the skin was a huge swell of emotion, a giant coil of bitterness and anger and danger. Castiel was, quite simply, taken aback by it. Stunned, so to speak. Intimidated, if he was being entirely honest with himself.
Which he was. Brutally.
"No," Castiel replied, his eyes drifting to the outstretched bottle. He had no desire to feel the same ecstasy coursing through the other man's body.
Even though he was curious.
But, no. No.
"Hmm," Cas mumbled in the back of his throat, pulling back his hand and dragging the bottle of pills with him. "Maybe not amphetamines, then." He peered at the table, at the rest of his treats, then glanced back at Castiel as if judging his tolerance for recreational drugs.
Decision made, he reached forward, picked up one of the hand-rolled cigarettes, then popped out a lighter and flicked the flame towards the tip.
"Here," he said, watching the smoke rise up off the end. "Have a joint."
Castiel figured that this was a really bad idea.
"I don't--"
"Come on," said Cas, his eyes turning from demanding to somewhat pleading. "I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. I may be self-destructive, but I'm not suicidal." He flashed a grin then, all teeth and smiles and pleasantries, and it was that look that got Castiel to finally settle down into a chair beside his future self.
He leaned forward, fingers sliding against his knees, and peered over at the man with an air of weariness he usually only reserved for Dean.
"Two-thousand nine, right?" Cas asked.
Castiel nodded, his eyelids drooping slightly, as if he was fatigued.
"Then here." And the joint was thrust in the angel's direction, chanting at him, tempting him with little curls and wisps of smoke.
This was a bad idea.
His fingers curled around the joint anyway.
A little smoke never did anyone harm, and Castiel wasn't one to get addicted to anything. He may have rebelled, but he hadn't fallen, and he still knew his boundaries, still knew what was morally right and what was morally wrong. Something that made him feel so good... there was no way it could be too bad, right? Dean had told him to loosen up -- many, many times before -- so he was really only doing what Dean had asked. The sense of weightlessness was definitely interesting, and a weird coil of emotion jumbled up inside his chest and loosened his lips, making him feel, for all intents and purposes, quite ethereal. Which was just plain funny, because he was already ethereal, so how could he be even more of what he was?
The twisted thoughts spiraled around in his head, but instead of overwhelming him, they only made his lips tip upwards.
Cas had abandoned his bottle several minutes ago, and now both of them were sitting on the floor -- one cross-legged, the other with legs outstretched -- and were passing the joint back and forth between each other.
Sharing was good, wasn't it? There was nothing wrong with this.
Dean found him like this. Both of them.
Cas smiled up at his familiar babysitter, and Castiel shied away from the glare his friend was giving him.
"What do you think you're doing?" Dean demanded, barging into the cabin with all the fury of a freight train. His twin hung back and leaned against the door frame, shamelessly unfazed.
"Sharing a... joint," Castiel answered, staring down at the cigarette in his hand. His good mood had flown right out the window the second Dean had raised his voice at him. He didn't understand why the other man was so mad. Cas had said it was alright -- Cas wouldn't hurt him.
"Oh, are you, now?"
~*~*~*~
Dean was... well. Dean was out of his mind or something, because his nerves were buzzing like crazy and he was overreacting to the entire situation, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. If he'd caught Sammy with his pants down, he would have applauded his brother for finally getting up enough courage to go out and have some fun. Cas, though? Cas was a naive little angel that could be taken advantage of so terribly easily, and the principle of the matter hurt Dean more than the act itself.
"Give me that," he said, and snatched the cigarette out of Castiel's hand, then whipped around and pointed an accusing finger at the other Cas. "You," he practically hissed, nose curling up in frustration. "This is all your fault, isn't it?"
Cas blinked, grabbed the knees of his crossed legs reflexively.
"Calm down," he said, then opened his mouth to say something else, but Dean cut him off.
"Calm down? You're taking advantage of yourself, and I'm supposed to calm down." His anger was steadily spiraling down, down, down into a hole that just kept getting bigger. "You're drowning out the damned world with all these fucking pills, dragging Cas into that pit with you, and I'm supposed to calm the fuck down?"
It was when Cas flinched, when he drew his legs in further and curled in on himself like a kicked animal, that Dean realized he had gone too far.
The other Dean stepped in about then, muted heat flashing in his eyes. He crossed the room, put himself between past-Dean and his Cas, then crossed his arms and jerked his head towards the open door.
"You need to leave," he said. "Both of you."
Neither dared protest.
When they were gone, out the door and down the road without a word spoken between them, Dean turned back to Cas and regarded him for a very long time.
"Get up," he said, uncrossing his arms, and though he'd meant to be compassionate, he only sounded cold.
"No," Cas said in reply, so coiled up by now that his shoulders were hunched remarkably forward and he was practically curled up in the fetal position on Dean's dirty wooden floor.
Dean sighed, turned to his little kitchen area and poured himself a glass of warm scotch. When Cas didn't get up immediately to demand a glass of his own, he knew something was definitely wrong.
Not that he'd ask about it. They were way past that. Dean didn't question why Cas did what he did, and Cas didn't question why Dean did what he did. The steady decline of morals had been inevitable, but at least this way they didn't grow to actually hate each other; they just disliked each other every now and then.
Cas had left the building a long time ago. Dean was bitter about that, and he downed his cup and refilled it to make himself forget his own emotions.
Dean had stopped caring a long time ago. Cas had been hurt because of that, and so had withdrawn into himself to try and handle his human emotions on his own.
They were both a little fucked up.
"Stop whining," Dean barked out gruffly, drowning his tone of voice with another shot. He was trying here, dammit, and he couldn't even do that right.
Cas didn't care. He sort of gave a little chuckle, though with his face buried in his arms, it was hard to tell.
"No," he mumbled again, and now he was just being petulant, but he wanted to act childish, and that was just that.
There was a sigh to break the monotony of silence, which was quickly accompanied by harsh footsteps clacking against the wood. Two booted feet came into view, and Cas didn't bother to look up or attempt eye contact. He was completely satisfied to sit there and study those shoes as if they were his last lifeline to sanity.
Dean broke a rule.
"What's wrong?"
They never asked each other that question. It was always either a blatant disregard of the other's feelings, or a simple understanding that some things were best left unsaid. They'd worked together in that manner for years, and though the slip of their friendship had been about as pleasant as a knife sliding through skin, it had been, on many accounts, the only way to cope.
Cas did glance up at that one, his brows knitting together out of confusion.
"What's it to ya'?"
And, yeah, he might have sounded horribly defensive, but Dean didn't ask things like that, and Cas didn't really think the other man was capable of sympathy. He smelt suspicion, but he'd been wrong before. It was hard to always be right when you were always high. Cas only had about a ninety-five percent perfection rate.
Dean, for his part, felt like grinding his teeth together and just giving up, but the reappearance of their past selves had struck something in him that had been laying long dormant. Being witness to his other self's intensely protective nature had made him live vicariously for just half a moment.
Half a moment was all he needed to realize that he didn't hate Cas, and that, okay, maybe he was a dick, and maybe he had some attitude problems, but he still sort of wanted to protect the guy. And for a while he'd thought that Cas didn't need protecting, because they'd shown him the ropes, taught him how to use a gun, how to shoot down a damned Croat in the blink of an eye with little to no reaction time whatsoever; had taught him self-defense, and how to drink, and how to gamble, and how getting laid was totally awesome. He'd taught him a lot of things, and then had set him loose in that big, wide, dangerous world, and he'd felt a little cold because the only person he had left obviously didn't need looking after any more.
Only, he did.
Cas needed to be protected.
From himself.
Shaking his head, Dean set his glass on the table with a sigh. Then, without warning, he folded his legs and settled down on the ground beside the other man, sitting close enough that their knees clanked together.
"Spill."
Cas stared at the point where their bodies touched for longer than was absolutely necessary. He was drawn to it, though, as if the slight heat of Dean's clothed knee scraping against the edge of his jeans was some sort of lifeline.
"Nothing to say," he said back, licking his bottom lip.
"Bullshit," Dean replied, stiff and unmoving. "I'm not gonna ask again."
Sure, it was a threat, but Dean didn't have a lot of time to waste and needed to get to the heart of the matter before he closed up again like he always did.
Cas sensed this, because he was just good at sensing the subtleties that made up Dean's psyche -- he'd had plenty of practice. So instead of avoiding the subject, again, he opted to lean forward and lay his head in his hands, sighing a sigh so deep, it rattled Dean's bones.
"He doesn't like me."
Dean had to do a double-take at that one.
"Who? Castiel?"
Cas shook his head, smiling slightly, though the motion was hollow and unfulfilled.
"How can I not like myself?" he asked, touch of humor to his voice, and though he was only kidding, Dean could definitely think of at least one person who didn't like himself.
He didn't respond, only waited.
Cas continued, "No. You. You don't like me."
The silence that followed was absolutely dreadful. Were they really having this talk? It all seemed entirely too surreal. There Dean was, trying to console the only person who had stuck with him through it all, and now things had taken a decidedly awkward turn.
"That's not true," Dean hedged, eying the guy with trepidation.
Cas barked out a cough that was somewhat similar to a laugh.
"You can lie to yourself all you want, Dean. But you don't like me."
"Don't put words in my mouth," was the harsh reply.
"You won't say anything otherwise."
And sure, it had been a low blow, but it was also entirely true. When Dean Winchester didn't want to talk, Dean Winchester didn't talk. And feelings? Those were something he liked to keep blissfully silent.
"Look," he said coldly, jerking up off of the floor and stretching his legs far enough to take him to the other side of the room. "I'm just trying to help. You don't have to be all-- I just want to-- Fuck, I don't even know why I try." He ran a hand through his hair, slid it down the side of his face, then spun around and gripped the kitchen counter so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Fine," he bit out. "Think what you want."
A chest was pressed flush against his back half a moment later, and Dean felt extremely stupid for letting anyone sneak up on him like that. When Castiel spoke, though, instead of relaxing, his body only tensed up all the more.
"Do you like me, Dean?" he asked, his mouth barely a whisper away from resting against the curve of Dean's neck.
Dean shivered, felt like whipping around and socking Cas in the jaw, but resisted the urge and forced his heart to stop thumping so violently in his chest. Cas was practically a nymphomaniac, and the only person Dean had to blame for that was himself. He'd shown the angel decadence, had thrown every immoral satisfaction in the other's face, and had watched as his grace burned ever so slowly from his body. Instead of consoling him, though, instead of trying to understand, he'd had way too many problems to deal with to focus on anyone else for too long -- Sam -- and so had done the only thing he knew to do: he'd taken all of the worldly pleasure that he'd once used to hide behind, and had pushed it all onto the other man.
Cas had taken to sex quite well. Dean knew from personal experience, and he supposed that's what hurt all the more. They'd been close, once; closer than anyone knew. And somewhere along the way, everything had just... fallen apart.
The memory of jagged lines and rough, masculine curves was pressed harshly into his spine, mocking him with an intimacy that had been ripped away from him; mocking him with the promise of something he could never have again.
It used to be about something more than sex. Now, carnal pleasure was all Cas sought.
That was alright, though. Dean had nothing else to give.
~*~*~*~
The early evening found Dean and Cas sitting on the steps just outside of one of the cabins. Dean was hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and Castiel sat stiff-backed beside him, though his posture was a little more fluid than before. The silence between them was forced and awkward and nearly painful, but it seemed nothing could keep it from stretching further, invading the night like something physical. Neither one of them really wanted to talk about what had just happened, about Dean's freak-out and the subsequent yelling, but something had to be said, and in the end, it was Dean who cracked.
"You're really a piece of work, you know that?"
No apology, of course. He was convinced he was in the right, and so he would fight tooth and nail to prove it.
Castiel canted his head to the side just enough to regard the other out of the corner of his eye.
"I did nothing wrong," he pointed out, and though he didn't really mean to sound high and mighty, the holier-than-thou voice was blatantly obvious in his tone.
Leave it to an angel to profess holiness after having just smoked a joint.
That was where the conversation started to derail.
"Really?" Dean shook his head, stiffened up until his features were as cold as stone. "Really? You thought sharing a good 'ole toke with your evil twin was a perfectly normal thing to do?"
"This situation could hardly be classified as 'normal'," Cas replied, his own presence clenching in on itself until he'd veritably clammed up emotionally.
Dean was about two seconds away from beating something with a stick.
"Cas," he said, then leaped up and twirled around to point an accusing finger at his friend. "You're just-- I don't even know how to handle you. Look, if you don't wanna cooperate, if you don't wanna fucking be around me, all you've gotta do is leave. Door's open, it swings both ways, got it? I'm not--"
He twisted again, sucked in a deep, burning breath, and stared out at the slowly darkening sky, tried his hardest to gather his thoughts and calm his nerves, but currently they were buzzing around like vicious bees, and it took everything within him to not whirl around and introduce Castiel's face to his fist.
Again.
Cas didn't move, didn't bother to waste a breath on the one-sided conversation he was currently witnessing. Though, for every rising word, his eyes had gotten rounder, more confused, until he was left staring at Dean's back with no way to respond to the emotion he felt rolling off of the other in waves. Castiel could barely grasp the reasoning behind Dean's frustration, only that he was upset, and it was apparently the angel's fault, somehow, and therefore it was his duty to fix whatever wrong he had committed.
People were just plain confusing, if you asked him.
The sound of shuffling fabric broke the stillness in the air, and a moment later Cas was standing beside Dean, shoulder-to-shoulder, peering up at the night sky with the same intensity as the hunter. Nothing was said for a very long time, but unspoken things were felt, breaths curling out into the air with a coolness that better calmed the anger that had been suffocating the general area before.
Even though the world was ending, life, of all shapes and sizes, kept moving on. It was how it had always been, how it always would be, Devil or no, and there was something almost comforting in the monotony, the very drum beat, of existence.
Castiel could find peace in these things.
Dean needed more.
Dean was... Cas had a hard time putting his name to a specific personality. It was hard to pinpoint what made that particular human tick, and the mystery of it all, the err of judgment and imperfections that littered his frame, the purity and marred spirit, the kind heart, it was all an intriguing enigma that drew the angel in like a moth to a flame.
Relating Dean to fire was definitely an appropriate allegory. He could be warm at times, and bright, and wholly comforting. And at other times he could be brash, and fierce, and raging. He flipped like a switch, and Castiel simply didn't know how to handle him. He didn't know what to do to make things better, because Dean needed someone who was well accustomed to human ways, who could grasp his jokes and toss in their own remarks; who could soothe his frustration with logic and reason and the kind of knowledge only a native human could ever really possess.
"I'm sorry."
Apologizing was the only thing Castiel knew to do.
Dean deflated immediately. His shoulders slumped forward in defeat, and after another long, several minutes of staring up at the sky, he finally lowered his head and let his gaze burn a hole through the dirt.
"It's okay, Cas," he relented, and Castiel took note of how his clenched fingers loosened, how they pressed into his thighs instead, rose up and curled around the belt loops of his pants.
Castiel nodded once, dipped his head down then back up, and his eyes traveled from the hem of Dean's pants up to his curious, world-weary eyes.
What next? Cas had served to quell Dean's anger, sure, but now he just looked sad and that was almost worse. He'd apologized, which was something he figured would be the right thing to do, but after that he was treading on tentative territory, with no indication of how to continue on from there. Cas wanted to fix this, somehow, and he really had no idea where to start.
Except.
But, no. Dean wouldn't like that.
Only...
Sam had suggested it once, and Castiel had tucked it away in his mind for further consideration at another time, but he'd never had a reason to utilize the particular strategy that the younger Winchester brother had proposed.
Until now.
Well. In the very least, it wouldn't hurt matters.
Castiel took in a breath, steeled himself for what he was about to do -- he only knew the technique in theory, had seen it occur between others, but had never before had occasion to do it himself -- and turned to Dean with a steady stance.
Dean watched him, his relaxed, somewhat depressed mood sliding into suspicion.
"What're you doin--"
Cas stepped forward, thoroughly invaded his personal space, then set his chin atop Dean's shoulder and wrapped his arms stiffly around the other's waist. He tugged the human closer, pulled him into the tight circle of his arms, until their chests were pressed flush together and the other's warmth seeped into the layers of his trench coat.
Several seconds passed while their bodies got accustomed to this new shift in positions.
"Uh, Cas?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow and shuffling around in unmoving arms. "What do you think you're doing?"
Castiel didn't move his body, but lifted his head until he was literally nose-to-nose with Dean. The proximity made Dean go cross-eyed just trying to look at the angel, so he focused on the other guy's shoulder instead, eyes trailing down along the clavicle, and then up against his throat.
"Embracing you."
"Right." Dean shook his head, tried very hard not to come back with some sort of biting retort. "And why are you embracing me?"
The look Cas gave him suggested that Dean ought to know these things.
"Because it will make you feel better."
Okay. Corny, dorky, smushy, and utterly ridiculous, Castiel may have been. But there was no denying how those simple words struck an almost painful chord in Dean's heart.
"Oh."
He wrapped his arms around Cas and hugged back.
They stayed like that for a while, longer than what was probably absolutely necessary, but... it felt nice, and Dean would be damned if he was going to stop doing something that felt good for a change. For some reason, it was as if he'd not done something just outright pleasant in what felt like years. He didn't care if it was corny or stupid or pathetic; not right now. He felt like shit, had been dragged through this whole future mess once before, and fuck it all, he wanted a hug!
Leave it to a little nerdy dude with wings to know exactly what he needed.
They hadn't had a heart-to-heart. They hadn't even really spoken a word after Castiel had gotten all touchy-feely and decided to express his emotions with physical contact. They hadn't moved very far from the hug, either, even once they'd disentangled themselves from the other's embrace and rocked awkwardly back on the heels of their feet.
So why Dean felt inclined to apologize to future-Cas, he would never know. But the inclination was there, nevertheless, and it was an itch he simply had to scratch.
He'd departed his Cas with a wave and a short explanation, and then had set off back towards the cabin they'd earlier left both future copies. Over an hour had passed; surely they'd knocked out all the kinks by now, right?
Calm in this assurance, Dean had traipsed on up to the cabin, taking his good time in getting there, and enjoying the scenery on the trip.
There wasn't much to see.
The trip was short.
His first thought was to go bursting through the doors with a regular loud entry, announce his presence outright, and demand a few private moments to talk to Cas and get a few things straightened out. He didn't want to spend the rest of his time here with the guy thinking Dean hated his guts, or something. That just wasn't right, and was something that could easily be rectified.
His second thought, however, was the hesitant perception that, hey, they might not be done talking in there, and if he went kicking in doors, he'd really ruin any kind of consolation the other Dean was trying to give. So he got the bright idea, instead, to creep up to the door, peek in briefly, and if all seemed well, he'd go ahead and push all the way through. Simple enough, and his intentions were good. Dean Winchester wasn't no fucking peeping tom.
The wooden steps creaked as he crept up them, his boots making nary a sound in his resolve to remain quiet. He could be stealthy when he wanted to be. At the top, he maneuvered around the front porch, avoiding various obstacles that got in his way, focusing so intently on not tripping and dying that he didn't notice the sounds coming from within the cabin.
Once he reached the door, he pushed it open lightly (unlocked, heh), and peered inside. It was dark, not even a single candle lit to break the solidity of grey on grey on black, so it took his eyes several moments to adjust. He blinked them rapidly, making out the blurry silhouette of two bodies, the faded edge of a table, and the jagged black line of a chair.
Oh, and Cas giving Dean a blowjob.
Three breaths later, Dean closed his eyes, shook his head lightly, then opened them again.
Nope. Blowjob still in progress.
He backed away slowly, crept back down the stairs, took a few calm steps out into the open night, and then proceeded to hyperventilate.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
~*~*~*~
In the morning, Yeager was dead.
The bullet wound in his chest was a conundrum, certainly, but that wasn't what had killed him. Or so said Cas, when both Dean's walked into the locked down cabin on the outskirts of camp that morning with Castiel in tow.
"He was already dead when I got here," he protested when future-Dean bitched about his stepping out of line, and that killing the hunter-turned-Croat had been his job.
Dean, still furious, asked, "Well then why'd you put the damned bullet in him?"
And Cas shrugged.
"Better safe than sorry."
Dean deflated at that. He'd been the one to teach Cas that very phrase, after all, and the only thing safer than a dead Croat was a shot dead Croat.
The fact still remained, however, that Cas had taken a romp to the holding cell to end the man Dean had been determined to kill himself, and though the situation was apparent, the reason behind it wasn't quite as clear. The man's reasoning could be hazy at times, so there was a possibility even Cas didn't know why he'd attempted to do the deed.
But Dean, the past one, had a pretty good inclination as to what had went down.
He'd spent all of the night before trying to scrub out the image of their mirror images’ coupling from his mind, but some things were just impossible to un-see, no matter how much he tried. Any other time, he'd have snatched up a porn magazine and flipped through the blessed pages to try and take his mind off of what he'd been witness to, but, much like the shortage of toilet paper in the future, porn was equally as difficult to find.
First thing was first. When Dean got back to his own time, he was going to re-arrange his list of priorities, and add stock piling Busty Asian Beauties somewhere near the top.
But still, even standing there now, with both future versions bantering back and forth, halfway between an argument and halfway between friendly jest, he couldn't help but notice that they sounded like an old married couple. And it was freaky -- beyond belief freaky -- because even though none of it seemed possible, it still sort of made sense. Cas was the only one who'd stuck with him for so long, after all. If he lost his brother, his father-figure, and anyone and everyone else he ever cared about aside from his creepy angel friend... Well. He couldn't be held accountable for his actions. It was like an intricate system of dominoes. Once one toppled over, the rest fell into place.
Dean was so enthralled with the others' mindless conversation that he barely noticed Castiel creeping up beside him until their shoulders brushed. He nearly jumped out of his own skin, but managed a soft, croaked, "Hey," instead.
Castiel, too, was staring at the others, but at Dean's soft word, he pitched his head to the side and peered up at the hunter.
"Dean," he said by way of greeting, then turned his attention back to the other two people in the room.
A few minutes passed in which Dean became somewhat hyper aware of his proximity to the angel, and also, in the same instance, became somewhat hyper aware of what standing so close to Castiel was doing to his poor beating heart. It stuttered and fluttered and did all kinds of acrobatics inside of his chest, and he had to curse at it for several seconds straight just to get it to fucking stop.
"Are you alright?" Castiel asked, and when Dean looked over, the angel was staring up at him once again, this time his entire focus pinning Dean to the spot.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he said, lying through his teeth, but he knew it was useless because, damn it all, Cas could feel his emotions, couldn't he? And that was just plain fucking unfair.
Cas, blunt little guy he was, pointed this out.
"Why are you lying?" He sounded genuinely perplexed, as if the thought of conscious deceit was a completely foreign concept.
They'd been over this before, though, and Dean didn't really feel like giving his buddy another lecture on human nature, so he just shrugged instead.
"Don't know," he replied honestly, because he really didn't know why he felt compelled to hide the fact that he wasn't entirely okay, except maybe to keep on keeping on, which was a very difficult thing to do when pity was hanging over his head in the guise of concern.
"Don't get your panties in a twist," the other Cas was saying, and suddenly Dean had a flashback of last night, of the brief image he'd been subject to, and how, yep, his underwear had been bunched up around his ankles, and, okay okay, maybe it wasn't technically him that future-Cas was molesting, but it was still his future-self, and that was practically the same thing in Dean's book. Especially when they were look-a-likes, and it was impossible to tell one's subconscious the difference between twins.
Dean hadn't been very successful in quelling his rampant thoughts. Needless to say, he hadn't gotten very much sleep last night, but that was okay, because Castiel didn't sleep, period, and it was highly doubtful that the other two bothered to try and feign sleep at all.
Okay, thoughts derailing, back on track.
There was a dead man lying on the floor, after all.
"You said he was dead when you got here?"
Cas turned to him, his eyes a little more lucid than yesterday, and Dean suspected that was because he hadn't had time to dope up yet.
"Yep," Cas said, and though Dean couldn't entirely place the tone, he realized that it did sound a little different; a little more rigid, and clipped.
He hadn't gotten a chance to apologize. Right.
A part of Dean absolutely shuddered at the thought of being alone with that other guy for any extended amount of time, but in the end he did realize that he wasn't a fucking lightweight, that he'd hunted a lot of things bigger and badder than just your every day, average, used-to-be-an-angel man, and that, if push came to shove, he could hold his own against Cas.
But he wasn't entirely sure he would want to. The thought of physically harming future-Cas made something stutter to a jolting halt the moment that idea flit inside his head. It made his stomach clench, and for some reason he instantly felt sick. The guy was just way too fragile to harm. Castiel, sure, he could take a hit, but that was because he was an angel, and apparently angels were made out of steel and were wrapped in iron. Cas, though... he was different.
"Hey," Dean said suddenly, interrupting whatever it was Cas was saying -- he didn't know, he hadn't been paying attention.
He stepped forward, brushing Castiel's shoulder in passing without much notice, then reached forward and laid his hand on the other Cas' arm.
"We need to talk," he said lowly, and tried not to notice how all sets of eyes turned to him when those words left his mouth.
His other half didn't seem very pleased.
"You can talk later," he practically barked out, then reached in and snatched up Cas' other arm, jerking the man towards him. Dean held on fast to his half of future-Cas, narrowing his eyes and practically hissing with his tone of voice.
"No, we can't."
He tugged back, pulling Cas to him.
"Yes, you can."
Another tug in the opposite direction.
"This is important."
Cas stumbled towards past-Dean, blinking in sheer, utter confusion.
It was future-Dean who relented first. When he let go, Cas nearly toppled into the other Dean's arms, but stopped himself just in time, staring over at his Dean with wide, incomprehensible eyes.
"Easy, guys," he said when he noticed how both Deans were glaring at each other. Caught in the middle like that, he felt like he was burning up. "There's plenty of me to go around." He flashed a grin, then waved a vague gesture towards past-Cas.
Castiel stared. It wasn’t an obtrusive, nosy kind of stare, but simply an act of habit and curiosity. The power play between Dean and Dean had been rather fascinating to watch. Both were stubborn, both were hard-headed, but it seemed future-Dean had enough diplomacy (or enough petulance) to finally relent his hold and allow whatever much-needed conversation Dean was planning on having with future-Cas.
Dean grinned in satisfaction when he won the little tug-of-war, but huffed in exasperation at Cas' comment.
"C'mon," he said forcefully, and started to drag Cas out of the cabin when Dean bodily stopped him by blocking the exit.
"And where do you think you're going?" he asked, arms crossing over his chest to somehow make him appear bigger, more intimidating.
Dean was currently gripping Cas' arm so tight it might leave a bruise, which only meant he wasn't capable of crossing his arms and fluffing his plumage at the moment.
"Outisde," he said tightly.
Castiel could hear the sound of iron wills clashing.
"No, you're not."
Dean blinked, stared at himself.
"Why not?"
"Anything you can say to him, you can say to all of us."
Future-Dean was kind enough to sweep his arm towards Castiel, including him in on the argument. Castiel would have rather remained innocuous.
"Uh, no." Dean replied, then bulled his way forward and knocked his other half to the side, toting Cas along behind him. Cas merely canted his head back, gave a wicked little grin, then waggled his fingers in passing.
"Gotta go, see ya' soon," he said, then laughed as he was dragged out the door and future-Dean was left staring at the desolate, weather-worn wood.
The silence was dreadful. Thankfully, Castiel was too oblivious to really notice, and Dean was too cold-hearted to really care.
Odd events, those, when two people were left alone in a dank little cabin with no one else to keep them company except the dead body lying on the floor. The smell was starting to become intrusive, but neither figure paid it any mind. It would have to be cleaned up eventually, but now was not the time for the big picture. Now was the time for reflection, and self-loathing, and perhaps a little more whiskey, but Dean had left his bottle at his house, and he figured it was probably drained dry anyways, because Cas had drank a helluva lot last night.
Dammit.
Dean slumped into one of the few ratty old chairs in the room. Gravity pulled him, compelled him to curl his knees closer to the legs of the chair, for him to drop forward, head lax, shoulders tight, elbows sitting on his thighs, fingers curling upward to grip his hair. His face was hidden from view, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that he was struggling.
The silence may have currently been ignored, but it was still there, and it was still hot and heavy and terribly oppressive. Dean was choking, and he didn't even know it yet.
He sighed deeply into the crook of his arm, then started rubbing his thumbs in slow circles along his scalp. The motion was soothing, but mostly pointless. He couldn't garner comfort from himself; all sympathy had been wrung from his unwilling body years ago. It was no use to try and squeeze a rock for water.
He still felt eyes on him, and seriously thought about telling the angel to go fuck off, but he had to remind himself that the Castiel currently standing in the room was not the Cas he was used to.
Everything was so very jumbled up; logic and reason had been all shot to hell.
"You can go," he said instead, wondering, briefly, if this was at a point in Cas' time where he relied solely on Dean's commands to get him through his day-to-day routine. Maybe the angel didn't realize he was allowed to leave? There really wasn't any other reason he would hang around, right?
"I am aware," Cas said in reply. He didn't budge an inch.
Dean exhaled so loudly, he was halfway afraid his breath wouldn't come back to him.
"What do you want, then?"
He was good at cutting to the chase. He didn't have enough time for bullshit anymore. Everything ran on a schedule; tight and cluttered, beating and rhythmic. If one cog in the machine didn't turn at a certain hour at a certain day, then the entire mechanism might very well fall apart, and Dean simply couldn't afford for that to happen.
Truth was, he would've liked to just lie down and go to sleep; to take a nap and not wake up again. But he had other people to look after now, and even though he'd lost everything (Cas included, really), there were others out there that didn't deserve the same fate.
Yeager didn't deserve to die.
Dean was ashamed that he was relieved he hadn't had to kill the man.
How pathetic was that? He was such a poor excuse of a leader, but he was all they got, and damn, did they ever draw the short end of the stick. Dean Winchester, savior of humanity? Ha! He couldn't save his dad, couldn't save Ellen or Jo. He couldn't save Bobby, and he couldn't damn well save Sam. He couldn't save Cas. He couldn't even fucking save himself.
What a joke. The whole thing was one big fucking joke, with a dragging lead-up and a shitty punchline.
He was in the midst of mentally berating himself when the edge of a trench coat brushed against his knee, and he glanced up to find Castiel standing not three inches away. Personal space was a foreign concept to the angel, and even when Dean grumbled something about backing off before he was forced to punch Cas in the face again, his fingers loosened their hold of his own head and slowly fell to rest against his legs.
There was nothing intimidating about the Castiel standing in front of him now. His Cas, the one who was world-weary and road-worn, would have pressed forward and used his proximity as a weapon; strategic, and frightening, and pushy. This Cas, though, he was little more than pensive, just a dash sympathetic. And wasn't that just the icing on the cake? Castiel could sense his emotions, and the very thought made Dean want to crawl into a hole and never come out again.
Because he was ashamed.
It was a stupid thing to feel, really. How else was he supposed to cope with the end of the world? If he hadn't warped his insides into something hard and terrible and sharp and biting, he would've died a long time ago, and everyone else would've died right along with him. His death wasn't just suicide -- it was murder.
But there it was. The hesitation, the wilting sense of degradation. It seared his insides like a hot iron, pressing into him, poking around at the scars he'd used to fill up the void all his loss had left behind. If he changed, if he morphed, if he adapted, then he was spared the curse of feeling.
It was survival at its most basic understanding.
"What?" Dean said again, and didn't realize how he had straightened up and leaned so far back into his chair he was practically huddling against it in an effort to put some distance between him and the angel standing too close for comfort.
Castiel tilted his head to the side, regarded the other man for a long moment. To be honest, he hadn't really ever stopped regarding this future version of Dean. He'd been fascinated the moment he'd laid eyes on the other's soul, and in a way, a little drawn, as if the writhing mass within was calling out to him. He'd always felt compelled to follow Dean, to obey him, to help him and seek out his consolation and wisdom on many matters, but this... this felt different.
This felt protective.
He was a little confused by the swell of emotion, because for one, he didn't really feel emotion all that acutely, and for another, he'd not felt this sort of sympathy for Dean since that incident with Alistair, and even then that had only occurred when the hunter had been bruised and bloodied into a nearly unrecognizable state.
Castiel couldn't shake the feeling, however; couldn't quite keep himself from caring as much as he did.
Nor could he quite keep himself from laying a hand over Dean's shoulder and pressing inward that little bit that indicated an intent to comfort.
Dean shrugged him off immediately, groused something about keeping his hands to himself, but Cas only frowned and did it again, this time more firmly.
He could be stubborn, too, when he wanted to be. And as he'd found out earlier with his time's Dean, sometimes touch was a simple but effective means of communicating good intentions.
Castiel had nothing but good intentions for the many currently huddled almost pathetically in the chair. He didn't know what to do or say to fix him, but he had faith that those matters would resolve themselves if he simply kept trying.
Dean was a little taken aback. Not only had Castiel incited physical contact (which wasn't really uncommon nowadays, but he distinctly remembered it being far different several years ago), but he'd insistently done so, and, what's more...
It was kind of working.
But only kind of, because otherwise Dean would have been an emotional pushover.
As it was, it took very little out of him to lean into the touch, to loose his inhibitions and fall into the unearthly strength the other man provided. Dean wasn't used to this. It hurt him to realize just how much he'd missed it; missed the feeling of comfort, missed the acute sense of protection. Castiel used to be there for him. Castiel had stuck with him through everything, no matter how many times Dean had feared waking up to find the angel-turned-man gone; to hear that he'd packed up and headed out into the woods, never to be seen again. To find that, maybe, he'd killed himself; done something stupid like overdosed on purpose, or cut his wrists open and let them bleed onto the floor, or drank himself to death. Dean lived in a world of fear, because he knew he couldn't control Cas, and he knew the other man's presence did nothing but burden him even further with worry, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He couldn't stop watching the rise and fall of Cas' shoulders with every inhale and exhale he took, couldn't persuade himself to leave Cas' side when they were on a mission together, couldn't help the uncoiling of fumbling nerves every morning he woke up and found Cas in the same cabin he'd deigned his own, unmoved, unhurt, unaffected.
Dean was so busy worrying about the physical, he'd completely disregarded the mental, the spiritual. Cas might have stayed, yeah, but he wasn't really around anymore. His mind was too far gone, his thoughts spiraling anywhere but where Dean thought it mattered: Him. Them. The unspoken "us". The oft ignored "we".
Dean couldn't say anything to his rejection; he could hardly blame him.
Castiel anchored him. Castiel's hand, clamped along his shoulder, the bony wrist of his vessel digging against Dean's bare neck, it kept him planted firmly in his seat, in the here and the now. If Dean wandered too far, he would never come back. He'd stumble, and he'd trip, and he'd fall.
Just like Cas.
God, it hurt to think.
Dean leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and let out a breath about as bone-deep as any breath could get. Castiel moved with him, kept safe within the confines of propriety, but pressed forward steadily, kept up their simple contact.
It was funny, too. Dean had felt so much more, had been subject to the heat of Cas, the muscles and the tension, the hard lines and soft skin, the even softer tongue. He knew Cas from the inside out, and yet Castiel's touch, the one here, the one standing just in front of him and staring down at him so heatedly that Dean could feel the burn of it dig into his chest, was so foreign, and so alien, and absolutely, one-hundred percent awe-inspiring.
He didn't want to think anymore. Didn't want to feel -- hell, he hardly even wanted to breathe, to continue his existence with those tiny puffs of air. But there he was, and there Cas was, and when Dean wrenched his eyes open and peered up at the angel to do or think or say God-knew what, he found himself doing and thinking and saying things he was certain would send him right back down to Hell.
"Cas," he said, and cleared his throat where it felt thick and clumsy. "Come here."
It was a stupid thing to say. Castiel was already there, already as close as he could get without toppling over into Dean's lap.
"There" wasn't close enough.
When Dean tugged down, jerked Cas towards him and offset his balance in a coldly calculated manner, he did it with the assurance that an angel -- a freakin' angel -- couldn't be jerked around by any man unless he wanted to be manhandled.
So when Cas fell into his lap, when the other's knees buckled and slid easily, instinctively, around Dean's hips, Dean forced himself to calm his beating heart and go through with the act he had just started. He was standing at the top of an incline, peering down at the result below, something so far away he couldn't clearly make it out, and he'd just tipped the first rocky boulder over the edge, had just skipped the first smooth stone along the lake, and was now watching the affect, the way the boulder picked up speed, the way the ripples expanded and expanded and expanded until they faded against the backdrop of the deep.
He would wait for the crash later, would bask in the oil and the burn of twisted metal and screaming wreckage when the chance arose, but for now, there, with an angel pressed tight to his body and with frighteningly lucid shades of blue blinking down at him in mortified confusion, Dean chose to feel.
PART ONE || PART TWO || PART THREE