Fic: What makes the dawn come up like thunder, part 1/? in Oz
What makes the dawn come up like thunder
3,000 words, SPN Dean/Castiel. Spoilers for all of season 4.
Thanks to zelda_zee for beta goodness.
First in my Welcome to Oz series. Master post of links here.
Dean wakes up in the cheerfully painted yellow kitchen of a middle class home in Suburbia, USA. There are two things that tip him off to the fact that he’s in a state that ain’t Kansas or reality: one, the fact that he can’t remember how he got to this kitchen or what happened immediately preceding his arrival (such as falling asleep or being hit in the face with a squirt of hallucinogenic demon juice); two, the way everything seems too bright and perfect to be real-from the picture window above the sink to the sliding glass doors that .
What makes the dawn come up like thunder
Day 1
Dean wakes up in the cheerfully painted yellow kitchen of a middle class home in Suburbia, USA. There are two things that tip him off to the fact that he’s in a state that ain’t Kansas or reality: one, the fact that he can’t remember how he got to this kitchen or what happened immediately preceding his arrival (such as falling asleep or being hit in the face with a squirt of hallucinogenic demon juice); two, the way everything seems too bright and perfect to be real-from the picture window above the sink to the sliding glass doors that lead out onto a cozy wood deck. Even the breeze ruffling the crayon blue curtains is flavored with the scent of baked goods.
“Dean,” a voice says. Dean whirls around immediately, bracing for an attack. It’s only Castiel, standing in the middle of the room by the round dining table. He’s wearing that damn tax accountant uniform and Dean’s a mixture of annoyed and relieved.
“You really Cas, or should I be rifling through the cabinets for some rock salt and holy water right about now?” Dean backs up against the kitchen counter near the block of knives. Better safe and all that.
Castiel holds his arms up in front of him and inspects his palms, then the backs of his hands as if they surprise him. He looks up at Dean. “It’s really you. And... my vessel. Why I am occupying my vessel?”
“How about the whole blast my eardrums and burn out my corneas deal?” Dean suggests wryly as he selects a medium sized carving knife from the block. “Or have we moved past caring about possibly making me go blind and deaf?”
Castiel shakes his head slowly. “You misunderstand me. I mean to say that I don’t know why I’m here, or why you’re here. I thought my vessel was,” Castiel hesitates, “destroyed in the wrath of the archangel.”
Dean sucks in a breath as he inspects the knife’s edge. “I figured Zach wasn’t about to bounce us both into another angelic green room, but wrath, huh? Guess they aren’t all that badass if you managed to scrape by without a scratch.”
“I thought for certain I had perished,” Castiel says. “I expected-Hell. Nothingness.” He glances around the room. “Not this.”
“I can guarantee you this is not Hell. But you remember Hell, don’t you?” Dean says lightly. “Good times.”
“You are correct,” Castiel agrees. “This is not Hell. This is something different.”
“I’d bet good money Nothingness doesn’t smell like freshly baked bread,” Dean says. "That leaves: sleepwalking into an open house, hanging out in a dream world, astral projection, being jerked around by some demons, being jerked around by some angels, or check box for Other.” Dean shrugs. “My money’s on Other at this point, what with Lucifer rising from the underbelly and all. But dream world’s always a classic.”
“That’s an impressive array of options,” Castiel says, and his voice is still like gravel, but Dean picks up on something a little off about its timbre. “None of them sound very pleasant and yet this place is soothing. Calm.”
“Don’t let the quiet fool you into letting your guard down,” Dean says as he tests the heft of the knife in his hand. “I’ve got plenty of experience waking up places and not remembering how I got where. And the thing I’ve learned is that you never know what new and exciting horrific misfortune is gonna walk through the door.”
Castiel glances at the doorway leading into the rest of the house, and then at the sliding glass doors leading onto the deck. “Does it become less disconcerting over time?”
“Not really,” Dean says. He walks over to the table and rams the knife upright into the varnished wood top, within easy reach if he needs it. He pulls out a seat. “Sometimes I get lucky and whatever’s coming for me literally comes for me. Then all I gotta do is wait. Might as well give that a shot.”
Castiel moves to the sliding doors, where the sunlight streams in. But in spite of the hazy glow around him, an ashy grey tinges his features. “How long do we wait?”
“Until I get bored,” Dean says as he tries to settle into his seat.
“Not very long then,” Castiel deadpans, and the corner of Dean’s mouth drags itself up.
“What about angel radio?” Dean asks. “You picking up any heavenly frequencies or are we out of range?”
“I-“ Castiel touches his fingertips to the door and gazes almost longingly at the outside. “I cannot hear anything but myself. Not my vessel, and not the others.”
“And no marching orders?” Dean prods. “No master plan?”
“What orders?” Castiel says, and there’s pain in it, so unexpected and raw it almost makes Dean flinch. “The ones I-” he stops.
Dean had known, on some level, what he’d been asking Castiel to do in that green room. He’d known that even if they stopped that son of a bitch from rising, there’d still be consequences--for all of them. The Winchester family ran with cursed blood and borrowed time, and if that tree burned up fighting the biggest motherfucker of them all, well, Dean had been okay with that.
But Castiel-Castiel wasn’t family. Castiel had his own brothers and father he was turning against. Dean had believed-convinced himself-that if anyone could get through this with a minimum of scar tissue, it’d be Castiel. He was an angel of the Lord, for Christ’s sake. “They cut you off? Threw you away?”
“They unmade me and remade me,” Castiel says, and there’s pain still, but mostly sadness. “They made me different.”
“You seem pretty much the same to me,” Dean says. “Same stupid trenchcoat, same big blue eyes, same laryngitis throat-all minus some voices in your head. Seems like an overall win.” As Dean says it, he knows it isn’t true. He’s watching Castiel bleed all over the floor.
“I am alone now,” Castiel says, and he’s staring at the sky through the door so intensely Dean’s half expecting the glass to shatter. “I am changed.”
“I’m sorry,” Dean says, and he doesn’t know he is until he says it. If Dean could go back in time, he’d make the same choices--even knowing that he wouldn’t get there in time anyway. But maybe he wouldn’t have asked Castiel for what he had. Maybe he’d have found another way.
“Being sorry doesn’t change anything,” Castiel says as he takes a step back, away from the sunlight coming in through the door. And Dean can see it now-the shiver of uncertainty that runs through Castiel’s body. “I have made my-choice.” The word sounds strange on Castiel’s lips, as if he doesn’t quite understand what it means.
“The big guy upstairs, he knows you did what you did to stop the Prince of Darkness, Lord of Flies, pitchfork wielding dude right?” Dean says. “Because that’s a pretty significant plot point right there.”
“I disobeyed,” Castiel says and runs his fingers through his hair. It’s a shockingly human gesture. “The reason why is irrelevant.”
“Saving the world from the Apocalypse is all that’s relevant,” Dean says. “Why don’t any of you feathery sons of bitches see that?”
“We were not created to make such determinations,” Castiel says and there’s a touch of pleading in his voice, but Dean doesn’t know for what. “We were created to obey. If the Apocalypse is part of God’s plan, it is not for me to question that.”
“But you do question, and you do have doubts,” Dean argues back. “Isn’t that part of how he made you? If he didn’t want you to, that’s one hell of a dirty trick to play.”
“I was not always like this. I-“ Castiel runs his hands over the material of his trenchcoat, up and down the sides. “I have changed.”
“You keep saying that,” Dean says, “but I don’t see it.”
“Not since we last spoke.” Castiel grips the edges of his coat right beneath the collar. “But since we met. Since I raised you from Hell."
“I know I’m a life-changer,” Dean jokes uncomfortably, “but people usually tell me that after they’ve slept with me, not before.” As soon as the words leave his lips, something in the air shifts. Castiel stares at him, but he’s not cocking his head in curiosity or rolling his eyes. He’s just staring.
Then Castiel lowers his eyes and in one swift motion, jerks off his trenchcoat. The movement is clumsy, the sound of tearing fabric a testament to too much force applied at once. Almost like he’s never taken his jacket off before. Which, come to think of it, he probably hasn’t.
“Whoa there, cowboy.” Dean’s not sure what playbook Castiel’s operating out of now, but it doesn’t seem very heavenly. “Bad joke. I didn’t mean. That wasn’t a challenge, really.”
“I disobeyed orders.” Castiel hangs the torn coat carefully on the back of one of the dining chairs. “Because-”
“Because some seriously messed up shit was going down,” Dean stares, disbelieving, at the coat on the chair. He can’t bring himself to look at Castiel without it-it feels wrong, even if Castiel’s still wearing layers and layers.
Castiel slides out of his suit jacket, still awkward, but with no rips this time. “Because I believed in you instead of God.”
Dean’s mouth goes dry. Castiel’s clearly losing it. “I told you my take on things. You agreed with me, that’s all. If there’s a God, that crap that Zach was pushing-that can’t be what the big guy wants.”
“Maybe,” Castiel says as he unbuttons his cuffs, moves to unbutton the front of his shirt. “It is not my place to guess at what God wants.”
“Cas, what are you-“ Dean sputters as Castiel continues taking his clothes off like it’s the thing to do in a situation like this, whatever the hell this situation is. “It might be a little warm in here, but you’re running out of clothes and that’s-”
“An angel is a creature of faith.” Castiel’s voice changes, words taking on a glassy, speech-like quality. Like he’s intoning a sacred text as he pops open buttons. “An angel is God’s will given shape, righteous and true. Obedience is the manifestation of an angel’s faith.” He unbuckles his belt, throws it over the back of the chair.
“Listen, Cas,” Dean starts, but he doesn’t know what he actually wants Castiel to listen to. He’s always been a fan of stripping-usually when it involved some hot young thing of the female persuasion, though not exclusively-but in the context of the angel that ripped him out of Hell? It’s more a frightening idea than a sexy one. And if Dean had thought, on occasion, that Jimmy the vessel wasn’t hard on the eyes, well, that was something he’d intended to take to the grave with him. The poor schmuck has enough problems, not the least of which are a wife and kid. “What are you doing here?”
It’s a stupid question because it’s pretty clear what Castiel is doing-that is, taking off all of his clothes in the middle of Barbie Dream House-which is probably why Castiel ignores it and continues with his speech. “Without faith, an angel is not an angel. An angel becomes a desecration of God’s will.” Castiel’s finally got the hang of this disrobing process, and after he takes off his button-down shirt he folds it carefully over the back of the chair. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention to Dean anymore, only stares into the distance while he continues to speak. It’s not a striptease; it’s a ritual, a last rite.
“What are you doing, Castiel?” Dean asks again, and Castiel’s eyes meet Dean’s again for the briefest of seconds before skittering away.
“If an angel loses faith, an angel forfeits that which grants meaning to their existence,” Castiel whispers. He pulls his undershirt over his head and folds it into a square, puts it on the seat of his chair. Dean looks away from the smooth, unmarked expanse of his chest because it’s bizarre to see an angel-or angel’s vessel-half naked. Anna was different. Anna was human.
“Cas, you gotta stop what you’re doing right now.” Dean puts all the command he can into his voice and tries to get Castiel’s focus back on him. “I never thought I’d say this to anyone voluntarily, but: put your damn clothes back on so we can talk.”
But Castiel’s eyes are glazed, fixed on a point above Dean’s head. Castiel steps out of his shoes and takes off his socks one at a time. He folds the socks up neatly into his shoes. “An angel loses the grace of God.” He’s down to his pants, now.
“Are you trying to tell me you lost your grace?” Dean’s grasping for something, anything. “Misplaced it, perhaps? No sweat-all we gotta do is find reports of a mysterious shooting star, head to the crash site, and poke around the first freaky thing we find there.”
“Can a creature deny what it is? Go against its very nature?” Castiel’s not listening to Dean, but he doesn’t sound like he’s reciting lines anymore. He unbuttons his fly, lowers the zipper, and pulls his pants down. He awkwardly stumbles out of his pants, nearly falls over. “If it does, it is an abomination. And how could an abomination ask for forgiveness when it made its choice knowingly, willingly? How could it ask to be anything more?”
Castiel’s standing calmly in his underwear, barefoot on the cold linoleum floor. The sun’s still shining outside but none of the light falls on him. The room’s too bright to creep with shadows, but something about Castiel’s skin seems to drain the color around him, like a black and white frame in the middle of a Technicolor movie.
“Don’t do this, Cas,” Dean says softly as the realization of what this is all really about dawns on him, slow and steady and unstoppable. “You’ve already done enough.”
A muscle twitches in Castiel’s face and it could be mistaken for a flinch. “An abomination does not cease to exist, for that would be a merciful release. An abomination must continue, must suffer the loss, the failure, the cost of defiance. An abomination, an angel fallen from the grace of God, is not nothing.” His thumbs hook into the waistband of his boxers and he slides them down the length of his pale legs. “It is less.”
Dean wants to avert his eyes but he can’t, because he’s a part of this and always has been. He made Castiel the man he is today. “I’m sorry.”
Castiel stands stark naked and yet not shyly, not ashamedly. His eyes refocus and the sadness there hits Dean like a physical blow.
“I gripped you tight and raised you up from perdition,” Castiel says. His voice is still deep, deeper than Jimmy’s, but the echo of power is gone. Dean doesn’t know what’s left. “I held your soul even as you struck out and seared me in ways that Hell could not. I remade you in flesh and bone, knitted the remains of your physical body together as I knitted the remains of your soul. I thought the bond we forged together in Hell would chain you to me.” Castiel touches the muscle of his own thigh, the hair on his chest, the bridge of his nose. “Instead, it is I who was chained to you.”
Dean’s fingers itch to mimic the trail of Castiel’s hand, to touch his own thigh, the point over his heart, the bridge of his nose. Instead, he forces his palms to lay flat on the tabletop. “Is that why you’re here?” Dean asks. “Wherever I go you’re gonna follow like a supernatural lost puppy?”
“I didn’t follow you here. I was sent.” Castiel presses the base of his right hand to his forehead and winces slightly. “And you weren’t supposed to-”
“Crash the holy party of one?” Dean supplies.
Castiel presses both hands to his forehead. “Alone. They told me I’d have to...” he trails off into silence.
Dean looks at the floor. The linoleum’s a bright abstract floral pattern, all citrus hues. “So it’s all coming back now?”
“Fragments,” Castiel says. He shudders. “I know I was sent here.”
“Do you wish you didn’t?”
“I wish I could go home,” Castiel says.
“Then let’s get you there, Dorothy,” Dean says and stands. “There’s bound to be a pair of ruby slippers somewhere in this house. Put on your clothes and we’ll track them down.’
“They don’t fit,” Castiel says, not moving.
“Don’t worry, the slippers were just another clever pop culture reference totally wasted on you,” Dean says. “Unless this dream world’s set in Oz.” Dean pauses to contemplate the thought. “God, I hope not. Those flying monkeys were creepy as shit.”
“I meant the clothing,” Castiel says, gesturing at the neatly folded and partially torn garments on the chair. “They belonged to my vessel. And I-” his voice drops to a whisper, “I cannot.”
Dean glances down at the sleeves of the jacket he’s weather-his most beloved, well worn, well cleaned leather jacket. He slides it off and shoves it across the kitchen table before he can reconsider. “Take it.”
Castiel touches the leather carefully before slipping it over his shoulders. The jacket’s too big on him, the dark material contrasting with the pallor of his skin. “Thank you,” he says gravely.
“I expect it dry cleaned and in one piece when you give it back,” Dean says gruffly. “Remember that the next time you think about getting shot at or stabbed-you’re wearing my jacket now.”
The faint smile hovering over Castiel’s lips almost reaches his eyes. “I’ll guard it with my life.”
“Good,” Dean says and pulls the knife free from the tabletop. He turns to the doorway leading to the rest of the house. “Now let’s blow this taco stand.”
Onto the next chapter: I can barely hear my heart beating
3,000 words, SPN Dean/Castiel. Spoilers for all of season 4.
Thanks to zelda_zee for beta goodness.
First in my Welcome to Oz series. Master post of links here.
Dean wakes up in the cheerfully painted yellow kitchen of a middle class home in Suburbia, USA. There are two things that tip him off to the fact that he’s in a state that ain’t Kansas or reality: one, the fact that he can’t remember how he got to this kitchen or what happened immediately preceding his arrival (such as falling asleep or being hit in the face with a squirt of hallucinogenic demon juice); two, the way everything seems too bright and perfect to be real-from the picture window above the sink to the sliding glass doors that .
What makes the dawn come up like thunder
Day 1
Dean wakes up in the cheerfully painted yellow kitchen of a middle class home in Suburbia, USA. There are two things that tip him off to the fact that he’s in a state that ain’t Kansas or reality: one, the fact that he can’t remember how he got to this kitchen or what happened immediately preceding his arrival (such as falling asleep or being hit in the face with a squirt of hallucinogenic demon juice); two, the way everything seems too bright and perfect to be real-from the picture window above the sink to the sliding glass doors that lead out onto a cozy wood deck. Even the breeze ruffling the crayon blue curtains is flavored with the scent of baked goods.
“Dean,” a voice says. Dean whirls around immediately, bracing for an attack. It’s only Castiel, standing in the middle of the room by the round dining table. He’s wearing that damn tax accountant uniform and Dean’s a mixture of annoyed and relieved.
“You really Cas, or should I be rifling through the cabinets for some rock salt and holy water right about now?” Dean backs up against the kitchen counter near the block of knives. Better safe and all that.
Castiel holds his arms up in front of him and inspects his palms, then the backs of his hands as if they surprise him. He looks up at Dean. “It’s really you. And... my vessel. Why I am occupying my vessel?”
“How about the whole blast my eardrums and burn out my corneas deal?” Dean suggests wryly as he selects a medium sized carving knife from the block. “Or have we moved past caring about possibly making me go blind and deaf?”
Castiel shakes his head slowly. “You misunderstand me. I mean to say that I don’t know why I’m here, or why you’re here. I thought my vessel was,” Castiel hesitates, “destroyed in the wrath of the archangel.”
Dean sucks in a breath as he inspects the knife’s edge. “I figured Zach wasn’t about to bounce us both into another angelic green room, but wrath, huh? Guess they aren’t all that badass if you managed to scrape by without a scratch.”
“I thought for certain I had perished,” Castiel says. “I expected-Hell. Nothingness.” He glances around the room. “Not this.”
“I can guarantee you this is not Hell. But you remember Hell, don’t you?” Dean says lightly. “Good times.”
“You are correct,” Castiel agrees. “This is not Hell. This is something different.”
“I’d bet good money Nothingness doesn’t smell like freshly baked bread,” Dean says. "That leaves: sleepwalking into an open house, hanging out in a dream world, astral projection, being jerked around by some demons, being jerked around by some angels, or check box for Other.” Dean shrugs. “My money’s on Other at this point, what with Lucifer rising from the underbelly and all. But dream world’s always a classic.”
“That’s an impressive array of options,” Castiel says, and his voice is still like gravel, but Dean picks up on something a little off about its timbre. “None of them sound very pleasant and yet this place is soothing. Calm.”
“Don’t let the quiet fool you into letting your guard down,” Dean says as he tests the heft of the knife in his hand. “I’ve got plenty of experience waking up places and not remembering how I got where. And the thing I’ve learned is that you never know what new and exciting horrific misfortune is gonna walk through the door.”
Castiel glances at the doorway leading into the rest of the house, and then at the sliding glass doors leading onto the deck. “Does it become less disconcerting over time?”
“Not really,” Dean says. He walks over to the table and rams the knife upright into the varnished wood top, within easy reach if he needs it. He pulls out a seat. “Sometimes I get lucky and whatever’s coming for me literally comes for me. Then all I gotta do is wait. Might as well give that a shot.”
Castiel moves to the sliding doors, where the sunlight streams in. But in spite of the hazy glow around him, an ashy grey tinges his features. “How long do we wait?”
“Until I get bored,” Dean says as he tries to settle into his seat.
“Not very long then,” Castiel deadpans, and the corner of Dean’s mouth drags itself up.
“What about angel radio?” Dean asks. “You picking up any heavenly frequencies or are we out of range?”
“I-“ Castiel touches his fingertips to the door and gazes almost longingly at the outside. “I cannot hear anything but myself. Not my vessel, and not the others.”
“And no marching orders?” Dean prods. “No master plan?”
“What orders?” Castiel says, and there’s pain in it, so unexpected and raw it almost makes Dean flinch. “The ones I-” he stops.
Dean had known, on some level, what he’d been asking Castiel to do in that green room. He’d known that even if they stopped that son of a bitch from rising, there’d still be consequences--for all of them. The Winchester family ran with cursed blood and borrowed time, and if that tree burned up fighting the biggest motherfucker of them all, well, Dean had been okay with that.
But Castiel-Castiel wasn’t family. Castiel had his own brothers and father he was turning against. Dean had believed-convinced himself-that if anyone could get through this with a minimum of scar tissue, it’d be Castiel. He was an angel of the Lord, for Christ’s sake. “They cut you off? Threw you away?”
“They unmade me and remade me,” Castiel says, and there’s pain still, but mostly sadness. “They made me different.”
“You seem pretty much the same to me,” Dean says. “Same stupid trenchcoat, same big blue eyes, same laryngitis throat-all minus some voices in your head. Seems like an overall win.” As Dean says it, he knows it isn’t true. He’s watching Castiel bleed all over the floor.
“I am alone now,” Castiel says, and he’s staring at the sky through the door so intensely Dean’s half expecting the glass to shatter. “I am changed.”
“I’m sorry,” Dean says, and he doesn’t know he is until he says it. If Dean could go back in time, he’d make the same choices--even knowing that he wouldn’t get there in time anyway. But maybe he wouldn’t have asked Castiel for what he had. Maybe he’d have found another way.
“Being sorry doesn’t change anything,” Castiel says as he takes a step back, away from the sunlight coming in through the door. And Dean can see it now-the shiver of uncertainty that runs through Castiel’s body. “I have made my-choice.” The word sounds strange on Castiel’s lips, as if he doesn’t quite understand what it means.
“The big guy upstairs, he knows you did what you did to stop the Prince of Darkness, Lord of Flies, pitchfork wielding dude right?” Dean says. “Because that’s a pretty significant plot point right there.”
“I disobeyed,” Castiel says and runs his fingers through his hair. It’s a shockingly human gesture. “The reason why is irrelevant.”
“Saving the world from the Apocalypse is all that’s relevant,” Dean says. “Why don’t any of you feathery sons of bitches see that?”
“We were not created to make such determinations,” Castiel says and there’s a touch of pleading in his voice, but Dean doesn’t know for what. “We were created to obey. If the Apocalypse is part of God’s plan, it is not for me to question that.”
“But you do question, and you do have doubts,” Dean argues back. “Isn’t that part of how he made you? If he didn’t want you to, that’s one hell of a dirty trick to play.”
“I was not always like this. I-“ Castiel runs his hands over the material of his trenchcoat, up and down the sides. “I have changed.”
“You keep saying that,” Dean says, “but I don’t see it.”
“Not since we last spoke.” Castiel grips the edges of his coat right beneath the collar. “But since we met. Since I raised you from Hell."
“I know I’m a life-changer,” Dean jokes uncomfortably, “but people usually tell me that after they’ve slept with me, not before.” As soon as the words leave his lips, something in the air shifts. Castiel stares at him, but he’s not cocking his head in curiosity or rolling his eyes. He’s just staring.
Then Castiel lowers his eyes and in one swift motion, jerks off his trenchcoat. The movement is clumsy, the sound of tearing fabric a testament to too much force applied at once. Almost like he’s never taken his jacket off before. Which, come to think of it, he probably hasn’t.
“Whoa there, cowboy.” Dean’s not sure what playbook Castiel’s operating out of now, but it doesn’t seem very heavenly. “Bad joke. I didn’t mean. That wasn’t a challenge, really.”
“I disobeyed orders.” Castiel hangs the torn coat carefully on the back of one of the dining chairs. “Because-”
“Because some seriously messed up shit was going down,” Dean stares, disbelieving, at the coat on the chair. He can’t bring himself to look at Castiel without it-it feels wrong, even if Castiel’s still wearing layers and layers.
Castiel slides out of his suit jacket, still awkward, but with no rips this time. “Because I believed in you instead of God.”
Dean’s mouth goes dry. Castiel’s clearly losing it. “I told you my take on things. You agreed with me, that’s all. If there’s a God, that crap that Zach was pushing-that can’t be what the big guy wants.”
“Maybe,” Castiel says as he unbuttons his cuffs, moves to unbutton the front of his shirt. “It is not my place to guess at what God wants.”
“Cas, what are you-“ Dean sputters as Castiel continues taking his clothes off like it’s the thing to do in a situation like this, whatever the hell this situation is. “It might be a little warm in here, but you’re running out of clothes and that’s-”
“An angel is a creature of faith.” Castiel’s voice changes, words taking on a glassy, speech-like quality. Like he’s intoning a sacred text as he pops open buttons. “An angel is God’s will given shape, righteous and true. Obedience is the manifestation of an angel’s faith.” He unbuckles his belt, throws it over the back of the chair.
“Listen, Cas,” Dean starts, but he doesn’t know what he actually wants Castiel to listen to. He’s always been a fan of stripping-usually when it involved some hot young thing of the female persuasion, though not exclusively-but in the context of the angel that ripped him out of Hell? It’s more a frightening idea than a sexy one. And if Dean had thought, on occasion, that Jimmy the vessel wasn’t hard on the eyes, well, that was something he’d intended to take to the grave with him. The poor schmuck has enough problems, not the least of which are a wife and kid. “What are you doing here?”
It’s a stupid question because it’s pretty clear what Castiel is doing-that is, taking off all of his clothes in the middle of Barbie Dream House-which is probably why Castiel ignores it and continues with his speech. “Without faith, an angel is not an angel. An angel becomes a desecration of God’s will.” Castiel’s finally got the hang of this disrobing process, and after he takes off his button-down shirt he folds it carefully over the back of the chair. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention to Dean anymore, only stares into the distance while he continues to speak. It’s not a striptease; it’s a ritual, a last rite.
“What are you doing, Castiel?” Dean asks again, and Castiel’s eyes meet Dean’s again for the briefest of seconds before skittering away.
“If an angel loses faith, an angel forfeits that which grants meaning to their existence,” Castiel whispers. He pulls his undershirt over his head and folds it into a square, puts it on the seat of his chair. Dean looks away from the smooth, unmarked expanse of his chest because it’s bizarre to see an angel-or angel’s vessel-half naked. Anna was different. Anna was human.
“Cas, you gotta stop what you’re doing right now.” Dean puts all the command he can into his voice and tries to get Castiel’s focus back on him. “I never thought I’d say this to anyone voluntarily, but: put your damn clothes back on so we can talk.”
But Castiel’s eyes are glazed, fixed on a point above Dean’s head. Castiel steps out of his shoes and takes off his socks one at a time. He folds the socks up neatly into his shoes. “An angel loses the grace of God.” He’s down to his pants, now.
“Are you trying to tell me you lost your grace?” Dean’s grasping for something, anything. “Misplaced it, perhaps? No sweat-all we gotta do is find reports of a mysterious shooting star, head to the crash site, and poke around the first freaky thing we find there.”
“Can a creature deny what it is? Go against its very nature?” Castiel’s not listening to Dean, but he doesn’t sound like he’s reciting lines anymore. He unbuttons his fly, lowers the zipper, and pulls his pants down. He awkwardly stumbles out of his pants, nearly falls over. “If it does, it is an abomination. And how could an abomination ask for forgiveness when it made its choice knowingly, willingly? How could it ask to be anything more?”
Castiel’s standing calmly in his underwear, barefoot on the cold linoleum floor. The sun’s still shining outside but none of the light falls on him. The room’s too bright to creep with shadows, but something about Castiel’s skin seems to drain the color around him, like a black and white frame in the middle of a Technicolor movie.
“Don’t do this, Cas,” Dean says softly as the realization of what this is all really about dawns on him, slow and steady and unstoppable. “You’ve already done enough.”
A muscle twitches in Castiel’s face and it could be mistaken for a flinch. “An abomination does not cease to exist, for that would be a merciful release. An abomination must continue, must suffer the loss, the failure, the cost of defiance. An abomination, an angel fallen from the grace of God, is not nothing.” His thumbs hook into the waistband of his boxers and he slides them down the length of his pale legs. “It is less.”
Dean wants to avert his eyes but he can’t, because he’s a part of this and always has been. He made Castiel the man he is today. “I’m sorry.”
Castiel stands stark naked and yet not shyly, not ashamedly. His eyes refocus and the sadness there hits Dean like a physical blow.
“I gripped you tight and raised you up from perdition,” Castiel says. His voice is still deep, deeper than Jimmy’s, but the echo of power is gone. Dean doesn’t know what’s left. “I held your soul even as you struck out and seared me in ways that Hell could not. I remade you in flesh and bone, knitted the remains of your physical body together as I knitted the remains of your soul. I thought the bond we forged together in Hell would chain you to me.” Castiel touches the muscle of his own thigh, the hair on his chest, the bridge of his nose. “Instead, it is I who was chained to you.”
Dean’s fingers itch to mimic the trail of Castiel’s hand, to touch his own thigh, the point over his heart, the bridge of his nose. Instead, he forces his palms to lay flat on the tabletop. “Is that why you’re here?” Dean asks. “Wherever I go you’re gonna follow like a supernatural lost puppy?”
“I didn’t follow you here. I was sent.” Castiel presses the base of his right hand to his forehead and winces slightly. “And you weren’t supposed to-”
“Crash the holy party of one?” Dean supplies.
Castiel presses both hands to his forehead. “Alone. They told me I’d have to...” he trails off into silence.
Dean looks at the floor. The linoleum’s a bright abstract floral pattern, all citrus hues. “So it’s all coming back now?”
“Fragments,” Castiel says. He shudders. “I know I was sent here.”
“Do you wish you didn’t?”
“I wish I could go home,” Castiel says.
“Then let’s get you there, Dorothy,” Dean says and stands. “There’s bound to be a pair of ruby slippers somewhere in this house. Put on your clothes and we’ll track them down.’
“They don’t fit,” Castiel says, not moving.
“Don’t worry, the slippers were just another clever pop culture reference totally wasted on you,” Dean says. “Unless this dream world’s set in Oz.” Dean pauses to contemplate the thought. “God, I hope not. Those flying monkeys were creepy as shit.”
“I meant the clothing,” Castiel says, gesturing at the neatly folded and partially torn garments on the chair. “They belonged to my vessel. And I-” his voice drops to a whisper, “I cannot.”
Dean glances down at the sleeves of the jacket he’s weather-his most beloved, well worn, well cleaned leather jacket. He slides it off and shoves it across the kitchen table before he can reconsider. “Take it.”
Castiel touches the leather carefully before slipping it over his shoulders. The jacket’s too big on him, the dark material contrasting with the pallor of his skin. “Thank you,” he says gravely.
“I expect it dry cleaned and in one piece when you give it back,” Dean says gruffly. “Remember that the next time you think about getting shot at or stabbed-you’re wearing my jacket now.”
The faint smile hovering over Castiel’s lips almost reaches his eyes. “I’ll guard it with my life.”
“Good,” Dean says and pulls the knife free from the tabletop. He turns to the doorway leading to the rest of the house. “Now let’s blow this taco stand.”
Onto the next chapter: I can barely hear my heart beating