Fic: I Through My Window See [3/3]

Oct 05, 2011 17:58


PART THREE

The man reflected in the glass doors of the convenience store is not Castiel. For one thing, Castiel was never a man. For another, the heavy motorcycle boots laced up his calves and the pair of sunglasses perched on the top of his head are both things that the Angel of Thursday would never think to wear, let alone purchase. And yet, as the man steps through the automatic doors, entrance bell giving a metallic ding as he disappears from view, Cas knows that the reflection is most definitely himself.

And when exactly had he turned into someone who looked so very human?

The clerk at the register is one of the new teenagers that Daniel’s training. A snot-faced high school student with too much gel in his hair and not nearly enough experience under his belt. But he nods at Cas by way of greeting and the hunter addresses him by name. They know him here.

The aisles have been changed around a little since he first started shopping at the 24-Mart, but the freezers remain stalwartly in place at the back of the store, too heavy to move, and it’s to here that Castiel goes first. As he always does.

Six Hungry Man dinners get tossed casually into the basket he grabbed on his way into the store. One for Monday through Saturday and then on Sunday, his day off, he’ll have dinner at the restaurant. The rest of the space in the basket is filled in with the usual weekly necessities. More band-aids, more hydrogen peroxide, a loaf of bread.

Taylor rings him up with a smile that the hunter doesn’t bother to return.

“Have a nice day, Cas.”

“Thank you.” He holds both bags in one hand as he makes his way back to his apartment. The place has improved dramatically over the past month or two. The kitchen is better stocked, and after the first kitchen table collapsed while he was performing minor surgery on himself for a bullet wound incurred during a fight with a shapeshifter, it was replaced with a much sturdier piece of furniture. And then accompanied by better seating.

The kitchen cabinets, once molding and stained have since been replaced with ones he built himself. They’re uneven and not quite mounted properly, but the cherry colored stain he picked out for them is something that he’s quite pleased with.

The living room has taken perhaps too many design tips from Bobby’s. The walls are lined with bookshelves, these ones purchased and not built after Cas’ first try at crafting his own ended in a disastrous implosion of wood and framework. He doesn’t have nearly the literary collection that the older hunter has put together, but his own library of useful texts is not anything to laugh at. It’s not all reference material either. He’s been reading fiction, collecting them, putting together his own thoughts regarding the morals and themes of the human race. He reads indiscriminately; Victor Hugo, James Fennimore Cooper, J.K. Rowling. All genres and time periods.

His mind is better honed now as a result. Not nearly as capable as his angelic one had been, but he’s finding it harder and harder to remember what exactly it feels like to be angelic anyway. The human body is not capable of such memories and with no reminders and no triggers, it’s very difficult to recall what it once felt like to flex his wings and exercise his Grace.

It’s best not to remember. Can’t miss what you cannot recall. So he goes through each day as a human and it shows. His body is looser, prone to twitches or restless fidgeting. His face has become more expressive, losing the alabaster sheen of angel-hood, wrinkles deepening when he smiles or frowns, both things he now does more of. He’s learning to laugh, learning to feel true sorrow and anger, and to control these emotions.

His body is also beginning to reflect his restless manhood. Testosterone coursing through his veins brings with it urges for things that Cas has never needed or especially wanted before. His only memory of sex is tied to Dean Winchester and he prefers not to allow his now frequently wandering mind to veer into that direction. His libido seems to accept the enforced celibacy, even if it’s not especially happy about it.

He has his own key to Bobby’s house. To use for seeking out books or to let himself in and rifle through the folders of prospective hunts that he keeps in the kitchen drawer.

It’s what he goes to do as soon as he finishes with the groceries for the week. It’s been several days since his last hunt and his ankle, which never seemed to heal quite right has stopped its irritable twinging long enough for him to consider taking on another. The telephone rings as he’s going through the manila folders of information and for a moment he considers not answering it.

And then he does.

“Hello?” It’s the phone labelled “Health Department” and Cas hopes that he has enough basic understanding of the convoluted telephone stories to make this work appropriately.

“I’m calling from Newton, Indiana in regards to two of your inspectors? Is this Mr. Dawkins?”

He carefully folds the cover back over on the folder he had been perusing. It’s a hunt that he’ll probably take, the victims have enough similarities for it to be more than random accidents. “My apologies, Mr. Dawkins is away this afternoon. Did you have a specific question regarding these agents?” As soon as Bobby thought that he might be capable enough of answering the phones and improvising quick enough lies to keep the system running smoothly, he’d coached him in how it should be done. The away message coming from a real person is always more effective than an answering machine and Cas’ gravelly voice has something “official-sounding” about it that works even when he has to reject the caller.

“Yes, I have Mr. Perry and Mr. Fleischman here, they claim there’s a problem with the hood on one of my ovens and that they’re going to need to take it out of the ceiling to inspect?”

He doesn’t need to recognize the names to know that he’s speaking to someone who may or may not be standing next to Sam and Dean. There are only so many hunters who use Bobby as a home base, and there’s always been a fairly real danger of the fact that this might occur. Cas doesn’t know what to do with the information that Dean’s in Newton, Indiana.

Though he’s surprised that a very large part of him shrugs deep down inside and seems to have absolutely no interest in going to seek the hunter out.

“Yes. While I don’t have the authority that Mr. Dawkins has on this particular matter, I would say that both inspectors are perfectly capable of making the necessary judgement call. Did you have any other concerns?”

The person on the other end answers in the negative, sounding somewhat reluctant as they hang up. Cas does not blame them for this, no one likes the idea of being duped or having to do something they do not wish to. He replaces the phone on the receiver and picks up the folder once more. He doesn’t bother to leave a note for Bobby as he leaves, the hunter will notice on his own that he’s been and gone. It’s not of any particular importance.

*                                              *                                              *

The case they’re on in Newton gets off to a pretty shitty start. The initial diagnosis that what’s going on in the little town is the result of a witch - or coven - leads them to the prissy head chef-slash-owner of a local gourmet restaurant who’s unwilling to let them pull down the hood over one of her ovens. Where there are undoubtedly a number of hex bags stashed.

Dean has half a mind to tell Sam that he thinks she might be one of the witches they’re after as the woman talks to their “superior” on the phone. He’s not sure what Bobby’s saying, but it seems to be working.

“Mr. Dawkins wasn’t there.”

Dean’s jaw drops. “Well, who the hell were you - ”

“It must have been his assistant,” Sam is quick to intercept, shooting Dean a glare that reminds him to stay in character. Health inspectors. Right. “Dave said he wasn’t feeling well last time I spoke to him.”

“Dave doesn’t have an assistant,” Dean growls once the woman is gone, leaving them to their business of ripping the huge steel hood out of the ceiling. It’s probably more than a two-man job, but they get to work anyway, unscrewing the bolts and jerking it downwards. It’s almost too heavy to be caught, but they manage to lower it to the ground without killing each other.

When they’re done, Sam stretches out the muscles in his back, straightening. “Remember that guy that we used to do things with? The one with the wings and the trench coat - ”

“What?”

“He hunts for Bobby now, you don’t think he maybe answers the phone every once in a while, too?”

There’s something about that idea that makes Dean’s stomach churn unpleasantly. It’s bad enough that Castiel’s hunting again, but to be answering Bobby’s phones too is such an utterly foreign concept. He can answer the phones but not give him a call every once in a while?

It’s pretty clear that Cas doesn’t need him at all anymore. If he ever did.

Yeah, there’s something about this that Dean really doesn’t like.

*                                              *                                              *

The hunt goes as expected, passably well with no life-threatening injuries to speak of. Cas does find himself bandaging an ugly looking cut on his hip, but that’s “par for the course” so to speak when dealing with a violent poltergeist. He’s suffered worse and expects that there’s even graver injuries he has yet to experience.

Sliding under the sheets of his bed has never felt quite so good as after completing a successful hunt. It’s something to live for, small though it might be. He’s not necessarily happy, not necessarily unhappy, either, but he’s protecting people and giving them the opportunity to live another day and be happy themselves.

And there’s nothing to scoff at about that.

The following morning is Tuesday which means that his shift doesn’t begin until four-thirty. He had not been above returning to the restaurant and pleading his case, using words suggested by Bobby that he was going through a tough time in his life and needed a few weeks -  months - off. Clearly, given the salt and the lamb’s blood and the general panic and chaos that his antics caused.

He’s fortunate that his work record up until his first ghost hunt had been so untarnished. They give him his old job back with minimal begging on his part and even set him to train the teenagers that cycle through in a never ending line of bored students looking for a few quick bucks. The job is not glamorous and most of them quit after only a few weeks of work, but Cas is content to teach sweeping and table sections. It’s something to do and a way to pay off his credit card bill on time.

He does laundry before heading in to work. The shirts and pants that he’s purchased for himself over the past few weeks pile up in a basket in the bathroom and by Tuesday it’s usually at capacity. The laundromat had confused him immensely the first few times he’d stumbled in to clean up his clothing, but the realization that he can put in whatever colors or darks or whites that he wants as long as he uses cold water has sped up the process immensely. There isn’t much color to bleed into his white dress shirts anyway.

The laundromat supervisor smiles at him as he enters with his basket. He’s used to the smiles. Bobby’s pointed out to him that women find him attractive, but he doesn’t like to think about that. With the obvious exception of Dean, he has no interest or need for romance in his life.

Sandy pats him on the arm when he reports in for work, smiling as brightly as always. If he were interested in that kind of thing, she would be the first candidate, he supposes, though she is already involved with someone else.

“How are you doing, sweetie-pie?” Some days, Cas wonders if she even remembers his real name, though she must. He can’t imagine that such an unusual name for a human is easily forgotten.

“Fine, thank you.” He smiles at her and moves towards the back of the restaurant, getting ready to take his shift. She grins at him as he moves through the building, ever the cheerful waitress.

It’s difficult to be as utterly morose as he would like to be with her around.

Tuesday evenings at the diner are not especially strenuous by any stretch of the word. There’s maybe only four or five tables in use when he starts his shift, and the place doesn’t get much fuller than that over the entire course of the evening. He spends most of the night hanging about the kitchen, speaking somewhat casually with both kitchen and wait staff. There’s no new hiree to train tonight, so when he’s not on his feet bussing the tables, he actually has the time to think to himself. And his thoughts are single-mindedly focused on his next hunt.

He’s determined not to let Dean or the fact that he’s in Newton, Indiana invade his thoughts. Nor the idea that he could very easily take the bus out there and track him down. If he thinks about it too hard there’s the risk that he might actually do it and he’s come so far since the last heartache, there’s absolutely no sense in subjecting himself to it once again.

Instead, he thinks about where he’ll go and what he’ll do next. The obvious answer is Bobby’s, but when the taxi drops him off on the hunter’s doorstep, he has more than a hunt on his mind.

“Cas,” Bobby greets perfunctorily. He’s training a new pair of Dobermans as guard dogs for the salvage yard. The former angel never had the opportunity to encounter his previous animals, but he likes the pair of Dobermans just fine, though he makes a point of not petting them when they run up to greet him. He’s already been yelled at for doing so, Bobby wants the dogs to guard, not to play.

Cas thinks it’s rather a shame to force the two animals to perform a task when their hearts are so clearly meant to be carefree.

“I’ve got a couple possible cases for you. One of ‘em looks like it’s a bust, but you might want to check it out anyway.”

“I’d like you to teach me to drive.”

Bobby hesitates, his hand stilling from where he’s patting one of the Doberman’s mangy heads, startled by the change in subject. “You want me to what?”

“Teach me to drive,” he repeats. He’s gotten used to Bobby’s expressions of surprise. The repetition no longer confuses or annoys him as much as it once had.

“You want to learn to drive?”

“Yes.”

Which is how Cas finds himself behind the wheel of a rundown Dodge Ram 150, the doors covered in rust from water damage and age. Bobby slides into the passenger’s seat and, after giving him a cursory once over of the gas, the brakes, the gear shift and the steering wheel, has handed him the keys and buckled up his own seat belt.

Cas turns to look at him soberly as he takes the keys in hand.

“Well? Have at her.”

The engine turns over quietly. For all that the car looks beat up on the outside, it’s apparently in passable enough working order to still drive rather smoothly. Cas moves his hands from the ignition and over to the gear shift and steering wheel. With his right, he pulls the stick backwards into drive.
“There you go, now ease on the gas.”

His right foot slowly descends on the gas pedal and the car rolls gently forward. Encouraged, he gives it a little more and they move through the salvage yard.

Bobby watches, impressed, as he maneuvers his way through the junked cars of the yard with apparent ease. His driving is neat and clinical, perfect arcing turns and slow, controlled stops.

When he pulls the Dodge back into place where it had originally been parked, Bobby pats him on the shoulder. “What do you say we get you your very own fake license, Cas?”

He’s pleased with his accomplishment and climbs out of the truck when Bobby does. Glancing down at it pensively. “How much money would I need to afford a car?”

“You can have this one if you want.” Bobby smiles at him, though the warmth is hidden somewhere under the beard and wrinkles. “Not going to junk a machine that runs this well. May as well give her some room to drive.”

He nods and pockets the keys. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, Cas. It’s not many that hunt as well as you do. It’s a tough life, but it’s appreciated by those who know how to appreciate it.”

*                                              *                                              *
“You got a car!” Sandy exclaims as he walks into the restaurant for his shift that evening. She’s impressed and it shows in her voice.

“Yes. A good friend of mine gave it to me.”

“A good frie - ” The waitress whistles, apparently even more impressed by this information than she’d been by the fact that Cas is driving now. “Must be some friend.”

He shrugs, just a slight raise of his shoulders as he heads to the back of the restaurant. Yes, he would suppose that Bobby is quite a good friend now. The best that he has, anyway.

Driving to hunts is much easier now that he no longer needs to make use of a taxi. It’s cheaper to get to and from Bobby’s as well and Castiel appreciates Dodge for this alone. He has greater freedom of movement and although his first thought is to drive to Newton, Indiana, it’s been almost a week since he answered that phone call and there’s no telling whether or not Sam and Dean are even still there. He suspects that the answer is probably “no”, which is the only thing holding him back.

*                                              *                                              *

The werewolf’s head explodes in a spray of blood and gore from fifteen feet away. Cas lowers his smoking shotgun, satisfied as the beast crumples to the ground in death. It’s his first werewolf hunt, but the kill’s been successful and he’s fairly pleased with the culmination of this particular job. The monster is dead, as it should be, and he’s walking away completely unscathed, also as it should be.

He’s the strongest he’s ever been and while a small part of him says that this is the time to go to Dean, another part of him has found comfort in where he’s at now. Job, people to talk to, home, hunting. He doesn’t need Dean Winchester and Dean Winchester doesn’t want him around anyway. Best not to dwell.

He toes at the werewolf with the edge of his boot and then leaves it.

The shotgun, he tosses into the passenger’s seat of his truck as he climbs into the driver’s seat himself. It hums gently to life as he heads for home. He’s already got an additional hunt in mind, now that he’s finished with this first one. Mysterious deaths out in Nebraska. Farmhands gutted in the fields, sounding like more than just a regular serial killer.

Castiel doesn’t mind running up against the occasional psychotic human, though. He’s disposed of enough of those in the past few months as a hunter as well. They’re monsters themselves.

He could go home first, but it would be faster to simply take the car onto the highway and head for Eastland, Nebraska right now. Makes the most sense anyway, there’s nothing that he needs from home before going.

The drive is long and tiring. He can appreciate now how tired Dean always seemed after driving for so long. Even two or three hours of watching the road soar past is enough to make his head start lolling. It’s a struggle to keep his eyes open and focused on the road, but he has no desire to pull over except to stash the shotgun in a slightly less visible place under the seat should a state trooper pull him over.

It’s happened already and Bobby was not especially impressed with the trouble it took to get him out of it.

The Nebraska state line looms up not quite quickly enough and Cas maneuvers his way through the winding highway towards Eastland. The houses quickly give way to small farms, landscape dotted with fields of wheat and corn. He has a few addresses of places where the killings occurred, but he’s going to the most recent site now.

It’s dark and something tells him that he should consider waiting for a few hours before knocking on any doors, but he wants to get this over with.

The woman who answers when he knocks on the farmhouse door looks less than impressed with his neat black suit than other people usually are and he wonders briefly why that is until she comments, dryly, “Another one of you? You feds are always sniffing around as soon as someone dies in some graphic, unfortunate way, aren’t you? Just out to get something from our pain, huh?”

Another one?

Castiel’s mind immediately flashes to Sam and Dean. Is it possible that they’re here now? In Nebraska? Working the same case?

It seems like too much to be believed and yet entirely possible. He doesn’t dwell, however, there’s a job to be done.

“Dispatch wanted to put another agent on the case. It would appear that the previous two were not doing as thorough a job as expected.”
“Well, come in, then.” She holds the door open to let him in and he passes through, lead into a neat little farmhouse kitchen where he’s directed to take a seat at the table. The information he receives here is not enough to convince him that this is anything more than another vengeful spirit, as is so frequent in the cases that he takes on. When the woman is finished sharing the local lore of the area, he nods to her and takes his leave. It’s already quite late into the evening but that doesn’t deter him from heading out.

The farmhands that have been gutted were all done so on farm properties within a ten mile radius of each other. The lay of the land means the farms all backed onto one another’s properties in wedges and the unusual divide, as Cas has just learned, is a result of one particularly wealthy farm owner perishing in a field accident and having his property sloppily divided between his neighbors.

Those are the right words to pique his interest: farm accident, property divided up. A motive and an explanation.

He parks the Dodge at the side of the road alongside a wheat field and climbs carefully out of it. With him, he brings his shotgun and a couple fresh cartridges of rock salt, tucked carefully away in the pockets of his trench coat. Bobby would say he’s rushing things, that he should get some sleep because his human body doesn’t operate so well when fatigued, but Cas just sees something that is threatening others and while he’s here and already awake, he may as well do the job he was meant to do.

He’s too late.

Not knowing where exactly the ghost of the farmer is means Cas spends the better part of two hours wandering around the fields before he encounters the corpse. It’s fresh, still a little warm. The stomach has been slit open cleanly across, spilling entrails out onto the fertile ground. He has no way of knowing for sure yet, but he’d think that the killing wound was made with a scythe of some sort. Wheat fields, farmer killed in an accident, scythes. It all makes sense to him, but as he’s contemplating the corpse before him, a commotion off somewhere to his right draws his attention in that direction.

He rises to his feet and takes off, running towards the sounds, gun at the ready. The movement of running has always felt just a little clumsy to him. Maneuvering his human body quickly over any ground is something completely new to his understanding of his vessel, but when he realizes that one of those voices is distinctly familiar, he picks up speed, hurtling towards what can only be the ghost.

And Dean.

“Yeah, you fucker, come and get it.”

He can hear the pain in Dean’s voice long before he comes within sight of him and while that should give him some pause, it throws him into action. The wheat gives way to a bit of a clearing, clearly made by the fight that has just ensued. Dean is lying on his back in the field, a nasty looking gash on both his cheek and his right shin - the reason for his fall - while the ghost looms over him, expected scythe in hand.

Cas doesn’t bother to wait and survey the scene any further. Dean’s gun has been knocked out of his hands and is closer to the former angel now, but it’s his own gun that he uses to blast through the ghost’s chest, knocking the rock salt clear through. It’s not enough to kill the ghost for good, but it keeps him off of Dean long enough for Cas to move forward and bend over the Winchester.

“Cas?” Dean’s eyes are wide with confusion and it’s quite clear that he’s not his expected saviour. The former angel wonders vaguely what’s happened to Sam.

“Yes,” he nods, leaning over Dean’s leg. He has some bandages in one of his pockets and he sets to pulling them out, wrapping the gash as best he can. “You should be sure to clean this out, it could get infected.”

It’s obvious that Dean’s still not entirely up to speed with what’s happening. “What are you doing?”

Cas tucks the end of the gauze in on itself, checking the white material to see if Dean’s started to bleed through it yet. He hasn’t, this is a good thing. “I’m wrapping your injured leg. I can put a bandage on your cheek as well, if you would like.” He’s already fishing through his trench coat pockets for one of the large square bandages he keeps for injuries like these.

“Woah, no, Cas, what are you doing?” One of Dean’s hands is on his wrist, holding it still in place as he reaches out to smooth the bandage over the bloody gash on his cheek. “What are you doing here?”

The former angel blinks. “I’m hunting, Dean.”

“No, no, I got that.” He’s sitting up a little straighter now, though Cas doesn’t miss the way the movement jostles his leg a little and the small grimace of pain that mars his face, moving the tear on his cheek enough to spur another little wince. “I told you not to hunt anymore, Cas.”

His eyes narrow as his conversation with Bobby from months ago comes back to mind. All of his celestial life he has taken orders from others, why now should he still have to take them from Dean Winchester? He has no right to expect that Cas will do as he says and the assumption only makes him angry.

“I didn’t want to stop hunting.”

Dean’s face contorts into another grimace, this one having nothing to do with pain. “We can’t always get what we want, Cas.”

If his earlier revelation hadn’t been enough to set him off, this is. Who is Dean to say that you cannot always have what you desire, when he himself wants Cas to stop hunting and expects to have precisely that? “Do you expect me to have nothing then?”

This seems to set the other hunter back a little. “What? What are you talking about, Cas?”

“You have never asked me what I want. Whether I want to fight for you or fall for you.” The argument would be a lot more dramatic were it taking place in one of their usual locations for arguing. An alley, Heaven’s green room. Instead they’re in the middle of a wheat field, Dean sitting on the ground and Cas standing over him, body shaking with fury, his voice suddenly hoarse. “You never asked if I wanted to be left on my own to deal with humanity, humanity I only have because I lost my Grace for you.”

Dean doesn’t respond, but there’s hurt in his eyes and Cas feels a surge of satisfaction that he’s managed to pierce through Dean’s hard exterior, if only the tiniest bit.

“And now you ask me to stop doing the one thing I am capable of? What would you have me do, Dean?”

The Winchester’s answer is spoken through gritted teeth as though it pains Dean as much to say it as it pains Cas to hear it. “Be normal.” There’s something there in those words, tantalizingly out of reach. Something that Cas just knows could blossom into something more if Dean would just stay.

Dean pulls away first, as expected. “Cas - ”

“No.” The word comes out as a growl and Cas leans in, pressing his shoulder under one of Dean’s arms and hoisting him upwards with it. “Where is the Impala?”

Still a little dazed, the other hunter gestures vaguely to their left, the opposite direction from which Cas had come. “That fucker’ll be back.”

“Yes. And I will take care of it. You need to get out of here.”

Dean’s jaw ticks. “I’ve taken down worse with worse, Cas. I don’t need you to babysit. You’re the one who needs to take a damn hike.”

He doesn’t bother to dignify this with a response, instead continuing forward, moving through the trail in the wheat field that he supposes Dean must have blazed on his way in. They move in silence, the bright light of the moon illuminating the way overhead. “Where is Sam? Will you be able to drive?”

“He’s around. I was watching one of the farmhands, came out here, he’s burning the bones.”

Cas pauses a moment to adjust his hold on Dean. “I hate to inform you that you did not do a very good job protecting him.”

“No shit, dude ran right into Old MacDonald as I as catching up to him. Nearly got us both killed, obviously.”

The former angel doesn’t respond to this. Up ahead, he can see the Impala parked at the very edge of the wheat field, moonlight glistening off of its dark curves. They’re almost there when the ghost in question makes a reappearance, blocking their way. He is about to drop Dean and raise his gun once more when the ghost explodes into a blast of flames, licking their way up its body from his feet up. Sam must have been successful in locating and destroying the corpse, then.

Dean sags against his arm and Cas figures that it’s in relief until he notices that Dean’s unconscious. Unfortunate, but it’ll make leaving him behind easier.

Balancing him against his shoulder and side, he manages to pull open the door to the backseat of the Impala and gently shuffle Dean’s limp body onto the seat. His leg, he lifts up, making sure that it’s balanced on one of the backpacks in the car, keeping it elevated. The wound must have been worse than it looked to knock Dean out, but Castiel notes with concern that the gash is starting to bleed through the gauze.

There’s nothing he can do about it now, though. Not without sticking around to rebandage the wound and apply pressure until Sam returns. But if he’s going to leave, he needs to do it now while Dean’s unconscious.

Because he knows now that that’s what he’s going to do. He can’t stay with Dean, not after everything Dean’s done to him, after everything that Dean seems to expect and demand of him. If he waits around long enough for the Winchester to regain consciousness, then Dean will only push him away and this time it’s Castiel’s turn. It has to be his decision to leave Dean and not the other way around.

The happiness that he thought being with Dean would bring just isn’t there. Instead, he’s angry, annoyed and hurting almost as much as he had been when Dean first left him. No, he can’t stay. He’ll go home to his apartment, to his life at the restaurant, to hunting alone.

He doesn’t need Dean.

The realization is biting, but not enough to keep him from leaning down and boldly pressing a familiar kiss to the hunter’s temple. He doesn’t need him, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still love him. He is still the same man that he rebelled for, that he fell for. The same man who has his mark seared into his shoulder.

No, he will always love Dean. But you can love someone from a distance and that is what he intends to do.

As he walks away from the Impala, he notices Sam picking his way back to the car and doesn’t call out to him. Part of him is glad that Sam has returned, as it means Dean will receive the medical attention he needs sooner rather than later, though Castiel is pretty sure that the injury is not a life-threatening one.

He picks his own way back to the Dodge, path illuminated by the light of the moon, even though his vision swims a little with the tears that threaten to begin falling. He won’t cry. This is how things are meant to be.

*                                              *                                              *

“Dean! Dean, wake up.”

There’s someone slapping at his face when Dean groggily opens his eyes and it’s not an entirely pleasant feeling. He swats at whoever it is leaning over him, arm moving sluggishly through the air.
“Dean, you’re wrecked, man.” Sam, then. Has to be Sam. For some reason that doesn’t quite sit right, he’s pretty sure Sam’s not the one who was last to hover over him. “How did you manage to get yourself into the Impala like this?”

In the Impala? The world, which he hadn’t realized until now has been dutifully spinning around him, suddenly tilts back into place and Dean knows - knows - that this is not where he got knocked out. He’s pretty sure that happened back somewhere in the cornfield and if Sam’s not the one who dragged his ass back here -

Cas.

As Sam helps get him settled in the backseat, Dean’s mind is racing through what he can remember about the fight before he’d dropped and his memory is pretty insistent on the idea that Cas was there somehow.

Well, fuck him. Dean’s the one who gets to walk away, not Cas.

Not Cas.
                                                *                                              *                                              *

Dean follows him.

Cas is not sure why he’s so surprised by this. It’s not as though Dean wouldn’t know where to find him.

It takes at least two or three days for the tailing to start, and maybe one or two more before he really begins to notice, but how could he not?

While he’s not keen on sitting around watching the world through his window anymore, he’s pretty much used to experiencing it now, it’s hard to miss the black car that passes by the street once or twice a day. Particularly when it’s a car he’s so familiar with, one that he’s spent hours sitting in, the very car that more or less stopped Lucifer and ended the apocalypse.

It’s not just the presence of the Impala that tips him off, though. He thinks he actually sees Dean out of the corner of his eye as he walks to the restaurant every afternoon. Once, he’s pretty sure that Dean walks by the 24-Mart three times as he does his shopping for the week. Part of him says that it’s wishful thinking, that it’s both selfish and stupid of him to think that Dean would suddenly care enough to actually spend such a large portion of his day keeping an eye on the former angel.

His suspicions are confirmed, however, the first time he visits Bobby after the hunt with the farmer ghost.

The hunter greets him as warmly as always, which is to say not all that affectionately, but there’s a broad smile on his face when he informs Cas that he “doesn’t know what you’ve been up to, but you’ve got Dean Winchester on your tail and pining something awful.”

He’s not entirely sure how to digest these words and settles on looking at Bobby inquisitively.

“The boy’s crashing here and while he ain’t said nothing about where he’s going all day, I’m pretty sure you and me both know what he’s up to.”

Cas glances over towards the staircase, but Bobby shakes his head.

“No, he’s not here. But I bet he’ll show up any time now, follow you right here himself.”

It seems too good to be true, until Cas rationalizes that he’s only doing it because he’s concerned that he’s still hunting. Which ruins the light feeling that knowing Dean cares where he is has been filling him for the past week. Yes, he just wants to make sure that Cas stops hunting. That’s all that it is.

Well, he’s in for disappointment. “Do you have a hunt for  me?”

Bobby seems reluctant to answer this and Cas understands why as soon as the hunter opens his mouth. “Not a one. No whisperings or nothing all week. Haven’t heard a thing.”

He has his suspicions that Dean’s been here and put Bobby up to this, but he doesn’t voice them. He’s been relying on Bobby for too long anyway, it’s time for him to find his own hunts. “You’re certain?”

The hunter nods, then attempts a smile. “It’s a good thing, isn’t it, Cas? No hunts means no monsters, means no innocent people getting hurt.”

“Yes. That’s what it means.”

*                                              *                                              *

That afternoon, he has an hour or two at home after visiting with Bobby to burn before heading in for his shift at the restaurant. It’s Friday again, another Friday night rush looms on the horizon, which Cas doesn’t mind very much. He likes having the work to do, especially now that he has so much to think about what with Dean trailing every step he takes. Part of him thinks he should just confront the Winchester, find out why he’s so keen to know where he is every moment of every day.

Part of him wonders if perhaps there’s a demon on his tail as well. He’d been somewhat surprised to find that once he was rendered human, no one seemed to care about him in the slightest. No angels came by to visit, no demons came by to torture Heaven’s secrets out of him. It’s like Castiel fell and no one noticed.

Not even the Winchesters, apparently.

He catches sight of the Impala passing on the street below twice, and both times by accident. He happened to be glancing out the window when it sailed past and if he hadn’t been, he would not have noticed it. It’s easy to assume that Dean had also driven past once or twice prior to and Cas had just missed it.

He ignores the sight, however. If Dean wants to waste gasoline doing circles around his apartment, that’s fine with him. He’s made his decision just as surely as Dean had. And Cas is not going to be the one to seek him out again. If Dean wants to talk, he clearly knows where he is.

Though he does feel better knowing that Dean’s out there somewhere, thinking about him. It’s a nice thought.

It’s not until he shows up for work and realizes that Dean’s shown up at the restaurant as well that Cas knows he needs to confront the hunter. Following him around is one thing, but getting involved in his life is another. Sandy’s eyes are wide when she comes to him after showing Dean to his seat and taking his order for a bacon cheeseburger, clearly she’s interested and while Cas can’t fault her, as he himself loves Dean, he feels both a twinge of very-human jealousy and irritation.

“Do you know him, sugar? He says he knows you.”

He holds back his annoyance. It’s not Sandy that he’s angry with, it’s Dean and his petulance. “Yes. He used to be a very close friend of mine.”

“Well, if I was ever a close friend with that, I wouldn’t let it turn into a ‘used to be.’”

He doesn’t answer, instead heading off into the opposite direction to bus a recently deserted table, trying to ignore the fact that Dean’s eyes follow him as he clears the used plates and gives the tabletop a cursory wipe down. It feels like the hunter is judging him and Cas doesn’t much care for that particular feeling.

Once he’s finished with the table and moved all of the cleared plates back to the dishwashing station, he makes up his mind to finally confront Dean.

He walks right up to the table and plants himself in front of the hunter, annoyed expression probably marred by the fact that he’s wearing an apron, but he’s angry and he’s tired of Dean following him without making any attempt to communicate.

“Dean - “ He begins, his voice a mottled growl as he stands over the table where Dean’s sitting.

But whatever he’s about to say next is broken by the piercing shriek that comes from the kitchen. Both hunters are - in Dean’s case - on their feet and headed in that direction immediately, Cas with his apron ties flapping behind him as he speeds towards the door, Dean following on his heels.

The kitchen is in absolute chaos and the reason why is painfully obvious.

Sandy’s lying on the ground, surrounded by a circle of wait staff and cooks, her face has been slashed and there’s blood absolutely everywhere.

Cas’ first instinct to help is overridden by his need to find out the cause of the problem and fight back. He turns to one of the young bus boys he’s been training this week. “What happened?”

The boy, Damien, he recalls, stares at him with a pale, freckled face. “She went out for a second to have a smoke outside, next thing I knew she was in here, bleeding all over the place in the middle of the Friday rush!”

The Friday rush. The words bring up some fuzzy memory of Castiel’s and immediately the pieces click into place. He reaches out to place a hand on Dean’s arm, nodding his head towards the door. It’s with an easy familiarity borne of the two years they fought at each other’s sides, that they move swiftly out to the alley behind the restaurant, where the dumpsters loom up in the early evening.

“What is it?” Dean asks, not referring to the problem, but to the monster.

“A ghost,” Castiel answers brusquely, eyes sharp on the space between the two dumpsters. He should have known, should have thought about it. He’s just lucky that after months of Friday rushes since his first exorcism, no one’s come out in time for this to happen. Not until now, when both he and Dean are on hand to fight it.

“And you didn’t kill it when you had the chance?”

Castiel seethes at this. It feels too much like Dean questioning his ability. Which, he is. “I haven’t had the chance. I didn’t realize. There must have been two of them, a girl and... and whatever killed her.” It’s clear now, what had happened. The way the young woman had rushed him when he came out with the garbage hadn’t been about hurting him, it had been about forcing him back inside, keeping him away from whatever was going to follow, whatever had killed her.

Which, it turns out, is a pretty pissed-off looking poltergeist.

Neither of them has their guns on hand, Dean not even carrying his small .45 in some hidden holster. This fact is surprising to Cas, but he doesn’t question it as the ghost moves closer, wielding a particularly lethal looking blade. Dean looks ready to spring into action, gun or no, but he doesn’t have Cas’ speed and it’s the former angel that leaps into the path of the knife, sweeping out with a hand to dissipate the ghost.

When it’s gone, Dean stares at him in awe. “You chowing down on the demon juice, too, Cas?”

He peers at him in confusion for a moment, then realizes what he’s getting at and holds out his hand.

Dean examines the iron ring that encircles his ring finger, impressed, but the moment doesn’t last for long. They both know that the ghost will be back and it’s only a matter of time before it returns, angrier than it had been initially.

“Do you know where it’s buried?”

Regrettably, the answer to that is no. Cas doesn’t even know who this particular ghost is, other than that he’s more than likely responsible for Julie-Anne Thoreau’s death. He could be anyone, buried anywhere and that’s not going to help them now. There’s no time.

“We can try to snap them out of it,” Dean tries, though it’s clear he himself doesn’t really believe in the suggestion.  It’s one thing to assist a lost soul in finding the light, but when they begin to turn violent, it’s usually because they are fully aware that they are deceased.

“No. We’ll have to exorcise it.”

Dean looks up at him, clearly startled, but Cas’ mind is already made up. It’s how he got rid of Julie-Anne, it’s how he’ll rid them of this monster now.
With the continuing commotion in the kitchen, it’s as easy now as it had been the first time for Cas to gather the necessary things for performing the exorcism, though he does it as quickly as he is capable. The lamb’s blood he collects in a bowl from the freezer and he charges Dean with gathering the salt needed to replace the chalk lines.

When they meet back up behind the restaurant, their disappearance is scarcely noticed by the panicked people inside, frantically awaiting an ambulance.

The salt circle that Cas makes on the pavement is the fastest one he’s ever drawn in his lifetime, either as an angel or as a human. And the accompanying Enochian words are just as quick. Dean watches in slight awe as he lines the salt with the lamb’s blood and steps back, unenclosed by the salt circle to wait.

They don’t have to wait long.

When the ghost returns, it’s within two inches of Dean and were it not for years of training, Cas would have watched the man’s knife sink in somewhere deep in the other hunter’s side. As it is, he manages to twist away, narrowly escaping the edge of the blade.

“I need him in the circle,” Cas calls back to him and Dean nods, struggling with the ghost, wrestling him forwards all the while still trying to avoid the knife. He manages after a moment or two of desperate grappling and the incantation slips from Cas’ lips just as an ambulance comes roaring into the back parking lot.

Under the flashing emergency lights, the ghost dissipates into a blur of smoke and the pair of hunters stand alone, both streaked with blood, for once not their own. The paramedics leap out of the back of the ambulance and rush for the back door of the diner as Dean grabs Cas’ waist and leans in to claim his lips with his own.

The roar of both the sirens and the blood pounding through his ears as the adrenaline of the fight wears off has Castiel’s legs turning wobbly - or maybe that’s just the kiss. Either way, he likes it, and leans in to Dean’s grip, hands moving to palm his back, sliding over the creased leather of his coat.

He can’t leave now.

*                                              *                                              *

“Here.” Castiel brings a new roll of gauze into the bedroom with him on his way back from the bathroom. At some point during the fight with the poltergeist, the gash on Dean’s leg had reopened. To be honest, Cas had forgotten it was even there, but looking at the torn skin now makes him feel foolish for not remembering.

“Thanks.” Dean rolls his pant leg up higher and takes the gauze, wrapping it around the leg himself. Blood shows through the first two or three layers, but by the time he’s used the whole roll, the gauze around his shin looks white and clean.

“Thank you for your assistance today.” Castiel sits on the edge of the bed, next to Dean, rolling up his own pant leg to examine his still slightly swollen ankle. Bobby had said it looked like he tore the ligament off of the bone and would take two or three months to heal. It doesn’t hurt so much anymore, but it still looks quite tender.

“Well, we’re a pair, aren’t we.”

Cas nods, but asks the question that’s been burning inside him since riding back to his apartment in Dean’s Impala. “Why were you following me?”

He shrugs, but the former angel senses the embarrassment that the question creates. “You mentioned that I never asked what you wanted. I figured I’d take a look and see what all the fuss was about.”

Now it’s Cas’ turn to flush, Dean really has been scoping out his life. “Did you figure it out?”

“Yeah. You’ve done good, Cas. Got a real life and managed to balance it with hunting. Like Bobby. It’s not something Sam or I ever managed.”

“I believe it’s because for you and Sam, this is real life.”

Dean is quiet for a moment, lying back against the bed. “Something like that, I guess. I mean, you grow up on the road, you go to hell, somewhere in the middle there you lose touch with reality.”

“It can be found again.” Castiel nods down at him. After all, if he, a fallen angel, can find a balance between normalcy and the supernatural, Dean certainly must have some sort of chance to do so for himself. Perhaps he simply needs Castiel’s help to figure it out.

“So... what happens now?”

Castiel considers. “We’re in my home. I’m not going anywhere. I believe the decision falls on you now, Dean.”

It’s Dean’s turn to consider and he does, looking away from the former angel for a moment. It must be difficult, Cas thinks, for Dean to have the entire weight of the decision on his shoulders. “I didn’t like it when you were the one to walk away from me, Cas.”

“I didn’t especially care for it when you were the one to do so either, Dean. Both times.”

“Yeah, I guess you got me there. So, what do you want, Cas? Do you want me to stay or go?”

Castiel shifts himself so that he’s sitting closer to Dean’s side, and lies back, stretching himself along the length of Dean’s body. “I appreciate you asking.”

Dean doesn’t move, his body is stiff, tense, like he’s worried that too sudden a movement might frighten Castiel away.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever or will ever forgive you for leaving me.” It’s honest. While he made peace with the idea ages ago, forgiveness is not so easily found. “But not even that ever made me stop loving you, Dean.”

“You - I - right.” The other hunter’s eyes go wide suddenly, almost incredulous. “You... you love me. Okay.”

Oh. Castiel’s never said that aloud before, has he?

“I believe there is a human adage that says ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ is there not?”

Dean nods brusquely and Castiel feels the movement against the top of his head more than he sees it for himself. “I guess that kinda explains the way I’m feeling now, huh?”

*                                              *                                              *

The next morning, it’s Dean who wakes to an empty bed. He won’t lie, there’s a certain amount of panic involved in waking to find that the languid former angel he’d fallen asleep next to is no longer there and the sheets have long since turned cold. But there’s a note - thank, God, a note! - pinned to the fridge that says Castiel had to go in for an early shift at work.

An early shift.

At work.

It’s practically a foreign concept to Dean, but he pulls on the pants he was wearing yesterday and his jacket and heads down the street. It’s chilly outside, so he stuffs his hands in his pockets as he moves along the sidewalk, past the 24-Mart he’s seen Castiel frequent so many times during his week of reconnaissance, and up to the restaurant.

The waitress from the night before is there, a thin bandage across her face. Apparently the wound was superficial enough to not garner a day off from work. Or the chick just really needs the money.

Her eyes light up in recognition as she shows him to his seat and almost before she walks away with his order, Castiel is in front of him, apron once more tied in place. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever going to get used to seeing Castiel in his “uniform,” but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to appreciate it all the same.

“Dean.” Castiel’s grave voice is questioning and Dean immediately knows why. He’s trying to determine if the hunter is here for a goodbye or something else. “Are you - have you decided if - “

Dean shrugs and smiles, rising to his feet to kiss Castiel’s cheek. “I’ve never dated a busboy before.”

“Dean.” Castiel’s tone is serious now, and Dean has the sudden sense that he’s about to get a speech. He’s not wrong. “I don’t know that I can trust you not to leave again. In reality, I should... I really should tell you to go about your way. I don’t need you anymore. I can stand on my own feet with or without your help. This is not a second chance, it’s a third and I don’t know if you deserve it anymore.”

The words are a little bit crushing, but Dean understands. He’s been a dick to Cas and walking back into his life and just deciding he wants to stay there is selfish and well, dick-ish. “No, you don’t need me, Cas.” He can’t believe he’s saying it, can’t believe he’s putting the decision back in Castiel’s hands, but he knows that’s where it should have always been. Angel or not, Castiel’s always been a good friend and Dean knows he’s very rarely - if ever - treated him like one.

It’s not fair, and so he expects Castiel to reject him.

When he’s ready to look up, it’s to see the former angel staring down at him with the same intensity he’d had even with his Grace. “No, Dean. I don’t need you.”

Dean’s heart falls impossibly far into his stomach.

“But I want you.”

There is a long pause then Dean claps a hand down on Castiel’s shoulder. “So, what time did you say you get off at?”

dcbb, .fanfiction, p:dean/castiel, spn

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