It's always quiet around the mansion, unless there's an event going on or some psycho has decided that leaving a pile of horns sitting in the hallway is a good idea. It's been a while since Dean last moped around in his room, too, which is why it's startlingly lucky that he happens to be in there today.
Not for very long, of course - just to pop in and grab his jacket before he goes for a walk outside now that the weather is cool. Shutting the door behind him and locking it, Dean looks down the hall and feels his heart stop for an instant.
He's so close to believing that none of this is real that he almost doesn't speak.
You know that expression: 'deer in headlights'? Yeah, change that to 'Cas in headlights'.
Cas startles, turning toward Dean's voice. Silent, his lips form the name, Dean. Then he freezes. "Don't!" he shouts - or, well, as close to it as can be expected. "Dean, don't come any closer, I don't--"
He wavers, bracing himself against the wall again. "I don't know if I'm alone."
He was moving forward, but he stops short, several feet away.
"Alone? What the Hell does that even mean, Cas?"
It's been way too long to see him slumped against the wall, soaked to the bone and sporting washed-out bloodstains. He holds himself differently. Weary. Older. Come back from another time? It would explain the sudden spike of buzzing at the back of Dean's skull, like an old radio connection renewed.
Cas pushes himself farther away, not trusting that Dean will stop until he does. He's still too close, but that's when Cas' legs decide to give out, and he slides gracelessly to the floor, unable to retreat farther. He cringes away, even while searching his own mind for company.
He doesn't find any.
"I don't feel them," he manages finally, quietly, but with panic still in his voice. He hadn't felt them before either.
The 0perator is long gone, but static will always and forever catch Mark's attention. On one level, it's a relief that it's only a Castiel. But on another, it's alarming. If it hadn't been for the trademark static and a brief glimpse of Castiel's face before he'd headed off down the hall, Mark might not have recognized him at all.
"Mark." Cas fumbles to answer. This as much as anything convinces him of where he is, mundane memories of how his phone works here serving to ground him, a little.
"I don't know." His voice is as steady as he can make it, which isn't very.
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Not for very long, of course - just to pop in and grab his jacket before he goes for a walk outside now that the weather is cool. Shutting the door behind him and locking it, Dean looks down the hall and feels his heart stop for an instant.
He's so close to believing that none of this is real that he almost doesn't speak.
"...Cas?"
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Cas startles, turning toward Dean's voice. Silent, his lips form the name, Dean. Then he freezes. "Don't!" he shouts - or, well, as close to it as can be expected. "Dean, don't come any closer, I don't--"
He wavers, bracing himself against the wall again. "I don't know if I'm alone."
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"Alone? What the Hell does that even mean, Cas?"
It's been way too long to see him slumped against the wall, soaked to the bone and sporting washed-out bloodstains. He holds himself differently. Weary. Older. Come back from another time? It would explain the sudden spike of buzzing at the back of Dean's skull, like an old radio connection renewed.
"You look like crap, lemme help."
So he won't feel like such a prized ass.
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He doesn't find any.
"I don't feel them," he manages finally, quietly, but with panic still in his voice. He hadn't felt them before either.
He still can't make himself reach out to Dean.
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"Hey. Castiel. You all right?"
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"I don't know." His voice is as steady as he can make it, which isn't very.
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