Just Kids in the Eye of the Storm
Title: Just Kids in the Eye of the Storm
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel, Sam, others
Rating: R
Warnings: Sexual imagery, slight violence, language
Spoilers: Up to and through 5.10 Abandon All Hope. Very specific spoilers for this episode.
Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable characters or storylines. Title taken from the song Daniel by Bat for Lashes
Word Count: ~6800
Summary: He wonders now, nearly two years after that first nagging uncertainty took hold of him, riding in the backseat of what he has been reminded repeatedly is a “classic” car, where the shift occurred.
A/N: This was written for - and prompted by - my dear friend, carmexgirl, who "won me" at the hope_in_sight charity auction. I'm glad I was able to write this for you, sweetie! ♥
Since the moment he came to exist - just after the brightest stars, just before Time and well before everything else - Castiel knew his purpose: to watch over his Father’s creations. In the beginning, it was all there was: just to watch.
During the great battle in Heaven, he’d become a soldier: defending his home and his Father from fallen angels, from Lucifer. He’d fought hard. He’d been surrounded and supported by his brothers, warriors themselves, and they’d emerged victorious. Michael had locked Lucifer in his infernal cage, and existence had continued as before.
After that, his instructions were, once again, to watch and to wait.
For billions of years, he and his brothers observed the development of life on Earth. From the moment he witnessed the first instance of new, carbonic life - tiny, squirming and fragile, so simple in its makeup, yet so exquisitely beautiful - to the rapid growth of civilization and industry. He watched as hunting and gathering gave way to agriculture, which, in its turn, gave way to commerce and corporations. He watched as groups of humans came together, forming tribes and villages and countries - watched as they turned on one another, tore each other down. He watched as they committed atrocities, the likes of which would offend the most savage demon in Hell; he watched as they overcame those atrocities and moved on - something he did not understand but was not allowed to question.
Not once during all of this, not for even the space of a moment, did Castiel ever doubt what he was meant to do. He never doubted his Father’s plans, never doubted that those plans would play out just as they were supposed to. Always, without fail.
Not until the year 2008 A.D. did he experience even the slightest ripple of change. Of doubt.
He wonders now, nearly two years after that first nagging uncertainty took hold of him, riding in the backseat of what he has been reminded repeatedly is a “classic” car, where the shift occurred. Somewhere - and even with his perfect memory, he can’t place the exact point - his unshakeable faith became tenuous doubt, which, ultimately, became decision; decision to turn his back on his family and his home and the only existence he’d ever known.
“Cas? You know, if you have other things to do, Sammy and I can handle this one on our own,” Dean interrupts his thoughts, voice loud and clear, effectively disassembling the puzzle which Castiel had been attempting to piece together in his mind. From his position in the driver’s seat, he’s been watching Castiel in the rearview mirror, his eyes fixed firmly on Castiel’s face, and Castiel wonders if Dean interfered with his mental processing on purpose. “You can go chase God or read the Bible or whatever it is you do when you’re not following us around.”
Castiel resists the urge to remind Dean that he doesn’t have to read the Bible; he’s had it memorized since before it was ever written - along with every other religious text in the world.
“I can continue my search after I’ve helped you with this hunt. I doubt I will have lost my chance of finding Him by then.”
He turns his head to watch the road around them. They’re stuck in traffic - which seems to perturb Dean to no end, a fact made clear by the way he’s gripping the steering wheel so firmly that his knuckles are white, and by the occasional obscenity he shouts when another car dares to pull into the lane in front of them - and everyone is packed onto the two-lane highway so closely that it almost looks like one continuous chain of color and glass.
They’re all fleeing the small towns along this stretch of road, trying to escape the inexplicable weather that’s been plaguing the area. Tornadoes so treacherous that they leave nothing in their wakes, just rough outlines in the dirt where buildings once stood. Rain so insistent that people, their cars, and their homes are swept away in rivers which rage like the sea before anyone can even think to start evacuations. Thunderstorms with lightning bursts that start fires which consume whole towns in mere minutes. Even an earthquake hit two days ago, leveling a city which hadn’t seen a real earthquake in over a century.
Castiel and the Winchesters are, of course, not fleeing, but heading towards what they hope is the source. Sam’s interest had been piqued when, following a brief Internet search, he had found that a town in the center of all the disaster remains unaffected: Lebanon, Kansas.
Castiel knows that he should do as Dean said, he should be out looking for his Father, as it is probably the only way to ensure all the senseless destruction stops. The world Castiel has spent his existence watching is, quite literally, being torn apart by Lucifer and his followers, and he should be doing everything he can to stop them. He is, after all, the only angel who seems willing to do so. It shouldn’t be an issue at all.
But it is.
He doesn’t understand it, feelings are still new and unsettling - he is much like a human child in that sense - but when he considers leaving them, leaving Dean, to face a demon which can cause so much devastation in so short a time, something knots up inside him. His (now his, formerly Jimmy Novak’s) stomach tightens and he finds that his desire to leave is far outweighed by his desire to stay. It is all too easy to cast aside his concern for the well-being of the planet in favor of the well-being of the two boys now watching him from the front of the car.
Perhaps it is blasphemy, but he has already committed the gravest sin an angel can commit in denying his orders. He ascertains that helping them succeed when he can isn’t any worse than that.
Dean hesitates a moment after Castiel speaks, his eyes moving to the car in front of them before finding Castiel’s once more. The expression on his face is guilty, he purses his lips and his brows knit together as he considers his words.
“Yeah, but Cas, you can’t-ow!”
“Dean!” Sam reaches across and punches his brother hard in the arm, rendering him silent. Temporarily.
Castiel hadn’t been sure whether to tell Dean what had happened when he’d tried to smite the demon Meg, but the issue had come up when, still mourning the loss of Jo and Ellen, Dean had confronted Castiel, asking why he hadn’t helped them.
Immediately after telling him the story of how Lucifer had trapped him, Castiel wished he hadn’t. The look Dean had given him - his face falling, mouth dropping open like he wanted to speak but couldn’t form the words - had stung. His disappointment had been tangible, and it had wrapped itself around Castiel, tightening and tightening until he’d had to leave Bobby’s home just to get away from it.
He’d returned several hours later, still grappling with the sensation of letting Dean down (it felt like watching stars die and fall from the sky,) and not sure how to make it stop. By then, Dean had already told both Sam and Bobby what Castiel had told him. Bobby scoffed at Castiel, leaving the room whispering what sounded like “’Course we get the most useless angel there is.” Sam had been much more understanding, merely patting Castiel on the shoulder, offering him a nervous smile.
Dean didn’t talk to Castiel for the remainder of that night.
“Look, all I’m saying is: he couldn’t even gank Meg, man. How’s he gonna help with this?” He waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the sky where the clouds are thick and black.
Castiel looks down at his own hands, fury welling up inside him, filling the space he once shared with Jimmy. Fury at Dean for suggesting he can’t help them anymore, fury at his brothers for putting him in this position in the first place, but mostly fury at himself for not being what Dean needs.
Once, the atmosphere would have trembled with the might of his rage, but now it doesn’t even seem to notice.
“I am perfectly capable of handling this demon,” he hisses, not looking up.
“He can help, Dean.”
Part of Castiel appreciates Sam’s attempts to help, especially as the two of them have only recently begun to forge a more genial relationship, but part of Castiel resents him for it. He doesn’t want Sam’s pity, he doesn’t need it.
Dean’s disenchantment shouldn’t matter to Castiel, so Castiel’s reactions to that disenchantment shouldn’t inspire sympathy on Sam’s part.
“Fine,” Dean responds after a moment, his frustration apparent in his tone.
Returning his gaze to the window, Castiel watches as heavy rain begins to pelt the highway and all the cars on it. He aches, he realizes, a sick, dull sort of ache. One he is still growing accustomed to.
He remembers what it was like not to feel, not to question. He remembers what it was like when he pulled Dean from Hell, a blackened soul screaming in agony and wrath, how he hadn’t known why he was doing so, nor had he cared. He’d only known that he was supposed to, and that was enough.
Now, he wonders if this is some sort of punishment for aiding his brothers in their efforts to destroy the world, naïve as he was. Being able to feel, being able to fully appreciate how much he’s let Dean and Sam down.
No one speaks again until they reach Lebanon.
*
As it turns out, Lebanon is so small a town that they end up having to drive fifteen miles out to a neighboring town for a room. As they drive through, however, they take note of the fact that the weather is calm and pleasant. The complete opposite of what they’d experienced on the way in - it is as though there is a barrier up around the town limits, keeping the storms out.
They settle in quickly, silently, Dean only talking to Castiel once (ordering him to “hurry up and get out of the damn car already,”) and Sam casting worried glances at both of them.
Castiel stays out of their way as they each pick a bed (more accurately, Sam picks one then Dean commandeers it, leaving Sam to take the other) and throw their stuff around the room, his eyes on Dean’s back.
He is clearly making a point not to look at Castiel.
Even after countless years of observing humans, even though he understands certain complexities about life and the universe that the human mind could not hope to fathom, Castiel cannot begin to understand the new feelings bombarding him at this treatment. They feel like watching one third of his brothers and sisters fall from Heaven - further blasphemy, he assumes.
“So, what’ve we got, Sammy?”
Dean lounges languidly at the table of the motel room they’ve claimed, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on the tabletop. He’s chewing on a pen as he skims through some of the books Sam had been reading in the car while Sam searches the Internet from his bed.
Castiel is standing near the door, listening but silent. The dull ache he’d experienced in the car several hours earlier has returned and nestled somewhere in his chest.
“Well, if I’m right, we’re probably dealing with multiple demons… like, a lot of them.”
“We’re sure it’s demons?”
“No,” Sam hesitates and Castiel looks at him, meeting his gaze, “But what else could cause all this? I mean, unless Lucifer is around, and I don’t think he is. Right, Cas?”
Dean laughs, tossing the pen to the table and moving to stand up.
“Yeah, great, ask him. Couldn’t tell the devil was around last time, but let’s count on him to do it today. Brilliant!”
Castiel glares at the floor, his fists clenching and unclenching. His throat constricts, and he almost forgets that he doesn’t need to breathe.
He’s felt like this once before, one familiar reaction after a day of the unfamiliar. He briefly recalls the moments before he’d chosen to put his fate entirely in Dean’s hands and risk Falling, the way Dean had begged and pleaded for help Castiel told him he simply could not give.
Feeling had been even newer to him, then. Doubt had consumed him. Now it isn’t the weight of doubt that is bearing down on him, but he doesn’t have a name for whatever it is.
He distantly reflects that he should probably be angry, should probably be reminding Dean that he has no right to question Castiel whatsoever.
Instead, he stays silent.
Dean grabs his coat and slips past Castiel to the door, Sam’s urgent call of “where the Hell are you going?” answered with a terse “out.”
Sam scrambles from the mattress and reaches for his own coat as Castiel listens to the sound of the Impala’s engine revving to life before it pulls out of the parking lot and speeds away.
“Idiot! We’re in the middle of a hunt and he has to throw a fit and wander off by himself?”
“He is under great stress, Sam.”
Pausing in the middle of packing his computer into its bag, Sam rolls his eyes.
“You two, I swear to Christ,” he winces and looks up apologetically, “sorry.”
Castiel has the distinct impression that Sam is not apologizing for his vulgarity. The way the younger Winchester looks suddenly uncomfortable, like his words got away from him, confirms as much.
“I’m not exactly in a position to judge your blaspheming, as you might imagine. But I‘m not sure what you mean-”
Sam pulls his bag over his shoulder and sighs, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes with rough hands.
“Whatever. Look, we need to get to him before he gets himself killed.”
Tensing at the suggestion, Castiel feels his extremities go cold. Cold is such an unpleasant sensation - he is convinced that he will never get used to it. It has a way of making everything seem somehow worse, more hopeless.
“Relax, Cas. I saw a diner a few blocks down when we were driving in and I’d bet money that’s where he’s going. He can’t sulk on an empty stomach.”
Castiel nods, reaching a hand out to touch Sam’s forehead, but he steps backward and out of reach. It reminds Castiel of Dean.
“Uh, I’ll walk, thanks.”
“He’s alone, Sam. Time is of the essence.”
Sam groans, but lets Castiel continue what he had been attempting to do. Castiel concentrates and reaches out for the diner, feeling the rush in his wings as space bends for him. At least he can still do this - it’s comforting, in a way.
When they arrive, appearing in an alley outside the restaurant, Sam grabs the wall and leans against it, making what Castiel can only assume is a sound of distress.
“Go on… in. I’ll be fine… go,” Sam waves a hand toward the front of the building, signaling for Castiel to go as he presses his forehead to the wall. “Oh god, I‘m gonna puke.”
After ensuring that Sam will, indeed, be okay, Castiel does as he is told.
He stands and peers through the front windows, finding Dean just sitting down at a booth in the back. As he pushes the front door open, a bell jingles above him and Dean looks up, scowling when he sees Castiel.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he spits as Castiel slides into the booth opposite him, “can’t a man eat in peace?”
“You shouldn’t be on your own now. It is unwise.”
Scoffing, Dean picks up the laminated menu the waitress had left for him on the table.
“Yeah, so is pretty much everything I do every damn day. Now that we’ve worked that all out, go away.”
Castiel feels himself frown as he reaches for the butter knife sitting on Dean’s untouched napkin and toys with it, rubbing his thumb over the barely-there serrated edge.
“That’s true, but this is exceptionally,” he pauses, trying to think of a word to describe what Dean is doing, how he is acting, “stupid. Even for you.”
The menu falls to the table with an angry smack, and Castiel looks up to find Dean flexing his fingers, nails trailing up and down, up and down over sticky Formica. He is glaring hard at Castiel, grinding his teeth - seething.
“Well, look at the pot calling the kettle stupid.”
Just when he feels he’s gotten a handle on Dean’s idioms, Castiel is faced with yet another he can’t quite grasp. He knows it’s an insult, at least, but beyond that, he doesn’t understand. It’s times like this he wishes he’d paid more attention to the unique phrases humans have developed when he’d been watching over them.
Bewildered, Castiel tips his head to one side and, almost immediately, Dean’s look of disdain disappears, his features softening and he sighs deeply, the long-suffering sigh of someone tired of, exhausted by, not being understood.
Castiel wonders if Dean knows how hard he tries to get it.
“It means you’re a hypocrite, Cas.”
Waiting for Dean to explain, Castiel narrows his eyes. He wants to get it, it almost sickens him how much - this kind of concern, he knows, should be reserved only for God. But, something inside him has come to need Dean’s acceptance. The world be damned, he needs it.
Dean glances around them, but there’s no one else in the room. The waitress disappeared into the back, and there aren’t any other customers - most of the town has already left the area.
“You wanna talk about stupid? Then tell me which one of us let himself get trapped by fucking Lucifer. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me.”
Placing the knife back in front of Dean, Castiel drops his gaze.
“I wish I had been there to help you and your friends, Dean-”
“What? I know, I know! That’s not what I mean. Goddammit.”
Castiel looks back up to find Dean with his face in his hands, his elbows resting on the edge of the table. When he speaks again, his words are muffled.
“Fuck. Can I just eat now?”
He senses them before he sees them - he can feel the way the air in the room is re-arranging itself, making room for the beings who hadn’t been there an instant before. He has just enough time to feel the edge of panic, sharp and severe as a razorblade, before they’re simply there, as though they always had been.
It happens quickly.
They attack like birds of prey - exact, rapid, efficient.
Castiel is on the floor, being held down by two hands before he even has a chance to contemplate escape. He struggles briefly, but he knows it’s useless - he can feel her power even before he recognizes her for what she is. Jophiel. An archangel.
He hears Dean struggling and looks up to find him being dragged out of the booth by Zachariah, all righteous wrath.
“We’ve had enough of you skirting the issue, Dean,” he booms, the restaurant quaking as he lets traces of his True Voice combine with his vessel’s low tones, “now you’re going to say yes to Michael. No more games.”
Plaster is raining down from the ceiling, coating everything in white. The windows are cracking, and Castiel can practically hear them screaming with the effort not to shatter completely. Castiel hears a wail from somewhere near the counter - the waitress is standing in the open doorway to the back, her hands covering her mouth in horror.
“Shut up!” Zachariah barks in her direction, waving a hand and closing the kitchen door on her.
Dean is fighting, trying to pull out of Zachariah’s grasp - he’s straining and groaning and… losing. Dean may be strong, certainly impressively so for a human, but Zachariah is much stronger.
“We tried to be polite, Winchester, but that didn’t do it. We tried to make you see the error of your ways, but that didn’t do it. No more.”
Zachariah is dragging Dean like a ragdoll and, from where he’s trapped on the floor - by the angel bearing down on him and something else, what he recognizes as the beginnings of dread - Castiel watches, helpless.
“You will say yes, Dean, or the whole world burns before its time.”
“You can’t do that,” Dean hisses, teeth clenched in what Castiel imagines is a combination of rage and the effort of his struggle to pull out from Zachariah’s grasp.
“You don’t think so?” Zachariah grabs Dean’s chin, forcing him to look out the window at the storm suddenly pelting the town with lethal, impossibly large hail, “and that’s just the beginning. That, my friend, is a mere taste of the devastation we will rain down on this pitiful excuse for a planet until you say yes.”
Dean swings wildly at Zachariah, but Zachariah easily evades it. He laughs, and the building trembles.
“The way you watch him, Castiel…” Jophiel is whispering in his ear, he hadn’t even noticed her move, “need I remind you that lust is a sin?”
Castiel looks back at Dean whose eyes are now on him, begging, pleading, and something snaps inside of him.
Angels don’t have epiphanies: they know everything they need to from the moment of creation. Of course, no angel has ever been in Castiel’s unique situation.
It’s nothing like he has experienced, ever. There is nothing he can possibly compare it to, this sudden understanding. The things he has done for Dean, the things he is still willing to do, every new emotion he now struggles with - the need he has to please Dean, to alleviate his suffering - the pieces fall into place.
Dean, this infinitesimal, fragile soul he pulled from Hell, is his purpose now. His only purpose. Castiel has come to love him with a devotion so strong, it would put the most loyal Seraph in Heaven to shame. Castiel has never been privy to what it means to love outside of what he feels for his Father, but he realizes that this is it. This.
Jophiel isn’t expecting Castiel to wrench a fist free from her grasp, and she certainly isn’t expecting that fist to connect with her jaw, so when it happens, she starts, her grip loosening briefly.
He manages to get both hands free, but she reaches out and hits him back. He feels his head crack against the floor beneath him, feels his jawbone shatter, as she regains her grip on him. It only takes half a thought on her part to render him entirely helpless once more.
“Castiel,” she chastises, raising a brow, her borrowed brown eyes betraying more than a hint of malice, “after all you’ve done, the honorable thing to do now would be to lie back and welcome your fate.”
It’s then that he notices Sam. He’s standing on the other side of the kitchen door, holding it open just enough to look through and observe the situation. Zachariah is still too busy threatening Dean, and Jophiel too focused on Castiel, to have noticed him.
His eyes meet Castiel’s and he frowns, letting the door close once more.
Castiel looks back at Jophiel.
“Nothing to say to that?”
“I won’t allow you to-”
By all means, Sam should be much slower and more awkward than he is. He is unusually tall, Castiel has come to understand, and the laws of physics say he should not be able to succeed in moving as quickly as he has to in order to strike Jophiel across the back of the head - with what appears to be a serving tray.
Castiel takes advantage of her surprise to roll out from under her. She’s on her feet in an instant, and he has just enough time to see her amused smile as she looks down at the broken pieces of tray at her feet before he grabs the knife from the table, rolls up his sleeve, and drags it roughly across his arm, using all the strength he can muster in an effort to aid the dull edge in actually causing him to bleed. The skin there tears apart and blood pours from the gaping wound, dripping onto the tabletop.
Zachariah screams from somewhere behind him, a command to stop immediately, but Castiel has already almost finished tracing the banishment sigil.
Jophiel charges at him as Zachariah tosses Dean aside and looks as though he’s going to join her and Castiel slams his palm into the center of the sigil. Light fills the restaurant and he hears them scream, but he’s already moving towards Sam and Dean, grabbing hold of them both and concentrating.
The world shifts, and they’re in another motel room, in another city, in another state.
Both humans fall to the ground immediately, groaning.
“So. Fucking. Close.” Sam whines, face buried in the room’s rough, patterned carpet.
Dean lies on his back, eyes pressed shut, but he looks to be relatively unharmed. His wrists are bruised from where Zachariah had held him, but Castiel can’t see any serious injuries. Zachariah could have done much worse.
Castiel reaches behind his head and looks at his fingers - they’re covered in blood from where he’d hit the floor. He can feel his jaw resetting itself, correcting the damage Jophiel had caused.
A few moments pass before either Sam or Dean moves again, but they eventually stand and Dean walks to Castiel’s side, looking him up and down. He grimaces.
“Goddamn it,” Dean grabs Castiel’s arm and leads him to the small table in the room, pushing him into a chair, “bitch really tore you up good.”
“I’m okay, Dean.”
Castiel is being honest, he is okay. Jophiel had injured him - he’d bled from his mouth where she’d struck him, felt the jolt of excruciating pain, the likes of which he’d never felt before, when his skull had cracked - but he can already feel his body putting itself back together.
Still, he lets Dean inspect him, lets him slide his hands over tender, barely-bruised wrists, lets him trace his fingers down the lines of the healing gash in his arm, lets him wipe the coagulated blood from the edge of his mouth. It is all unnecessary, but Castiel finds that having Dean’s hands on him, having his attention, is pleasant. Like being cared for again.
The sudden change in Dean’s demeanor, from cold and distant to this is a welcome one.
“You sure? You look like shit.”
“Yes. I’m okay.”
Dean’s attention snaps suddenly to Sam, his eyes narrowed.
“Where the hell were you? Couldn’t have joined the party a little sooner? Like, I don’t know, before we got beat down?”
Sam’s discomfort at the accusation is palpable; Castiel can almost see it, heavy as it is.
“I just,” Sam starts, rubbing his open palms nervously together, “I was, just, outside.”
“Yeah no kidding. Why?”
Tugging on the bottom of his jacket, Sam looks from Dean to Castiel then back again. Castiel can tell that Sam isn’t sure he should speak whichever words are on his mind, but he eventually does anyway.
“I don’t know. I figured you guys could, you know, use some time alone. Or something.”
“Time alone?” Dean’s brows knit together in confusion, and he glares at his brother.
“I don’t know, I’mgonnagogetsomebandagesbye.”
Sam rushes out the door, slamming it hard behind him, before Castiel can point out that no bandages are necessary. He doesn’t need them, and both brothers are, more or less, uninjured.
Dean remains silent for a moment, before he makes a face and turns back to Castiel.
“Did I miss something?”
“He said-”
“I know what he said, Cas!”
Rolling his eyes - and while Castiel silently mourns the loss of Dean’s worry, he appreciates the fact that, for now, things are back to normal between them - Dean sits in the chair beside Castiel.
“I can’t believe we fell for it. Those goddamn angels set us up,” he looks meaningfully at Castiel, “you know, your brothers are real pricks. All those people…”
Castiel nods once. It hurts now, thinking of his brothers in such a manner. Once, they were all he knew. Once, being among them filled him entirely with joy. Now, he fears them. From the moment he learned of their true intentions regarding Dean, he has feared them.
“Fuck. This whole Apocalypse thing is really getting old.”
“I’m sorry,” Castiel doesn’t know what else to say. The words are an insignificant apology to someone who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders - it could be likened to offering a thimble of water to a starving man. Well-intentioned, maybe, but not right, not enough.
“Yeah well,” Dean shrugs, dragging a hand over his face, “it’s not your fault.”
He reaches out and touches Castiel’s arm again, using the edges of the trench coat to wipe the bloodstains away. Castiel feels every nerve in his arm come to life at the attention.
“At least you’re still healing okay. Last thing we need is our guardian angel in damn stitches.”
“Or captured by Lucifer.”
Half-smiling, Dean raises an eyebrow.
“Did you just make a joke?”
“No,” Castiel drops his gaze to the table, guilt rising in his throat like bile, “I should have been able to-I should have been able to sense him, and the other angels today. You’ve been upset with me because I didn’t.”
Dean drops Castiel’s arm at this, backing away from the table and standing in one, fluid movement. He begins to pace, and Castiel watches him - back and fourth, back and fourth, pause, back and fourth. He stops and looks back at Castiel, shaking his head.
“I have not.”
There have been moments between them, more common than Dean is probably aware, when Castiel finds it easier to see inside of Dean’s head than not to. His thoughts are projected in crystalline waves like prayers, resounding and reverberating in Castiel’s consciousness. Soft pleas for help here, booming curses aimed at an absent God there. It is always more honest than Dean would ever be out loud, built up of words too incriminating to be spoken but too important to be hushed.
This is one of those moments. Castiel is overwhelmed by the sudden influx of thought. Words like I’m sorry and could have killed you and can’t lose you, too wash over him and fill him up with warmth he hadn’t been aware he needed.
“Jesus, Cas,” Dean groans, throwing his hands to his sides as though to say I give up, then “you are so fucking dense sometimes.”
Castiel has watched it happen many times: two humans coming together and pressing their mouths together in a flurry of passion - a physical action that transcends the merely physical. Their souls light up, their vibrations increase; it is, at the best of times, almost spiritual. He has not, however, experienced it himself.
Until now.
Dean tugs him out of the chair by the collar of his coat, crushing their lips together almost violently. Castiel inhales in surprise at both the action and the rush it incites in him - his blood is pulsing through his veins at a pace too fast to be safe, his head feels light, and his mind is stuck on repeat: the word DeanDeanDeanDean replaying over and over and over in the space of a second.
If he had been overwhelmed by the mere act of feeling before, he is now completely lost to it. It is heavy and fast and more beautiful than all the host of Heaven. His grace, what’s left of it, is singing with joy.
It reminds him of home.
Dean’s breath plays over his skin, warming and wet, the only thing between them as Dean pulls Castiel closer and Castiel lets him.
He isn’t sure what he’s doing, but Castiel experimentally kisses back - mimicking the motions he feels Dean making. It is clumsy and he knows it, but he tries. For Dean, for himself, he tries.
A soft moan breaks the relative silence of the room, and it takes a moment for Castiel to realize that it was his own.
“You like that?” Dean smiles and Castiel only just notices that a hand - rough and calloused from the wear of handling guns and salt and matches - has found its way to rest on the nape of his neck. Dean’s thumb rubs circles over the base of his jaw and Castiel presses back into it, reveling in the touch.
He’s watching Dean’s expressions - taking in every aspect of the moment that he can. The way Dean’s lips are swollen and red, like fruit in the summertime, the way his pupils are blown so wide the only hint of green is a thin ring around the black. The way his breathing sounds labored and thick, the way his chest shudders with each intake of oxygen.
In all his years of existence, Castiel cannot remember ever seeing anything so perfect.
“You stupid son of a bitch,” Dean whispers, lips pressing soft to the skin of Castiel’s neck. Castiel’s eyes flutter shut again and he leans away slightly, allowing Dean better access. “You stupid, careless son of a bitch.”
Each word is punctuated by another kiss and Dean’s arms are wrapped around Castiel so tight now that, were he mortal and bound by the rules meant to govern the body in which he dwells, it would be hard to breathe.
Castiel moves his hand up Dean’s arm, wrapping long fingers over his shoulder.
“You don’t get to take the fucking easy way out; you don’t get to die and leave me here like this.”
This time, Castiel kisses Dean.
It is no secret that Dean is a physical being - he has little time for words. After a lifetime of being fed lies, of speaking them himself, Dean has come to distrust words. His mode of communication is much more primal. This is Castiel’s attempt to speak to him in his own language. He tries to say everything he wants to, the things Dean needs to know but isn’t ready to hear spoken aloud; things like not going anywhere and I’m here and yours.
Dean’s hands are cradling Castiel’s face now, so Castiel slides his own down Dean’s side, letting them rest on his hips.
Castiel feels Dean begin to inch them backwards, eventually feels the edge of the paisley-covered bed against his knees, and allows himself to be lowered onto his back on the bed. Dean climbs on top of him, and their mouths find each other once more.
Dean makes a low, contented noise in his throat, and Castiel shivers. He can feel every breath Dean takes, can feel the warmth from his body seeping into his own - it surrounds him and envelops him and every aspect of him.
For the first time since he’s been on Earth, he is grateful for the ability he has been given. Sensation, what he has - until this point - considered his greatest curse, is now a gift. It allows him to hear the way Dean moans as they fold together, the way he whispers Castiel’s name as they explore each other’s bodies with curious hands. It allows him to smell the subtle, stale scent of Dean’s sweat as it slides between them, making them slippery - making it easier to slide against one another. It allows him to taste the saltiness of Dean’s skin. It allows him to feel it when Dean touches him, running a gentle hand up along the inside of Castiel’s thigh. It’s like flying in an electrical storm - every nerve in his body is on fire with it, screaming for more.
And then Dean is inside of him, and it’s like discovering a whole new world of sensation - like going through a life blind then waking up and finding oneself able to see. It’s too much at first, too overwhelming, too stimulating. Dean kisses him again, gives him time to adjust to it, then he begins to move.
When Castiel climaxes, he finds himself whispering in a language no human could ever understand, his hands gripping Dean’s shoulders firmly. A light bursts behind his eyes, and for a moment he worries that he’s left his body and blinded Dean, but it’s gone as soon as it comes and he feels only warm waves of pleasure washing over him as his body contracts then relaxes.
Dean soon follows and Castiel commits every moment of it to memory: the way his eyes slide shut and he bites his lower lip before murmuring Castiel’s name once more. The way, for once, Dean looks perfectly happy, blissful.
Castiel sends his Father a prayer of gratitude.
Dean falls to Castiel’s side, exhausted, and Castiel wraps an arm around him. They’re facing one another, and Dean is toying with Castiel’s hair; he frowns.
“I never thanked you for getting me and Sammy out of that field before Lucifer could-”
“I know, Dean.”
Castiel presses his lips to Dean’s forehead, wondering if he knows just how far Castiel would go for him without a second thought.
Several moments pass in silence as each of them comes down from the high of having been so close to one another.
Dean speaks first.
“You’re not useless, Cas. So get it out of your fucking head.”
“Yes, but you said-”
“Man, fuck what I said! You’re here and you’re all I’ve got, and me and Sammy’d both be dead without you,” he pauses to suck at the patch of skin beneath Castiel’s jaw, “and I am so damn lucky you’re here.”
For the first time in months, Castiel believes it.
*
Sam doesn’t return until the next morning, sidling in just as Dean is sitting at the table with a steaming cup of what he calls “sort of coffee.” Castiel is sitting across from him, holding a similar cup and staring at it. He has no intention of drinking it.
“Well, good morning, Sunshine,” Dean smiles raising his mug towards his brother, “where the hell you been? We missed you, didn’t we Cas?”
Castiel looks up at the mention of his name, then at Sam, and nods.
“You’re in a good mood,” Sam sits in the third chair at the table, eyeing his brother suspiciously, “why?”
“We’re going back to get the Impala today. Cas went and checked on her and she’s undamaged. Those damn angels and their freak weather ain’t got nothin’ on my baby.”
He had, indeed, gone to check on the car at Dean’s insistence. However, he had found it in much less decent shape then he had let on - it hadn’t fared well against the hail. He’d been able to will it back to normal, though, and he was pleased that he could at least do that.
Sam looks less than convinced, and his eyes fall on Dean, then Castiel, then Dean again. He smirks, stealing Dean’s cup and drinking from it.
Castiel watches their interactions, comforted by how normal it is. Only yesterday, they’d narrowly escaped death and today it’s as though it never happened. Their greatest weapon is their resilience.
“What the fuck?” Dean snaps, reaching for it.
“So, I take it you two are talking again?” Sam asks, a knowing smile on his face. Castiel tilts his head, curious as to just how much Sam knows - just how much he knew all along. He’d clearly underestimated the younger Winchester’s gift for insight.
Dean, on the other hand, just seems annoyed.
“What? Yeah, and wipe that look off your face - it’s embarrassing.”
“Good. I was getting sick of all the unresolved sexual tension; it’s fucking awkward for me, you know.”
Sam leaps up and heads for the door as Dean goes pallid, all the color in his face draining away in the blink of an eye.
“What did you just-?”
“Come on, guys. The car is waiting!”
He hurries out the door, leaving Dean with his mouth hanging open. Castiel, who doesn’t quite understand the reaction but doesn’t want to upset Dean further, touches his hand gently.
“He’s right, we should hurry.”
“I’m gonna kill him.”
Brushing his fingers over Dean’s lips, Castiel touches his own lightly to Dean’s cheek. Dean gasps, wringing his fingers through Castiel’s hair.
“Fine, I’ll go. But I’m not talking to him for a month.”
This is his purpose.
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel, Sam, others
Rating: R
Warnings: Sexual imagery, slight violence, language
Spoilers: Up to and through 5.10 Abandon All Hope. Very specific spoilers for this episode.
Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable characters or storylines. Title taken from the song Daniel by Bat for Lashes
Word Count: ~6800
Summary: He wonders now, nearly two years after that first nagging uncertainty took hold of him, riding in the backseat of what he has been reminded repeatedly is a “classic” car, where the shift occurred.
A/N: This was written for - and prompted by - my dear friend, carmexgirl, who "won me" at the hope_in_sight charity auction. I'm glad I was able to write this for you, sweetie! ♥
Since the moment he came to exist - just after the brightest stars, just before Time and well before everything else - Castiel knew his purpose: to watch over his Father’s creations. In the beginning, it was all there was: just to watch.
During the great battle in Heaven, he’d become a soldier: defending his home and his Father from fallen angels, from Lucifer. He’d fought hard. He’d been surrounded and supported by his brothers, warriors themselves, and they’d emerged victorious. Michael had locked Lucifer in his infernal cage, and existence had continued as before.
After that, his instructions were, once again, to watch and to wait.
For billions of years, he and his brothers observed the development of life on Earth. From the moment he witnessed the first instance of new, carbonic life - tiny, squirming and fragile, so simple in its makeup, yet so exquisitely beautiful - to the rapid growth of civilization and industry. He watched as hunting and gathering gave way to agriculture, which, in its turn, gave way to commerce and corporations. He watched as groups of humans came together, forming tribes and villages and countries - watched as they turned on one another, tore each other down. He watched as they committed atrocities, the likes of which would offend the most savage demon in Hell; he watched as they overcame those atrocities and moved on - something he did not understand but was not allowed to question.
Not once during all of this, not for even the space of a moment, did Castiel ever doubt what he was meant to do. He never doubted his Father’s plans, never doubted that those plans would play out just as they were supposed to. Always, without fail.
Not until the year 2008 A.D. did he experience even the slightest ripple of change. Of doubt.
He wonders now, nearly two years after that first nagging uncertainty took hold of him, riding in the backseat of what he has been reminded repeatedly is a “classic” car, where the shift occurred. Somewhere - and even with his perfect memory, he can’t place the exact point - his unshakeable faith became tenuous doubt, which, ultimately, became decision; decision to turn his back on his family and his home and the only existence he’d ever known.
“Cas? You know, if you have other things to do, Sammy and I can handle this one on our own,” Dean interrupts his thoughts, voice loud and clear, effectively disassembling the puzzle which Castiel had been attempting to piece together in his mind. From his position in the driver’s seat, he’s been watching Castiel in the rearview mirror, his eyes fixed firmly on Castiel’s face, and Castiel wonders if Dean interfered with his mental processing on purpose. “You can go chase God or read the Bible or whatever it is you do when you’re not following us around.”
Castiel resists the urge to remind Dean that he doesn’t have to read the Bible; he’s had it memorized since before it was ever written - along with every other religious text in the world.
“I can continue my search after I’ve helped you with this hunt. I doubt I will have lost my chance of finding Him by then.”
He turns his head to watch the road around them. They’re stuck in traffic - which seems to perturb Dean to no end, a fact made clear by the way he’s gripping the steering wheel so firmly that his knuckles are white, and by the occasional obscenity he shouts when another car dares to pull into the lane in front of them - and everyone is packed onto the two-lane highway so closely that it almost looks like one continuous chain of color and glass.
They’re all fleeing the small towns along this stretch of road, trying to escape the inexplicable weather that’s been plaguing the area. Tornadoes so treacherous that they leave nothing in their wakes, just rough outlines in the dirt where buildings once stood. Rain so insistent that people, their cars, and their homes are swept away in rivers which rage like the sea before anyone can even think to start evacuations. Thunderstorms with lightning bursts that start fires which consume whole towns in mere minutes. Even an earthquake hit two days ago, leveling a city which hadn’t seen a real earthquake in over a century.
Castiel and the Winchesters are, of course, not fleeing, but heading towards what they hope is the source. Sam’s interest had been piqued when, following a brief Internet search, he had found that a town in the center of all the disaster remains unaffected: Lebanon, Kansas.
Castiel knows that he should do as Dean said, he should be out looking for his Father, as it is probably the only way to ensure all the senseless destruction stops. The world Castiel has spent his existence watching is, quite literally, being torn apart by Lucifer and his followers, and he should be doing everything he can to stop them. He is, after all, the only angel who seems willing to do so. It shouldn’t be an issue at all.
But it is.
He doesn’t understand it, feelings are still new and unsettling - he is much like a human child in that sense - but when he considers leaving them, leaving Dean, to face a demon which can cause so much devastation in so short a time, something knots up inside him. His (now his, formerly Jimmy Novak’s) stomach tightens and he finds that his desire to leave is far outweighed by his desire to stay. It is all too easy to cast aside his concern for the well-being of the planet in favor of the well-being of the two boys now watching him from the front of the car.
Perhaps it is blasphemy, but he has already committed the gravest sin an angel can commit in denying his orders. He ascertains that helping them succeed when he can isn’t any worse than that.
Dean hesitates a moment after Castiel speaks, his eyes moving to the car in front of them before finding Castiel’s once more. The expression on his face is guilty, he purses his lips and his brows knit together as he considers his words.
“Yeah, but Cas, you can’t-ow!”
“Dean!” Sam reaches across and punches his brother hard in the arm, rendering him silent. Temporarily.
Castiel hadn’t been sure whether to tell Dean what had happened when he’d tried to smite the demon Meg, but the issue had come up when, still mourning the loss of Jo and Ellen, Dean had confronted Castiel, asking why he hadn’t helped them.
Immediately after telling him the story of how Lucifer had trapped him, Castiel wished he hadn’t. The look Dean had given him - his face falling, mouth dropping open like he wanted to speak but couldn’t form the words - had stung. His disappointment had been tangible, and it had wrapped itself around Castiel, tightening and tightening until he’d had to leave Bobby’s home just to get away from it.
He’d returned several hours later, still grappling with the sensation of letting Dean down (it felt like watching stars die and fall from the sky,) and not sure how to make it stop. By then, Dean had already told both Sam and Bobby what Castiel had told him. Bobby scoffed at Castiel, leaving the room whispering what sounded like “’Course we get the most useless angel there is.” Sam had been much more understanding, merely patting Castiel on the shoulder, offering him a nervous smile.
Dean didn’t talk to Castiel for the remainder of that night.
“Look, all I’m saying is: he couldn’t even gank Meg, man. How’s he gonna help with this?” He waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the sky where the clouds are thick and black.
Castiel looks down at his own hands, fury welling up inside him, filling the space he once shared with Jimmy. Fury at Dean for suggesting he can’t help them anymore, fury at his brothers for putting him in this position in the first place, but mostly fury at himself for not being what Dean needs.
Once, the atmosphere would have trembled with the might of his rage, but now it doesn’t even seem to notice.
“I am perfectly capable of handling this demon,” he hisses, not looking up.
“He can help, Dean.”
Part of Castiel appreciates Sam’s attempts to help, especially as the two of them have only recently begun to forge a more genial relationship, but part of Castiel resents him for it. He doesn’t want Sam’s pity, he doesn’t need it.
Dean’s disenchantment shouldn’t matter to Castiel, so Castiel’s reactions to that disenchantment shouldn’t inspire sympathy on Sam’s part.
“Fine,” Dean responds after a moment, his frustration apparent in his tone.
Returning his gaze to the window, Castiel watches as heavy rain begins to pelt the highway and all the cars on it. He aches, he realizes, a sick, dull sort of ache. One he is still growing accustomed to.
He remembers what it was like not to feel, not to question. He remembers what it was like when he pulled Dean from Hell, a blackened soul screaming in agony and wrath, how he hadn’t known why he was doing so, nor had he cared. He’d only known that he was supposed to, and that was enough.
Now, he wonders if this is some sort of punishment for aiding his brothers in their efforts to destroy the world, naïve as he was. Being able to feel, being able to fully appreciate how much he’s let Dean and Sam down.
No one speaks again until they reach Lebanon.
*
As it turns out, Lebanon is so small a town that they end up having to drive fifteen miles out to a neighboring town for a room. As they drive through, however, they take note of the fact that the weather is calm and pleasant. The complete opposite of what they’d experienced on the way in - it is as though there is a barrier up around the town limits, keeping the storms out.
They settle in quickly, silently, Dean only talking to Castiel once (ordering him to “hurry up and get out of the damn car already,”) and Sam casting worried glances at both of them.
Castiel stays out of their way as they each pick a bed (more accurately, Sam picks one then Dean commandeers it, leaving Sam to take the other) and throw their stuff around the room, his eyes on Dean’s back.
He is clearly making a point not to look at Castiel.
Even after countless years of observing humans, even though he understands certain complexities about life and the universe that the human mind could not hope to fathom, Castiel cannot begin to understand the new feelings bombarding him at this treatment. They feel like watching one third of his brothers and sisters fall from Heaven - further blasphemy, he assumes.
“So, what’ve we got, Sammy?”
Dean lounges languidly at the table of the motel room they’ve claimed, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on the tabletop. He’s chewing on a pen as he skims through some of the books Sam had been reading in the car while Sam searches the Internet from his bed.
Castiel is standing near the door, listening but silent. The dull ache he’d experienced in the car several hours earlier has returned and nestled somewhere in his chest.
“Well, if I’m right, we’re probably dealing with multiple demons… like, a lot of them.”
“We’re sure it’s demons?”
“No,” Sam hesitates and Castiel looks at him, meeting his gaze, “But what else could cause all this? I mean, unless Lucifer is around, and I don’t think he is. Right, Cas?”
Dean laughs, tossing the pen to the table and moving to stand up.
“Yeah, great, ask him. Couldn’t tell the devil was around last time, but let’s count on him to do it today. Brilliant!”
Castiel glares at the floor, his fists clenching and unclenching. His throat constricts, and he almost forgets that he doesn’t need to breathe.
He’s felt like this once before, one familiar reaction after a day of the unfamiliar. He briefly recalls the moments before he’d chosen to put his fate entirely in Dean’s hands and risk Falling, the way Dean had begged and pleaded for help Castiel told him he simply could not give.
Feeling had been even newer to him, then. Doubt had consumed him. Now it isn’t the weight of doubt that is bearing down on him, but he doesn’t have a name for whatever it is.
He distantly reflects that he should probably be angry, should probably be reminding Dean that he has no right to question Castiel whatsoever.
Instead, he stays silent.
Dean grabs his coat and slips past Castiel to the door, Sam’s urgent call of “where the Hell are you going?” answered with a terse “out.”
Sam scrambles from the mattress and reaches for his own coat as Castiel listens to the sound of the Impala’s engine revving to life before it pulls out of the parking lot and speeds away.
“Idiot! We’re in the middle of a hunt and he has to throw a fit and wander off by himself?”
“He is under great stress, Sam.”
Pausing in the middle of packing his computer into its bag, Sam rolls his eyes.
“You two, I swear to Christ,” he winces and looks up apologetically, “sorry.”
Castiel has the distinct impression that Sam is not apologizing for his vulgarity. The way the younger Winchester looks suddenly uncomfortable, like his words got away from him, confirms as much.
“I’m not exactly in a position to judge your blaspheming, as you might imagine. But I‘m not sure what you mean-”
Sam pulls his bag over his shoulder and sighs, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes with rough hands.
“Whatever. Look, we need to get to him before he gets himself killed.”
Tensing at the suggestion, Castiel feels his extremities go cold. Cold is such an unpleasant sensation - he is convinced that he will never get used to it. It has a way of making everything seem somehow worse, more hopeless.
“Relax, Cas. I saw a diner a few blocks down when we were driving in and I’d bet money that’s where he’s going. He can’t sulk on an empty stomach.”
Castiel nods, reaching a hand out to touch Sam’s forehead, but he steps backward and out of reach. It reminds Castiel of Dean.
“Uh, I’ll walk, thanks.”
“He’s alone, Sam. Time is of the essence.”
Sam groans, but lets Castiel continue what he had been attempting to do. Castiel concentrates and reaches out for the diner, feeling the rush in his wings as space bends for him. At least he can still do this - it’s comforting, in a way.
When they arrive, appearing in an alley outside the restaurant, Sam grabs the wall and leans against it, making what Castiel can only assume is a sound of distress.
“Go on… in. I’ll be fine… go,” Sam waves a hand toward the front of the building, signaling for Castiel to go as he presses his forehead to the wall. “Oh god, I‘m gonna puke.”
After ensuring that Sam will, indeed, be okay, Castiel does as he is told.
He stands and peers through the front windows, finding Dean just sitting down at a booth in the back. As he pushes the front door open, a bell jingles above him and Dean looks up, scowling when he sees Castiel.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he spits as Castiel slides into the booth opposite him, “can’t a man eat in peace?”
“You shouldn’t be on your own now. It is unwise.”
Scoffing, Dean picks up the laminated menu the waitress had left for him on the table.
“Yeah, so is pretty much everything I do every damn day. Now that we’ve worked that all out, go away.”
Castiel feels himself frown as he reaches for the butter knife sitting on Dean’s untouched napkin and toys with it, rubbing his thumb over the barely-there serrated edge.
“That’s true, but this is exceptionally,” he pauses, trying to think of a word to describe what Dean is doing, how he is acting, “stupid. Even for you.”
The menu falls to the table with an angry smack, and Castiel looks up to find Dean flexing his fingers, nails trailing up and down, up and down over sticky Formica. He is glaring hard at Castiel, grinding his teeth - seething.
“Well, look at the pot calling the kettle stupid.”
Just when he feels he’s gotten a handle on Dean’s idioms, Castiel is faced with yet another he can’t quite grasp. He knows it’s an insult, at least, but beyond that, he doesn’t understand. It’s times like this he wishes he’d paid more attention to the unique phrases humans have developed when he’d been watching over them.
Bewildered, Castiel tips his head to one side and, almost immediately, Dean’s look of disdain disappears, his features softening and he sighs deeply, the long-suffering sigh of someone tired of, exhausted by, not being understood.
Castiel wonders if Dean knows how hard he tries to get it.
“It means you’re a hypocrite, Cas.”
Waiting for Dean to explain, Castiel narrows his eyes. He wants to get it, it almost sickens him how much - this kind of concern, he knows, should be reserved only for God. But, something inside him has come to need Dean’s acceptance. The world be damned, he needs it.
Dean glances around them, but there’s no one else in the room. The waitress disappeared into the back, and there aren’t any other customers - most of the town has already left the area.
“You wanna talk about stupid? Then tell me which one of us let himself get trapped by fucking Lucifer. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me.”
Placing the knife back in front of Dean, Castiel drops his gaze.
“I wish I had been there to help you and your friends, Dean-”
“What? I know, I know! That’s not what I mean. Goddammit.”
Castiel looks back up to find Dean with his face in his hands, his elbows resting on the edge of the table. When he speaks again, his words are muffled.
“Fuck. Can I just eat now?”
He senses them before he sees them - he can feel the way the air in the room is re-arranging itself, making room for the beings who hadn’t been there an instant before. He has just enough time to feel the edge of panic, sharp and severe as a razorblade, before they’re simply there, as though they always had been.
It happens quickly.
They attack like birds of prey - exact, rapid, efficient.
Castiel is on the floor, being held down by two hands before he even has a chance to contemplate escape. He struggles briefly, but he knows it’s useless - he can feel her power even before he recognizes her for what she is. Jophiel. An archangel.
He hears Dean struggling and looks up to find him being dragged out of the booth by Zachariah, all righteous wrath.
“We’ve had enough of you skirting the issue, Dean,” he booms, the restaurant quaking as he lets traces of his True Voice combine with his vessel’s low tones, “now you’re going to say yes to Michael. No more games.”
Plaster is raining down from the ceiling, coating everything in white. The windows are cracking, and Castiel can practically hear them screaming with the effort not to shatter completely. Castiel hears a wail from somewhere near the counter - the waitress is standing in the open doorway to the back, her hands covering her mouth in horror.
“Shut up!” Zachariah barks in her direction, waving a hand and closing the kitchen door on her.
Dean is fighting, trying to pull out of Zachariah’s grasp - he’s straining and groaning and… losing. Dean may be strong, certainly impressively so for a human, but Zachariah is much stronger.
“We tried to be polite, Winchester, but that didn’t do it. We tried to make you see the error of your ways, but that didn’t do it. No more.”
Zachariah is dragging Dean like a ragdoll and, from where he’s trapped on the floor - by the angel bearing down on him and something else, what he recognizes as the beginnings of dread - Castiel watches, helpless.
“You will say yes, Dean, or the whole world burns before its time.”
“You can’t do that,” Dean hisses, teeth clenched in what Castiel imagines is a combination of rage and the effort of his struggle to pull out from Zachariah’s grasp.
“You don’t think so?” Zachariah grabs Dean’s chin, forcing him to look out the window at the storm suddenly pelting the town with lethal, impossibly large hail, “and that’s just the beginning. That, my friend, is a mere taste of the devastation we will rain down on this pitiful excuse for a planet until you say yes.”
Dean swings wildly at Zachariah, but Zachariah easily evades it. He laughs, and the building trembles.
“The way you watch him, Castiel…” Jophiel is whispering in his ear, he hadn’t even noticed her move, “need I remind you that lust is a sin?”
Castiel looks back at Dean whose eyes are now on him, begging, pleading, and something snaps inside of him.
Angels don’t have epiphanies: they know everything they need to from the moment of creation. Of course, no angel has ever been in Castiel’s unique situation.
It’s nothing like he has experienced, ever. There is nothing he can possibly compare it to, this sudden understanding. The things he has done for Dean, the things he is still willing to do, every new emotion he now struggles with - the need he has to please Dean, to alleviate his suffering - the pieces fall into place.
Dean, this infinitesimal, fragile soul he pulled from Hell, is his purpose now. His only purpose. Castiel has come to love him with a devotion so strong, it would put the most loyal Seraph in Heaven to shame. Castiel has never been privy to what it means to love outside of what he feels for his Father, but he realizes that this is it. This.
Jophiel isn’t expecting Castiel to wrench a fist free from her grasp, and she certainly isn’t expecting that fist to connect with her jaw, so when it happens, she starts, her grip loosening briefly.
He manages to get both hands free, but she reaches out and hits him back. He feels his head crack against the floor beneath him, feels his jawbone shatter, as she regains her grip on him. It only takes half a thought on her part to render him entirely helpless once more.
“Castiel,” she chastises, raising a brow, her borrowed brown eyes betraying more than a hint of malice, “after all you’ve done, the honorable thing to do now would be to lie back and welcome your fate.”
It’s then that he notices Sam. He’s standing on the other side of the kitchen door, holding it open just enough to look through and observe the situation. Zachariah is still too busy threatening Dean, and Jophiel too focused on Castiel, to have noticed him.
His eyes meet Castiel’s and he frowns, letting the door close once more.
Castiel looks back at Jophiel.
“Nothing to say to that?”
“I won’t allow you to-”
By all means, Sam should be much slower and more awkward than he is. He is unusually tall, Castiel has come to understand, and the laws of physics say he should not be able to succeed in moving as quickly as he has to in order to strike Jophiel across the back of the head - with what appears to be a serving tray.
Castiel takes advantage of her surprise to roll out from under her. She’s on her feet in an instant, and he has just enough time to see her amused smile as she looks down at the broken pieces of tray at her feet before he grabs the knife from the table, rolls up his sleeve, and drags it roughly across his arm, using all the strength he can muster in an effort to aid the dull edge in actually causing him to bleed. The skin there tears apart and blood pours from the gaping wound, dripping onto the tabletop.
Zachariah screams from somewhere behind him, a command to stop immediately, but Castiel has already almost finished tracing the banishment sigil.
Jophiel charges at him as Zachariah tosses Dean aside and looks as though he’s going to join her and Castiel slams his palm into the center of the sigil. Light fills the restaurant and he hears them scream, but he’s already moving towards Sam and Dean, grabbing hold of them both and concentrating.
The world shifts, and they’re in another motel room, in another city, in another state.
Both humans fall to the ground immediately, groaning.
“So. Fucking. Close.” Sam whines, face buried in the room’s rough, patterned carpet.
Dean lies on his back, eyes pressed shut, but he looks to be relatively unharmed. His wrists are bruised from where Zachariah had held him, but Castiel can’t see any serious injuries. Zachariah could have done much worse.
Castiel reaches behind his head and looks at his fingers - they’re covered in blood from where he’d hit the floor. He can feel his jaw resetting itself, correcting the damage Jophiel had caused.
A few moments pass before either Sam or Dean moves again, but they eventually stand and Dean walks to Castiel’s side, looking him up and down. He grimaces.
“Goddamn it,” Dean grabs Castiel’s arm and leads him to the small table in the room, pushing him into a chair, “bitch really tore you up good.”
“I’m okay, Dean.”
Castiel is being honest, he is okay. Jophiel had injured him - he’d bled from his mouth where she’d struck him, felt the jolt of excruciating pain, the likes of which he’d never felt before, when his skull had cracked - but he can already feel his body putting itself back together.
Still, he lets Dean inspect him, lets him slide his hands over tender, barely-bruised wrists, lets him trace his fingers down the lines of the healing gash in his arm, lets him wipe the coagulated blood from the edge of his mouth. It is all unnecessary, but Castiel finds that having Dean’s hands on him, having his attention, is pleasant. Like being cared for again.
The sudden change in Dean’s demeanor, from cold and distant to this is a welcome one.
“You sure? You look like shit.”
“Yes. I’m okay.”
Dean’s attention snaps suddenly to Sam, his eyes narrowed.
“Where the hell were you? Couldn’t have joined the party a little sooner? Like, I don’t know, before we got beat down?”
Sam’s discomfort at the accusation is palpable; Castiel can almost see it, heavy as it is.
“I just,” Sam starts, rubbing his open palms nervously together, “I was, just, outside.”
“Yeah no kidding. Why?”
Tugging on the bottom of his jacket, Sam looks from Dean to Castiel then back again. Castiel can tell that Sam isn’t sure he should speak whichever words are on his mind, but he eventually does anyway.
“I don’t know. I figured you guys could, you know, use some time alone. Or something.”
“Time alone?” Dean’s brows knit together in confusion, and he glares at his brother.
“I don’t know, I’mgonnagogetsomebandagesbye.”
Sam rushes out the door, slamming it hard behind him, before Castiel can point out that no bandages are necessary. He doesn’t need them, and both brothers are, more or less, uninjured.
Dean remains silent for a moment, before he makes a face and turns back to Castiel.
“Did I miss something?”
“He said-”
“I know what he said, Cas!”
Rolling his eyes - and while Castiel silently mourns the loss of Dean’s worry, he appreciates the fact that, for now, things are back to normal between them - Dean sits in the chair beside Castiel.
“I can’t believe we fell for it. Those goddamn angels set us up,” he looks meaningfully at Castiel, “you know, your brothers are real pricks. All those people…”
Castiel nods once. It hurts now, thinking of his brothers in such a manner. Once, they were all he knew. Once, being among them filled him entirely with joy. Now, he fears them. From the moment he learned of their true intentions regarding Dean, he has feared them.
“Fuck. This whole Apocalypse thing is really getting old.”
“I’m sorry,” Castiel doesn’t know what else to say. The words are an insignificant apology to someone who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders - it could be likened to offering a thimble of water to a starving man. Well-intentioned, maybe, but not right, not enough.
“Yeah well,” Dean shrugs, dragging a hand over his face, “it’s not your fault.”
He reaches out and touches Castiel’s arm again, using the edges of the trench coat to wipe the bloodstains away. Castiel feels every nerve in his arm come to life at the attention.
“At least you’re still healing okay. Last thing we need is our guardian angel in damn stitches.”
“Or captured by Lucifer.”
Half-smiling, Dean raises an eyebrow.
“Did you just make a joke?”
“No,” Castiel drops his gaze to the table, guilt rising in his throat like bile, “I should have been able to-I should have been able to sense him, and the other angels today. You’ve been upset with me because I didn’t.”
Dean drops Castiel’s arm at this, backing away from the table and standing in one, fluid movement. He begins to pace, and Castiel watches him - back and fourth, back and fourth, pause, back and fourth. He stops and looks back at Castiel, shaking his head.
“I have not.”
There have been moments between them, more common than Dean is probably aware, when Castiel finds it easier to see inside of Dean’s head than not to. His thoughts are projected in crystalline waves like prayers, resounding and reverberating in Castiel’s consciousness. Soft pleas for help here, booming curses aimed at an absent God there. It is always more honest than Dean would ever be out loud, built up of words too incriminating to be spoken but too important to be hushed.
This is one of those moments. Castiel is overwhelmed by the sudden influx of thought. Words like I’m sorry and could have killed you and can’t lose you, too wash over him and fill him up with warmth he hadn’t been aware he needed.
“Jesus, Cas,” Dean groans, throwing his hands to his sides as though to say I give up, then “you are so fucking dense sometimes.”
Castiel has watched it happen many times: two humans coming together and pressing their mouths together in a flurry of passion - a physical action that transcends the merely physical. Their souls light up, their vibrations increase; it is, at the best of times, almost spiritual. He has not, however, experienced it himself.
Until now.
Dean tugs him out of the chair by the collar of his coat, crushing their lips together almost violently. Castiel inhales in surprise at both the action and the rush it incites in him - his blood is pulsing through his veins at a pace too fast to be safe, his head feels light, and his mind is stuck on repeat: the word DeanDeanDeanDean replaying over and over and over in the space of a second.
If he had been overwhelmed by the mere act of feeling before, he is now completely lost to it. It is heavy and fast and more beautiful than all the host of Heaven. His grace, what’s left of it, is singing with joy.
It reminds him of home.
Dean’s breath plays over his skin, warming and wet, the only thing between them as Dean pulls Castiel closer and Castiel lets him.
He isn’t sure what he’s doing, but Castiel experimentally kisses back - mimicking the motions he feels Dean making. It is clumsy and he knows it, but he tries. For Dean, for himself, he tries.
A soft moan breaks the relative silence of the room, and it takes a moment for Castiel to realize that it was his own.
“You like that?” Dean smiles and Castiel only just notices that a hand - rough and calloused from the wear of handling guns and salt and matches - has found its way to rest on the nape of his neck. Dean’s thumb rubs circles over the base of his jaw and Castiel presses back into it, reveling in the touch.
He’s watching Dean’s expressions - taking in every aspect of the moment that he can. The way Dean’s lips are swollen and red, like fruit in the summertime, the way his pupils are blown so wide the only hint of green is a thin ring around the black. The way his breathing sounds labored and thick, the way his chest shudders with each intake of oxygen.
In all his years of existence, Castiel cannot remember ever seeing anything so perfect.
“You stupid son of a bitch,” Dean whispers, lips pressing soft to the skin of Castiel’s neck. Castiel’s eyes flutter shut again and he leans away slightly, allowing Dean better access. “You stupid, careless son of a bitch.”
Each word is punctuated by another kiss and Dean’s arms are wrapped around Castiel so tight now that, were he mortal and bound by the rules meant to govern the body in which he dwells, it would be hard to breathe.
Castiel moves his hand up Dean’s arm, wrapping long fingers over his shoulder.
“You don’t get to take the fucking easy way out; you don’t get to die and leave me here like this.”
This time, Castiel kisses Dean.
It is no secret that Dean is a physical being - he has little time for words. After a lifetime of being fed lies, of speaking them himself, Dean has come to distrust words. His mode of communication is much more primal. This is Castiel’s attempt to speak to him in his own language. He tries to say everything he wants to, the things Dean needs to know but isn’t ready to hear spoken aloud; things like not going anywhere and I’m here and yours.
Dean’s hands are cradling Castiel’s face now, so Castiel slides his own down Dean’s side, letting them rest on his hips.
Castiel feels Dean begin to inch them backwards, eventually feels the edge of the paisley-covered bed against his knees, and allows himself to be lowered onto his back on the bed. Dean climbs on top of him, and their mouths find each other once more.
Dean makes a low, contented noise in his throat, and Castiel shivers. He can feel every breath Dean takes, can feel the warmth from his body seeping into his own - it surrounds him and envelops him and every aspect of him.
For the first time since he’s been on Earth, he is grateful for the ability he has been given. Sensation, what he has - until this point - considered his greatest curse, is now a gift. It allows him to hear the way Dean moans as they fold together, the way he whispers Castiel’s name as they explore each other’s bodies with curious hands. It allows him to smell the subtle, stale scent of Dean’s sweat as it slides between them, making them slippery - making it easier to slide against one another. It allows him to taste the saltiness of Dean’s skin. It allows him to feel it when Dean touches him, running a gentle hand up along the inside of Castiel’s thigh. It’s like flying in an electrical storm - every nerve in his body is on fire with it, screaming for more.
And then Dean is inside of him, and it’s like discovering a whole new world of sensation - like going through a life blind then waking up and finding oneself able to see. It’s too much at first, too overwhelming, too stimulating. Dean kisses him again, gives him time to adjust to it, then he begins to move.
When Castiel climaxes, he finds himself whispering in a language no human could ever understand, his hands gripping Dean’s shoulders firmly. A light bursts behind his eyes, and for a moment he worries that he’s left his body and blinded Dean, but it’s gone as soon as it comes and he feels only warm waves of pleasure washing over him as his body contracts then relaxes.
Dean soon follows and Castiel commits every moment of it to memory: the way his eyes slide shut and he bites his lower lip before murmuring Castiel’s name once more. The way, for once, Dean looks perfectly happy, blissful.
Castiel sends his Father a prayer of gratitude.
Dean falls to Castiel’s side, exhausted, and Castiel wraps an arm around him. They’re facing one another, and Dean is toying with Castiel’s hair; he frowns.
“I never thanked you for getting me and Sammy out of that field before Lucifer could-”
“I know, Dean.”
Castiel presses his lips to Dean’s forehead, wondering if he knows just how far Castiel would go for him without a second thought.
Several moments pass in silence as each of them comes down from the high of having been so close to one another.
Dean speaks first.
“You’re not useless, Cas. So get it out of your fucking head.”
“Yes, but you said-”
“Man, fuck what I said! You’re here and you’re all I’ve got, and me and Sammy’d both be dead without you,” he pauses to suck at the patch of skin beneath Castiel’s jaw, “and I am so damn lucky you’re here.”
For the first time in months, Castiel believes it.
*
Sam doesn’t return until the next morning, sidling in just as Dean is sitting at the table with a steaming cup of what he calls “sort of coffee.” Castiel is sitting across from him, holding a similar cup and staring at it. He has no intention of drinking it.
“Well, good morning, Sunshine,” Dean smiles raising his mug towards his brother, “where the hell you been? We missed you, didn’t we Cas?”
Castiel looks up at the mention of his name, then at Sam, and nods.
“You’re in a good mood,” Sam sits in the third chair at the table, eyeing his brother suspiciously, “why?”
“We’re going back to get the Impala today. Cas went and checked on her and she’s undamaged. Those damn angels and their freak weather ain’t got nothin’ on my baby.”
He had, indeed, gone to check on the car at Dean’s insistence. However, he had found it in much less decent shape then he had let on - it hadn’t fared well against the hail. He’d been able to will it back to normal, though, and he was pleased that he could at least do that.
Sam looks less than convinced, and his eyes fall on Dean, then Castiel, then Dean again. He smirks, stealing Dean’s cup and drinking from it.
Castiel watches their interactions, comforted by how normal it is. Only yesterday, they’d narrowly escaped death and today it’s as though it never happened. Their greatest weapon is their resilience.
“What the fuck?” Dean snaps, reaching for it.
“So, I take it you two are talking again?” Sam asks, a knowing smile on his face. Castiel tilts his head, curious as to just how much Sam knows - just how much he knew all along. He’d clearly underestimated the younger Winchester’s gift for insight.
Dean, on the other hand, just seems annoyed.
“What? Yeah, and wipe that look off your face - it’s embarrassing.”
“Good. I was getting sick of all the unresolved sexual tension; it’s fucking awkward for me, you know.”
Sam leaps up and heads for the door as Dean goes pallid, all the color in his face draining away in the blink of an eye.
“What did you just-?”
“Come on, guys. The car is waiting!”
He hurries out the door, leaving Dean with his mouth hanging open. Castiel, who doesn’t quite understand the reaction but doesn’t want to upset Dean further, touches his hand gently.
“He’s right, we should hurry.”
“I’m gonna kill him.”
Brushing his fingers over Dean’s lips, Castiel touches his own lightly to Dean’s cheek. Dean gasps, wringing his fingers through Castiel’s hair.
“Fine, I’ll go. But I’m not talking to him for a month.”
This is his purpose.