Giving Up is Giving In Part II (1/2)
Masterpost
The Beginning
Part One
Part Two
Dean's not sure what he expected on the drive back but silence wasn't exactly on the menu. A small part of him had been scared that Cas would suddenly morph into any one of his high-school girlfriends once they packed it up and hit the road. That is, endlessly rambling on about every minute detail of his life whether Dean had asked or not. You know, ‘cause now that they were doing it they'd be going steady and getting married soon which meant Dean ultimately needed to know all this stuff.
So he should be relieved when Cas remains his stoic self. He should be throwing a parade in the angel’s honor for not letting little things like coming all over your best friend’s stomach and professions of love shake him up a bit. Not enough to even mention it in passing, just to make sure they're on the same page. Reading the same book. Dean’s proud of the guy, really, so if he’s counting the yellow lines as they disappear past the corner of the hood it isn’t because he’s waiting on anyone to initiate some chick flick moment.
In fact, Cas doesn't say anything but the occasionally comment on the scenery or music selection. Seriously. He's sitting in the passenger's seat looking content enough to watch the world go by as cities are flying past them outside, bringing them further and further away from the scene of the crime.
It's fine that he doesn't ask Dean if he's sure about them, doesn't tell him what falling feels like, or if he still remembers what it smelt like in that barn where he and Bobby shot him a few dozen times. Cas doesn't bore him with a laundry list of reasons as to why he's once again skipping willingly behind Dean back into the thick of it when the guy has already given and lost everything. Which is, on closer examination, bullshit. It figures that the one person he'd allow to start this conversation is pleased as pie all the same, screw you very much.
At the last second Dean jerks the wheel, car sent screeching into a motel parking lot. Cas at least has the decency to look slightly alarmed which is better than the serenity he's been sporting. If Dean has to sit here and develop an anxiety disorder then there's absolutely no fairness in the cause of it simply taking a quiet drive through the countryside.
'I swear to God if you act like everything is awesome I will leave you here.'
"Why did we stop here? This is not where Sam said he was staying."
"No, it's not." His voice is almost as low as Cas', vibrating its way out of his throat.
Cas is staring at him like there's ketchup all over his goddamn face and the guy doesn't know how to break it to him gently. Only the ketchup is made up of poor decision making and the look of sympathy is really just the angel trying to figure out why it's not considered merciful to put people down like it is with animals when the situation reached hopelessness.
The, 'What’s wrong?' he just thought he wanted is flashing neon in blue eyes, ripe and ready for Dean to take it. He would except for the fact that Dean doesn’t friggin’ know the answer. He's not great with problem solving when the solution doesn't involve killing it, exorcising it, or hitting it hard with a shovel and hoping for the best. This is what Sam's for. The hand holding, the heart to hearts, and the kumbaya’s. Which is probably why Dean's been driving over state lines waiting for Cas to start the psychoanalysis. If the giraffe had been with them they'd never have made it to the interstate before the, 'But how does that make you feel?'s would have started.
It's not going to be that simple with Cas. A saying which may as well be the tag line to Dean's life story.
"I'm exhausted. We're crashing here for the night, Sam will have to entertain himself till morning."
It’s a weak excuse with absolutely no logic to back it up. They're about an hour out and Dean's been up so long that it couldn't make a difference. Justifiable or not he can't sit in here for another second, the car feeling more and more like a coffin a couple feet underground and still being lowered. There's just him, Cas, all the shit he should be saying and plenty of time to suffocate from it. Volatile doesn't begin to describe this winning combination.
‘This isn’t rocket science, just talk to him,' he can hear Sam huff out in the way he does when something actually matters and he's not just trying to get Dean to punch a wall for kicks. It's not bad advice if only Dean could think of anything to say other than ShitShitShitSHIT. It’s hopeless, he’s hopeless. So if an itch is starting to grow somewhere inside of Dean that scratching isn't going to reach then he’s just going to have to get better at ignoring it.
He's ready to shrug the whole night off, hand on the door ready to exit stage left when Cas says, "Are you reconsidering our entire engagement or just telling your brother about it?"
He should have known that Cas would find the volume controls just as soon as Dean’s plan revolved around him keeping his trap shut. 'This is your fault,' he actually thinks about saying. Cas is taking up all the room in the world, has been since he burst into Dean's life four years ago, so if he's functioning like a person missing a few brain cells then maybe the guy shouldn't be cutting off his air supply to begin with.
Hell, how’s Dean supposed to wrap his mind around cause-and-effect when Cas has taken up permanent residence in his thought process blinding out the rest of it. Dean never even had a chance here. One catch of Cas’ eyes and it’s as if one lobe kicks the other inside your skull saying, 'Hey, look alive. We're not gonna want to miss this.' How is anyone expected to have feelings, process them, and discuss in a healthy manner when there's everything Cas is scrambling up all soft bits inside of them? No one in his position would be running on all cylinders.
Thing is, that theory's so rotten it warrants a national recall. He's seen Cas walk through a crowd without summoning a second glance, seen waitresses practically stare through him as they take his order, and entire hospital staff had chalked him up to just another loony in a ward full of them. Suddenly Dean realizes that this is a him-centric problem.
"Fuck it," he blurts out, not meaning to. They blink at each other a few times. "No. I'm just. No, alright? Not reconsidering."
Cas doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t sigh, doesn’t ring Dean’s neck for being possibly the worst BFF ever. He just follows him out of the car, across the lot, into the lobby without a word. Cas has died for him and yet Dean’s still a little shocked that he’s willing to put up with his crap.
They're barely inside the doors a voice asks without inflection, "Queen or two fulls?"
Dean couldn't tell you how many times he and Sam have heard this question, if you asked he’d probably tell you that he was never taught to count that high. So there’s no reason that this time, in this particular dump, it sounds less like standard procedure and more like the cosmos giving him the opportunity to grow a pair.
This shouldn't be the moment that makes the difference. It shouldn't be some college chick in goth makeup essentially asking if he and the guy sulking behind him are fucking or not that that makes Dean realize how long ago he passed the shit or get off the pot sign. States ago. Years ago. They’re living in a universe where the World being here tomorrow isn’t a given and Cas has gotten plenty good at dying. Dean's a big boy now, he needs to Get Over It or admit that he can't.
He thinks of the crumpled trench coat still rolled up in his trunk, remembers what it felt like when that was all that was left of Cas.
"What'd ya think, babe? Think you can manage not to hog all the sheets?"
Cas stares back, searching for clues. Dean only shrugs in response, 'Hey, I'm trying,' and it'd be spooky if it wasn't fucking amazing the way it clicks instantly in Cas. Dean can see the millisecond he gets it right before he smiles back so suddenly.
"I would like to sleep next to you," a beat and then hurriedly, "babe."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Cas is still getting used to human means of transportation but nothing is worse than the slow meandering of walking. The car ride here had been long and tedious enough, made more so by the way Dean seemed to flinch every time he opened his mouth. Dean has stayed in his hospital room, watched over him as he slept, taken a deep breath and irreparably damaged the piece of Cas that knew how to stay away.
Stay whether he tastes Dean again or not. Whether the rock beneath them is in immediate peril. As long as he is allowed to be here. He didn't think this needed explanation, had thought his charge knew that, ‘I’m with you,’ had been given without strings attached. He wants to tell Dean this, needs him to know that his loyalty isn’t being bought with Dean’s love. Cas is handing it over, begging for it to be taken, because of his love for Dean.
"My entire life I've told a grand total of 5 people that I love them. You're one," breaks the silence. It’s a confession and Dean bares it like one - his face veiled from Cas. His eyes set on working the little plastic card that allows them entrance into the door. The green light that acknowledges them, tells them, ‘You’re supposed to be here, you can come in.’
"I know," Cas tells him as he pushes the door closed with a click.
He knows a lot about Dean that he hasn’t been told. Knows the way Dean used to build forts in his room to keep out imaginary monsters before his mother was killed by a real one. How he used to pull the sheets way up over him and Sammy’s heads at night when John was out on a hunt before he realized that it just muffled the sound of the bad things creeping closer. Knows that Dean slips on characters like costumes because being seen is being vulnerable.
"I'm not good at this. When it comes to romance I think Henry VIII is the only one actually doing worse."
“Knowing you has taught me about patience," walking past, starting to remove clothing. It's been a long day and the layers grown between them will take longer to tear down, these are the ones that are easy. "We will navigate together."
He sits on the bed, looking across the expanse of stained carpet to Dean.
"That sounds a lot like a, ‘You’re fucked up but I’ll take you,’ if you ask me."
It’s supposed to be a joke, months watching movies in the rec room and Cas has finally started to get better at telling. It isn’t a failure in interpretation that makes anger flare up inside of him. He’s sorry for a lot of things that he still hasn’t apologized for, would write Dean The Complete Works of Castiel’s Sins if the man would read it, but this moment wouldn't be in there.
"I’m aware of your shortcomings, Dean. I am not here in spite of them.”
Dean hasn't looked at him like this in years, maybe since Zachariah's waiting room. His eyes are too wide, blown open with hope. Cas sees it as clearly now as he did that night they tried to save the world together, 'No take backs, Cas. You try to back out now and I'll ground you permanently.'
"Jesus," Dean hisses, finally in motion, stripping and climbing onto the mattress next to him, with him. Together.
The bed is soft and safe with Dean beside him, so close they're sharing air. Cas leans his forehead against the man's, raises his hand to Dean's neck and marvels at the way his eyes can look so green in nothing but the fragments of street lamps seeping in around the curtain's edges. If it's not now then it may be never and he needs to hear the answer.
"When did you know?"
He doesn't have to clarify. Dean takes in a deep breath and holds it as his fingertips brush against Cas' side. The feel the heat of Dean's skin on his is still new, sparking something deeper than human inside of him.
"That you were different from the rest of those dicks?" Dean's whole body is working towards the answer, turning it over and over. Cas doesn't want him to grind it away, to shape it into something pretty. He wants the bloodstained truth.
"All of it."
"The night you brought me to Alastair to get information out of him."
It's probably the last answer he was expecting, which is always the expected with Dean. He's tried hard not to think of that night, to forget the way his brother betrayed him. To forget the way Dean begged for mercy Cas couldn't offer in a hospital bed. Just one of the many times he's seen Dean break. How naive he was, how little he had known.
"I'd rather watch the world burn under Lucifer's feet than let you walk into that room again."
"I forgave you a long time ago, Cas. I can't remember the last time I gave someone other than family a second chance. I never trusted any of them, you know I didn't, but I always called you when I needed backup." Dean is looking straight at him and it feels like the first time he's ever been seen. "I don't know about the rest, I don't think I realized until we were following you to that damn reservoir. I kept telling myself that you were going to be fine, knowing you weren't."
Cas moves forward, presses his mouth too hard against Dean's jaw and says, "When the Winchesters are involved, 'fine' is a relative term."
Dean huffs an agreement but doesn't reply, just two sets of lungs breathing doing well to fill up the dark room. Cas fits his head under Dean's chin where he can hear his heart steadily convulsing, keeping him alive. It may be minutes or hours but slowly the chords of Dean's muscles go soft one by one, barely getting out a goodnight as he gives into sleep.
Cas closes his eyes against Dean's throat, lips against his collar, and tells Dean that things will be better this time, Promises traced into skin.
Next!
The Beginning
Part One
Part Two
Dean's not sure what he expected on the drive back but silence wasn't exactly on the menu. A small part of him had been scared that Cas would suddenly morph into any one of his high-school girlfriends once they packed it up and hit the road. That is, endlessly rambling on about every minute detail of his life whether Dean had asked or not. You know, ‘cause now that they were doing it they'd be going steady and getting married soon which meant Dean ultimately needed to know all this stuff.
So he should be relieved when Cas remains his stoic self. He should be throwing a parade in the angel’s honor for not letting little things like coming all over your best friend’s stomach and professions of love shake him up a bit. Not enough to even mention it in passing, just to make sure they're on the same page. Reading the same book. Dean’s proud of the guy, really, so if he’s counting the yellow lines as they disappear past the corner of the hood it isn’t because he’s waiting on anyone to initiate some chick flick moment.
In fact, Cas doesn't say anything but the occasionally comment on the scenery or music selection. Seriously. He's sitting in the passenger's seat looking content enough to watch the world go by as cities are flying past them outside, bringing them further and further away from the scene of the crime.
It's fine that he doesn't ask Dean if he's sure about them, doesn't tell him what falling feels like, or if he still remembers what it smelt like in that barn where he and Bobby shot him a few dozen times. Cas doesn't bore him with a laundry list of reasons as to why he's once again skipping willingly behind Dean back into the thick of it when the guy has already given and lost everything. Which is, on closer examination, bullshit. It figures that the one person he'd allow to start this conversation is pleased as pie all the same, screw you very much.
At the last second Dean jerks the wheel, car sent screeching into a motel parking lot. Cas at least has the decency to look slightly alarmed which is better than the serenity he's been sporting. If Dean has to sit here and develop an anxiety disorder then there's absolutely no fairness in the cause of it simply taking a quiet drive through the countryside.
'I swear to God if you act like everything is awesome I will leave you here.'
"Why did we stop here? This is not where Sam said he was staying."
"No, it's not." His voice is almost as low as Cas', vibrating its way out of his throat.
Cas is staring at him like there's ketchup all over his goddamn face and the guy doesn't know how to break it to him gently. Only the ketchup is made up of poor decision making and the look of sympathy is really just the angel trying to figure out why it's not considered merciful to put people down like it is with animals when the situation reached hopelessness.
The, 'What’s wrong?' he just thought he wanted is flashing neon in blue eyes, ripe and ready for Dean to take it. He would except for the fact that Dean doesn’t friggin’ know the answer. He's not great with problem solving when the solution doesn't involve killing it, exorcising it, or hitting it hard with a shovel and hoping for the best. This is what Sam's for. The hand holding, the heart to hearts, and the kumbaya’s. Which is probably why Dean's been driving over state lines waiting for Cas to start the psychoanalysis. If the giraffe had been with them they'd never have made it to the interstate before the, 'But how does that make you feel?'s would have started.
It's not going to be that simple with Cas. A saying which may as well be the tag line to Dean's life story.
"I'm exhausted. We're crashing here for the night, Sam will have to entertain himself till morning."
It’s a weak excuse with absolutely no logic to back it up. They're about an hour out and Dean's been up so long that it couldn't make a difference. Justifiable or not he can't sit in here for another second, the car feeling more and more like a coffin a couple feet underground and still being lowered. There's just him, Cas, all the shit he should be saying and plenty of time to suffocate from it. Volatile doesn't begin to describe this winning combination.
‘This isn’t rocket science, just talk to him,' he can hear Sam huff out in the way he does when something actually matters and he's not just trying to get Dean to punch a wall for kicks. It's not bad advice if only Dean could think of anything to say other than ShitShitShitSHIT. It’s hopeless, he’s hopeless. So if an itch is starting to grow somewhere inside of Dean that scratching isn't going to reach then he’s just going to have to get better at ignoring it.
He's ready to shrug the whole night off, hand on the door ready to exit stage left when Cas says, "Are you reconsidering our entire engagement or just telling your brother about it?"
He should have known that Cas would find the volume controls just as soon as Dean’s plan revolved around him keeping his trap shut. 'This is your fault,' he actually thinks about saying. Cas is taking up all the room in the world, has been since he burst into Dean's life four years ago, so if he's functioning like a person missing a few brain cells then maybe the guy shouldn't be cutting off his air supply to begin with.
Hell, how’s Dean supposed to wrap his mind around cause-and-effect when Cas has taken up permanent residence in his thought process blinding out the rest of it. Dean never even had a chance here. One catch of Cas’ eyes and it’s as if one lobe kicks the other inside your skull saying, 'Hey, look alive. We're not gonna want to miss this.' How is anyone expected to have feelings, process them, and discuss in a healthy manner when there's everything Cas is scrambling up all soft bits inside of them? No one in his position would be running on all cylinders.
Thing is, that theory's so rotten it warrants a national recall. He's seen Cas walk through a crowd without summoning a second glance, seen waitresses practically stare through him as they take his order, and entire hospital staff had chalked him up to just another loony in a ward full of them. Suddenly Dean realizes that this is a him-centric problem.
"Fuck it," he blurts out, not meaning to. They blink at each other a few times. "No. I'm just. No, alright? Not reconsidering."
Cas doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t sigh, doesn’t ring Dean’s neck for being possibly the worst BFF ever. He just follows him out of the car, across the lot, into the lobby without a word. Cas has died for him and yet Dean’s still a little shocked that he’s willing to put up with his crap.
They're barely inside the doors a voice asks without inflection, "Queen or two fulls?"
Dean couldn't tell you how many times he and Sam have heard this question, if you asked he’d probably tell you that he was never taught to count that high. So there’s no reason that this time, in this particular dump, it sounds less like standard procedure and more like the cosmos giving him the opportunity to grow a pair.
This shouldn't be the moment that makes the difference. It shouldn't be some college chick in goth makeup essentially asking if he and the guy sulking behind him are fucking or not that that makes Dean realize how long ago he passed the shit or get off the pot sign. States ago. Years ago. They’re living in a universe where the World being here tomorrow isn’t a given and Cas has gotten plenty good at dying. Dean's a big boy now, he needs to Get Over It or admit that he can't.
He thinks of the crumpled trench coat still rolled up in his trunk, remembers what it felt like when that was all that was left of Cas.
"What'd ya think, babe? Think you can manage not to hog all the sheets?"
Cas stares back, searching for clues. Dean only shrugs in response, 'Hey, I'm trying,' and it'd be spooky if it wasn't fucking amazing the way it clicks instantly in Cas. Dean can see the millisecond he gets it right before he smiles back so suddenly.
"I would like to sleep next to you," a beat and then hurriedly, "babe."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Cas is still getting used to human means of transportation but nothing is worse than the slow meandering of walking. The car ride here had been long and tedious enough, made more so by the way Dean seemed to flinch every time he opened his mouth. Dean has stayed in his hospital room, watched over him as he slept, taken a deep breath and irreparably damaged the piece of Cas that knew how to stay away.
Stay whether he tastes Dean again or not. Whether the rock beneath them is in immediate peril. As long as he is allowed to be here. He didn't think this needed explanation, had thought his charge knew that, ‘I’m with you,’ had been given without strings attached. He wants to tell Dean this, needs him to know that his loyalty isn’t being bought with Dean’s love. Cas is handing it over, begging for it to be taken, because of his love for Dean.
"My entire life I've told a grand total of 5 people that I love them. You're one," breaks the silence. It’s a confession and Dean bares it like one - his face veiled from Cas. His eyes set on working the little plastic card that allows them entrance into the door. The green light that acknowledges them, tells them, ‘You’re supposed to be here, you can come in.’
"I know," Cas tells him as he pushes the door closed with a click.
He knows a lot about Dean that he hasn’t been told. Knows the way Dean used to build forts in his room to keep out imaginary monsters before his mother was killed by a real one. How he used to pull the sheets way up over him and Sammy’s heads at night when John was out on a hunt before he realized that it just muffled the sound of the bad things creeping closer. Knows that Dean slips on characters like costumes because being seen is being vulnerable.
"I'm not good at this. When it comes to romance I think Henry VIII is the only one actually doing worse."
“Knowing you has taught me about patience," walking past, starting to remove clothing. It's been a long day and the layers grown between them will take longer to tear down, these are the ones that are easy. "We will navigate together."
He sits on the bed, looking across the expanse of stained carpet to Dean.
"That sounds a lot like a, ‘You’re fucked up but I’ll take you,’ if you ask me."
It’s supposed to be a joke, months watching movies in the rec room and Cas has finally started to get better at telling. It isn’t a failure in interpretation that makes anger flare up inside of him. He’s sorry for a lot of things that he still hasn’t apologized for, would write Dean The Complete Works of Castiel’s Sins if the man would read it, but this moment wouldn't be in there.
"I’m aware of your shortcomings, Dean. I am not here in spite of them.”
Dean hasn't looked at him like this in years, maybe since Zachariah's waiting room. His eyes are too wide, blown open with hope. Cas sees it as clearly now as he did that night they tried to save the world together, 'No take backs, Cas. You try to back out now and I'll ground you permanently.'
"Jesus," Dean hisses, finally in motion, stripping and climbing onto the mattress next to him, with him. Together.
The bed is soft and safe with Dean beside him, so close they're sharing air. Cas leans his forehead against the man's, raises his hand to Dean's neck and marvels at the way his eyes can look so green in nothing but the fragments of street lamps seeping in around the curtain's edges. If it's not now then it may be never and he needs to hear the answer.
"When did you know?"
He doesn't have to clarify. Dean takes in a deep breath and holds it as his fingertips brush against Cas' side. The feel the heat of Dean's skin on his is still new, sparking something deeper than human inside of him.
"That you were different from the rest of those dicks?" Dean's whole body is working towards the answer, turning it over and over. Cas doesn't want him to grind it away, to shape it into something pretty. He wants the bloodstained truth.
"All of it."
"The night you brought me to Alastair to get information out of him."
It's probably the last answer he was expecting, which is always the expected with Dean. He's tried hard not to think of that night, to forget the way his brother betrayed him. To forget the way Dean begged for mercy Cas couldn't offer in a hospital bed. Just one of the many times he's seen Dean break. How naive he was, how little he had known.
"I'd rather watch the world burn under Lucifer's feet than let you walk into that room again."
"I forgave you a long time ago, Cas. I can't remember the last time I gave someone other than family a second chance. I never trusted any of them, you know I didn't, but I always called you when I needed backup." Dean is looking straight at him and it feels like the first time he's ever been seen. "I don't know about the rest, I don't think I realized until we were following you to that damn reservoir. I kept telling myself that you were going to be fine, knowing you weren't."
Cas moves forward, presses his mouth too hard against Dean's jaw and says, "When the Winchesters are involved, 'fine' is a relative term."
Dean huffs an agreement but doesn't reply, just two sets of lungs breathing doing well to fill up the dark room. Cas fits his head under Dean's chin where he can hear his heart steadily convulsing, keeping him alive. It may be minutes or hours but slowly the chords of Dean's muscles go soft one by one, barely getting out a goodnight as he gives into sleep.
Cas closes his eyes against Dean's throat, lips against his collar, and tells Dean that things will be better this time, Promises traced into skin.
Next!