Fic: A Yellow Wood (Dean/Castiel)
I can't believe it's been more than a month since I posted a story. I guess I've been working on a lot of things but NOT FINISHING THEM. Lame. Well, I finally finished one-here 'tis!
Title: A Yellow Wood
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: General S4
Length: ~4,000 words
Summary: In which two roads converge.
Author’s Note: Many thanks to bmouse, serialkarma, and siriaeve for looking this over.
A Yellow Wood
The leaves crunched like brittle bones beneath his feet. Cas continued forward at a steady pace. He was listening to the birds. Something was off about their song, the whirling pattern of chirps and tweets, but what it was in particular eluded him. He stared up at the expanse of trees: the way the sun shone down through the leaves still clinging to the branches made it look like he was peering at the sky through stained glass.
He lowered his head, and it was as his gaze swept downward that he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. Like the birdsong, something about the motion, a particular whirl and snap, brushed tantalizingly against his memory before it was gone. He turned, staring intently into the trees, but there was nothing there, just a beaten path dusted with yellow leaves, worn wood trunks standing to either side like sentries.
“Hey.”
He turned, suddenly highly aware of the heavy tread of Dean’s boots-he must have been worryingly distracted to not have heard it before. Dean was frowning slightly; his breath formed a light mist when it hit the chill autumn air. “Here’s a tip,” he said, reaching Cas’ side. “When we’re investigating a bunch of disappearances in the area? Probably not the best idea to wander off on your own.”
Cas deliberated for a moment before saying, “It’s all right to just admit that you missed me.”
Dean huffed, even as the corner of his mouth twitched up. “EMF detector’s picking up squat. You got anything?”
“There’s something strange about the birds,” Cas said, rubbing his hands together; his joints ached a little with the cold.
Dean’s eyes went wide as he glanced upward. “Alfred Hitchcock strange?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Hmm. Well.” Dean continued to glance around him. Cas could tell he was feeling unnerved: something about these woods-something just out of his grasp, beyond the reaching tendrils of memory-was unnerving, was disturbing and unnatural. “Might be an omen of some sort.”
Dean pocketed his EMF meter and tucked his hands away after it. He pressed the toe of his boot into the ground, pushing a leaf into the mud, trapping it and tearing the delicate membrane. “We should probably head back into town. Come back when we have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”
“It will be dark soon,” Cas agreed.
They walked back to the car in companionable silence, and Cas tried to tell himself that the whispers he heard were just the wind.
Two people had gone missing from the small Vermont town of Painter’s Mills in the past three months. Another three had made the news when they started claiming that they didn’t know their coworkers, or their friends, or in one case a spouse. All five had one thing in common: the woods south of town. They had all either told someone they were going for a walk there, or had a tendency to use the hiking trails or fish in the creek that wound to the west through the trees.
It wasn’t proving to be a very open-and-shut case. There were no overt signs of violence, which made it seem doubtful that it was some sort of creature. There was no previous record of disappearances or body-snatcher type behavior in the area. There was just…the woods, quiet and calm and on some essential level, deeply, deeply wrong.
“I hate nature,” Dean grumbled, parking the Impala and immediately going to wipe away the fallen leaves that had affixed themselves to the hood. The inn they were staying at was toward the center of town, on a street called Elm, though it was lined not with its namesake, but with rows of witchy, crackle-barked maples. The trees the street had been named for, Cas suspected, had likely all died of Dutch Elm Disease, almost a hundred years ago.
Dean probably wished the maples would follow them, as it was the time of year they most enjoyed shedding on his car. Cas knew that Dean wasn’t fond of the inn, either, but the town was of the size and type that did not support motels.
“Let’s go get something to eat,” Cas suggested. Dean seemed to keep finding new leaves, as if they weren’t falling from the overhanging branches, but in fact sprouting straight from the chassis. If this kept up they’d be here all night. “I saw an Italian restaurant and I believe a Mexican one.”
“Can’t we just go to the diner again?”
“No,” Cas said, “let’s try someplace else.”
They went to the Italian restaurant, even though it was a longer walk. They had to cross the river to get there, a wide, churning ribbon of grey water, with a grey stone bridge cutting across above a pounding waterfall. Dean leaned way out over the wall, but Cas held back; he wasn’t the best with heights. But he liked seeing the spray splatter against Dean’s cheeks.
Dean ordered a big hunk of lasagne and a beer; Cas had the gnocchi, which he found rather dry. The bread was good, though. And under the warm light of the restaurant, away from the bitter autumn breeze, it was easy to forget the feeling that had crept upon him in the woods: a feeling of being watched. And worse, the notion that he knew whose eyes were upon him; knew without looking or turning around, if only he could remember.
Dean was in a better mood on the way back: his stomach full, the woods behind them. He was clearly feeling bold, going so far as to loop his arm through Cas’ as they crossed the bridge, as to stop beneath the maples and pull a leaf out of Cas’ hair, letting his fingers linger. For a moment Cas thought Dean was going to kiss him, there beneath the dark branches and the yellow glow of the streetlamp, out in front of the inn where anyone could see. But instead Dean looked away first, and he didn’t touch Cas again until they were safe upstairs in their room, the bolt turned.
Cas pulled off his leather jacket, picked up Dean’s from where it had slid off the bed and onto the floor, and hung them both in the closet, side by side, black and brown. Dean had kicked off his boots, was shucking t-shirt and jeans and meandering toward the bathroom with a mumbled, “Shower.” Cas straightened up after him while taking off and folding his own clothes. He was naked by the time he heard the water come on, hard spray hitting the cold porcelain; he smiled to himself in the dim lamplight. The bathroom’s yellow glow was bright and welcoming; and Dean’s warm, wet body welcomed him, finally giving Cas the chance to lick the drops of water from Dean’s cheeks, as he’d wanted to since he saw him lean out over the waterfall earlier.
The bed was old and the mattress sagged in the middle, but Cas didn’t mind; it rolled them naturally toward the center, and gave him an excuse to wrap his arms around Dean, to tuck his head into the crook of Dean’s shoulder. Cas knew Dean thought this was dangerous, this thing between them-how it gave the world yet another thing to come after them for. It felt dangerous to Cas, too, but not for the same reason. He understood more than ever how Dean must have felt, back when his world was just him, and the road, and his brother.
Even after he fell asleep, Cas held on tight.
“Maybe the trees are eating people,” Dean suggested.
He had won the argument-which took the form of a fairly calm discussion-regarding breakfast, and they were back at the diner again, where Dean was taking advantage of the unlimited free maple syrup, slathering it all over his pancakes and sausages. Cas would not have been surprised if he started dribbling it in his coffee next. He spread jam on his own toast and didn’t attempt to hide his snort.
“What? It’s possible. You saw those trees; they looked like they were up to something. Leafy bastards.”
“Have you ever heard of carnivorous trees?” Dean opened his mouth to respond, but Cas cut him off. “Outside of Little Shop of Horrors or The Evil Dead. Besides, how would that explain the people with the altered memories?”
Dean grumbled and made vague stabbing motions in Cas’ direction with his fork. “I don’t see you having any better ideas, answerman.”
Cas opened his mouth to suggest they return to the library after breakfast and go through the microfiche collection again. (Dean had already complained bitterly about how this town was stuck in the 20th century.) Instead what came out was, “We need to go back to the woods.”
Dean frowned, like he was getting ready to disagree, and disagree vehemently. But then his shoulders sagged, all the energy going out of them, and he looked across the table at Cas with wide, red-rimmed eyes. “I know.”
Cas itched to stretch his hand across the space between them, take in his hand Dean’s tightly-coiled fist. But their waitress was swinging back with more coffee and he knew Dean would not be appreciative. Such a gesture would only add to the tension in Dean’s shoulders, not lessen it.
It was supposed to be easier, now, like this. It wasn’t.
They paid the bill and drove in near-silence back out into the forest.
Dean parked the Impala in the same crescent-shaped turn-off they’d used previously. Both of them went, without discussion, to the trunk, where they loaded up on more weaponry than was probably necessary considering that they still didn’t know what the threat was-if there even was one. Cas watched Dean fastidiously check his clip, and when Dean caught him watching they exchanged a set of tiny grins: the closest they could come to acknowledging how deeply freaked out they both were-the two of them, after the things they’d seen!-by a bunch of trees and the type of fall foliage that usually brought out the tourists like zombies to a brains buffet.
It was ridiculous; and yet, “Stay close,” Dean commanded.
Cas bristled a little at the order. Almost said something like, I can take care of myself-perfectly true, though he doubted he’d ever be as naturally good a fighter, a hunter, as Dean was. But in the end, he bit his tongue; Dean would not be Dean, Cas knew, if he wasn’t looking out for somebody.
And there was no one else in the woods, not a single other human soul, but them.
The breeze picked up and died down, picked up and died down, making the leaves look like they were waving at them. Cas titled his head, listening for the birds. Something chirped, maybe the year’s very last robin, and Cas heard the sound echo back. Call and response, call and response.
It came on him in a rush, like the feeling he got if he stood too close to the stone wall on the bridge above the falls-a plunging sensation, not unlike vertigo. Cas sucked air into his suddenly needy lungs, heard the echoing birdsong and the wind roaring past his ears and Dean’s worried, “Cas?” Then he took off running.
Fallen branches splintered and leaves rent themselves beneath his boots. The trees flew past him until they were almost like one tree. He stumbled and scraped his palms on a trunk, then got up and ran again until his lungs burned, until some instinct, buried but not obscured, told him to stop.
He skidded to a halt, panting. When he straightened up, he was standing face to face with himself.
They were the same height, of course, and yet looking at this double, this mirror image, Cas had never felt so small. It struck him for the first time how poorly disguised his brothers and sisters were when they walked through this world. How could anyone look at them and not know, not feel in their fragile, human bones what they were in the presence of?
Cas was aware that something-much, all-of his shock, his awe and his fear, must be showing on his face. Surprise had flashed briefly across his other self’s visage (his true self, insisted some traitorous part of his brain), and Cas waited in dread for his expression to turn to disgust. But instead the lips merely thinned out, the eyes growing quiescent and cold, until Cas found himself faced with an expression of pure angelic blankness.
It was indecipherable to Cas now.
A crunch of leaves, a sudden sheltering warmth at his back: Dean. Dean had arrived. Cas heard him suck in a breath; then, “Holy crap,” he said. Cas knew without looking that Dean’s silver knife was already in his hand, even as he struggled to fully process what they were both seeing: that preternatural presence, that heavenly certainty, that swish of the trench coat that Cas himself had worn until it had become torn and stained beyond all recognition. He had finally thrown the damn thing out, more than a year ago.
Dean took a step forward; Cas stilled him with an outstretched hand. “Don’t touch the barrier.”
“Barrier?”
Cas wondered if Dean could see it. Cas could, almost: a shimmer in the empty air, glimmering out of the corner of his eyes like a mirage.
“It’s a tear in the fabric of the universe.”
“You want to run that by me again, Scotty?”
Cas did not turn to look at him. He did not take his eyes off his other self’s face.
“That’s what’s been happening,” he said slowly. “The people who disappeared, the ones who appeared with memories of different lives: the walls of the universe have weakened here, and they fell through.”
“That can happen? Like alternate realities and all that? Shouldn’t,” Cas didn’t need to be able to see Dean to know what he was indicating, “be rocking a goatee or something?”
Cas decided to focus on the relevant part of Dean’s question, tried to summon a little of the preternatural calm he was seeing (that he could remember) but was in no way feeling. “It happens very rarely.” He saw his other self shift, saw him open his mouth and speak an inaudible sentence, the quivering, nearly invisible barrier between them like a wall of soundproof glass. “It is something we-it is a minor task angels of my-of my former rank were occasionally dispatched to address.”
“So you know how to fix it.” He felt Dean shift uncomfortably beside him. The other-other version of Cas, Castiel-he was still standing there, alone and still, watching them both, waiting.
“Yes,” said Cas, suddenly so grateful for Dean’s mere presence that it pained him. “But I can’t. I’m not-” He swallowed, and those blank eyes were not judging him, they weren’t. “It’s not something a human can do.”
He felt Dean step closer. “Well, what’s his problem, then? Why isn’t he stepping up to the plate?”
“He can’t.” Cas hated the soft echo of his words against the barrier, striking and then bouncing back at him. “Not alone. It takes two, one on each…”
He trailed off. Castiel had spoken again, muted, but Cas could read lips well enough to see that he was essentially repeating Cas’ own earlier command: Don’t come too close. Talking to someone. Someone moving through the trees on his side of the woods. Two figures, clad in denim and leather. Dean. And Sam.
Cas felt Dean-his Dean, the one who had never left his side-stiffen. “Sam,” he said, so that the word echoed all around them. He took a dangerous step forward, drawn inexorably as he had been toward the waterfall’s spray, to a point from which he could be all-too-easily snatched by gravity’s paw. Cas grabbed at him, forced him back. “Don’t,” he said-too little an order, too much a plea. “You won’t be able to get back.”
Dean was breathing heavily, his lungs working like they alone could impel his body across those last few crucial inches. “Figure something out, Cas,” he said, voice no more than a rough whisper. “Get rid of it.”
Cas closed his eyes. He could still feel Castiel watching him-see, on the undersides of his eyelids, the shadow-echo of his true form (his true form), one look at which would no doubt turn his eyes to ashes within his skull.
“Cas.”
He steeled himself and looked. The three figures on the other side of the barrier were eying him and Dean curiously, with varying degrees of shock and unease on their faces. Sam looked much as Cas remembered him, his quick, analytical mind clearly looking at the two figures (only two) on the opposite side of the rift and drawing the obvious conclusions. Dean’s face was a mask. Castiel…regarded him with interest.
I’m sorry, Cas found himself mouthing. I didn’t-.
But the angel shook his head. Then he turned, said something over his shoulder to Dean. Dean blinked, then handed him his knife. Castiel turned back, blade in hand, and looked at Cas with eyes no one should mistake as human. And he nodded.
“Subtitles, please,” Dean said. For a second, Cas barely heard him over the beating of his own heart. He took a steadying breath. “Give me your knife,” he said.
Cas felt the hilt slap against his palm. Across from him, Castiel had rolled up his sleeve and was cutting dispassionately into his forearm. Cas needed a second to psych himself up, though he’d long-ago learned that the anticipation of the pain was almost worse than the actual moment the blade sliced into the skin.
“Angels sure do work that blood kink,” Dean was muttering.
Cas glanced over at him; Dean was pointedly not looking at the other version of his brother. Cas decided to keep his eyes on Dean’s face as he made the cut, watched the firm line of Dean’s jaw as he felt the searing pain and the blood welling up. He tried not to make a sound, but a gasp slipped out, and Dean turned to him. “Jesus, Cas! I thought you said you couldn’t-”
“I have to try.” Castiel was still watching them, watching him, perfectly calm as his blood dripped onto the fallen leaves, and he had to. “The longer we leave it open, the larger it will grow. The more dangerous it will become.” He handed the knife back to Dean and coated his newly empty palm in the welling blood. “I’m the only one who can-” he started, and before Dean could protest, because he could feel him starting to protest, he reached out and slammed his bloody palm against the barrier, directly across from Castiel’s red right hand.
He didn’t know what to expect. Humans, animals-living, mortal things-usually passed through these weak spots like water through a sponge: it sucked them up and squeezed them out again on the other side. But whether thanks to the trappings of the ritual, or the presence of an angel on the other side, or-and wouldn’t he like to believe it, such a pretty, pretty lie-the lingering presence of something holy within him, he held, his body tipping forward and then rocking back firmly on its heels. And he felt-he felt- Castiel standing across from him, palm to palm, and it came roaring into his fragile, human bones, brittle as the broken branches and fallen leaves, what it was like to be possessed of divine power, divine grace. He felt it or else he remembered, a burst of light and energy and strength, coursing through him like a drug, and for several long seconds, an eternity, he wanted so badly to lean into it, to fall forward through the chasm that even now he was aware was slowly closing, drawing in on itself like an iris. It was so close, right there in front of him: everything he had given up, thrown away, lost.
But there was a weight behind him, too-a strong tether, an anchor; and it was Dean, Cas realized, who was holding him up, whose hand was gripping his arm, who was reaching out and turning Cas’ face up to meet his. Who was kissing him-fiercely, hungrily-one defiant eye open and turned toward the other world, toward Sam’s bowed head and the set of shoulders, twin to Dean’s own, going stiff with shock.
Cas let himself be drawn into the kiss, feeling now like he was being engulfed by electricity on both sides, like he was merely a conduit through which the charge could run. Perhaps the analogy was apt, because it was as Dean broke away, broke away and sucked in the cool fall air before returning to kiss him again-it was then that Cas finally saw Castiel react, felt him jolt against Cas’ palm as if shocked. The angel’s eyes fluttered closed, and that was the last thing Cas saw, framed over the sloping line of Dean’s shoulder, before the tear narrowed and sealed, the energy evaporating, eating itself, until not even the blood-marks of their twin palms remained.
Cas fell forward, not quite to his knees, steadied as he was by Dean’s outstretched arm. The woods in front of them looked perfectly natural now, perfectly normal, perfectly empty. The birds sang without interruption.
“You all right?” Dean breathed.
Cas nodded. His arm was still bleeding, though his hand was clean and bare.
“See,” Dean said, too casually, “you’ve still got mad skills.”
Cas could only hope his laugh didn’t sound too hollow.
They ate at the Mexican restaurant that night. The food was pretty terrible, but the beer was good-cheap and plentiful. Cas was on bottle number four and still picking hopefully at the dregs of the nachos when he felt Dean’s hand brush against his bandaged wrist. “Hey.”
Cas looked up. Dean’s face was cast in amber light, the shadows flickering through the beehive pattern of the metal and glass candleholder. Cas could see a certain natural hesitance warring with his desire to say something. He shook his head. “Don’t.”
Dean nodded, drawing back. “Yeah, okay.”
They sat in silence for a while, just looking at each other. Tinkly fake mariachi music played softly in the background through the restaurant’s crackly speakers. There was a giant fake cactus positioned against the wall, directly behind Dean’s head, its stubby wooden arms reaching out like it wanted to give him a hug. A grin tugged at the corner of Cas’ mouth as he imagined prickly Dean meeting his prickly match.
“What?” Dean asked, lowering his head in order to hold Cas’ gaze as his eyelids dropped, as he chuckled. “Do I have refried beans spread somewhere awkward? What?”
Cas shook his head and sipped his beer. He shifted his shoulders, adjusting his free hand so that it was positioned halfway across the table again.
Sometime later, a few seconds or minutes or maybe more, he felt Dean’s hand brush against his. Cas felt the tightness in his chest loosen, the hole sealing over with a crackle and spark. They sat together in the flickering yellow light, their fingers tangling together like bare branches scraping softly in the wind.
NOTES:
1. Title (and summary, sort of) from Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken.
Title: A Yellow Wood
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: General S4
Length: ~4,000 words
Summary: In which two roads converge.
Author’s Note: Many thanks to bmouse, serialkarma, and siriaeve for looking this over.
A Yellow Wood
The leaves crunched like brittle bones beneath his feet. Cas continued forward at a steady pace. He was listening to the birds. Something was off about their song, the whirling pattern of chirps and tweets, but what it was in particular eluded him. He stared up at the expanse of trees: the way the sun shone down through the leaves still clinging to the branches made it look like he was peering at the sky through stained glass.
He lowered his head, and it was as his gaze swept downward that he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. Like the birdsong, something about the motion, a particular whirl and snap, brushed tantalizingly against his memory before it was gone. He turned, staring intently into the trees, but there was nothing there, just a beaten path dusted with yellow leaves, worn wood trunks standing to either side like sentries.
“Hey.”
He turned, suddenly highly aware of the heavy tread of Dean’s boots-he must have been worryingly distracted to not have heard it before. Dean was frowning slightly; his breath formed a light mist when it hit the chill autumn air. “Here’s a tip,” he said, reaching Cas’ side. “When we’re investigating a bunch of disappearances in the area? Probably not the best idea to wander off on your own.”
Cas deliberated for a moment before saying, “It’s all right to just admit that you missed me.”
Dean huffed, even as the corner of his mouth twitched up. “EMF detector’s picking up squat. You got anything?”
“There’s something strange about the birds,” Cas said, rubbing his hands together; his joints ached a little with the cold.
Dean’s eyes went wide as he glanced upward. “Alfred Hitchcock strange?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Hmm. Well.” Dean continued to glance around him. Cas could tell he was feeling unnerved: something about these woods-something just out of his grasp, beyond the reaching tendrils of memory-was unnerving, was disturbing and unnatural. “Might be an omen of some sort.”
Dean pocketed his EMF meter and tucked his hands away after it. He pressed the toe of his boot into the ground, pushing a leaf into the mud, trapping it and tearing the delicate membrane. “We should probably head back into town. Come back when we have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”
“It will be dark soon,” Cas agreed.
They walked back to the car in companionable silence, and Cas tried to tell himself that the whispers he heard were just the wind.
Two people had gone missing from the small Vermont town of Painter’s Mills in the past three months. Another three had made the news when they started claiming that they didn’t know their coworkers, or their friends, or in one case a spouse. All five had one thing in common: the woods south of town. They had all either told someone they were going for a walk there, or had a tendency to use the hiking trails or fish in the creek that wound to the west through the trees.
It wasn’t proving to be a very open-and-shut case. There were no overt signs of violence, which made it seem doubtful that it was some sort of creature. There was no previous record of disappearances or body-snatcher type behavior in the area. There was just…the woods, quiet and calm and on some essential level, deeply, deeply wrong.
“I hate nature,” Dean grumbled, parking the Impala and immediately going to wipe away the fallen leaves that had affixed themselves to the hood. The inn they were staying at was toward the center of town, on a street called Elm, though it was lined not with its namesake, but with rows of witchy, crackle-barked maples. The trees the street had been named for, Cas suspected, had likely all died of Dutch Elm Disease, almost a hundred years ago.
Dean probably wished the maples would follow them, as it was the time of year they most enjoyed shedding on his car. Cas knew that Dean wasn’t fond of the inn, either, but the town was of the size and type that did not support motels.
“Let’s go get something to eat,” Cas suggested. Dean seemed to keep finding new leaves, as if they weren’t falling from the overhanging branches, but in fact sprouting straight from the chassis. If this kept up they’d be here all night. “I saw an Italian restaurant and I believe a Mexican one.”
“Can’t we just go to the diner again?”
“No,” Cas said, “let’s try someplace else.”
They went to the Italian restaurant, even though it was a longer walk. They had to cross the river to get there, a wide, churning ribbon of grey water, with a grey stone bridge cutting across above a pounding waterfall. Dean leaned way out over the wall, but Cas held back; he wasn’t the best with heights. But he liked seeing the spray splatter against Dean’s cheeks.
Dean ordered a big hunk of lasagne and a beer; Cas had the gnocchi, which he found rather dry. The bread was good, though. And under the warm light of the restaurant, away from the bitter autumn breeze, it was easy to forget the feeling that had crept upon him in the woods: a feeling of being watched. And worse, the notion that he knew whose eyes were upon him; knew without looking or turning around, if only he could remember.
Dean was in a better mood on the way back: his stomach full, the woods behind them. He was clearly feeling bold, going so far as to loop his arm through Cas’ as they crossed the bridge, as to stop beneath the maples and pull a leaf out of Cas’ hair, letting his fingers linger. For a moment Cas thought Dean was going to kiss him, there beneath the dark branches and the yellow glow of the streetlamp, out in front of the inn where anyone could see. But instead Dean looked away first, and he didn’t touch Cas again until they were safe upstairs in their room, the bolt turned.
Cas pulled off his leather jacket, picked up Dean’s from where it had slid off the bed and onto the floor, and hung them both in the closet, side by side, black and brown. Dean had kicked off his boots, was shucking t-shirt and jeans and meandering toward the bathroom with a mumbled, “Shower.” Cas straightened up after him while taking off and folding his own clothes. He was naked by the time he heard the water come on, hard spray hitting the cold porcelain; he smiled to himself in the dim lamplight. The bathroom’s yellow glow was bright and welcoming; and Dean’s warm, wet body welcomed him, finally giving Cas the chance to lick the drops of water from Dean’s cheeks, as he’d wanted to since he saw him lean out over the waterfall earlier.
The bed was old and the mattress sagged in the middle, but Cas didn’t mind; it rolled them naturally toward the center, and gave him an excuse to wrap his arms around Dean, to tuck his head into the crook of Dean’s shoulder. Cas knew Dean thought this was dangerous, this thing between them-how it gave the world yet another thing to come after them for. It felt dangerous to Cas, too, but not for the same reason. He understood more than ever how Dean must have felt, back when his world was just him, and the road, and his brother.
Even after he fell asleep, Cas held on tight.
“Maybe the trees are eating people,” Dean suggested.
He had won the argument-which took the form of a fairly calm discussion-regarding breakfast, and they were back at the diner again, where Dean was taking advantage of the unlimited free maple syrup, slathering it all over his pancakes and sausages. Cas would not have been surprised if he started dribbling it in his coffee next. He spread jam on his own toast and didn’t attempt to hide his snort.
“What? It’s possible. You saw those trees; they looked like they were up to something. Leafy bastards.”
“Have you ever heard of carnivorous trees?” Dean opened his mouth to respond, but Cas cut him off. “Outside of Little Shop of Horrors or The Evil Dead. Besides, how would that explain the people with the altered memories?”
Dean grumbled and made vague stabbing motions in Cas’ direction with his fork. “I don’t see you having any better ideas, answerman.”
Cas opened his mouth to suggest they return to the library after breakfast and go through the microfiche collection again. (Dean had already complained bitterly about how this town was stuck in the 20th century.) Instead what came out was, “We need to go back to the woods.”
Dean frowned, like he was getting ready to disagree, and disagree vehemently. But then his shoulders sagged, all the energy going out of them, and he looked across the table at Cas with wide, red-rimmed eyes. “I know.”
Cas itched to stretch his hand across the space between them, take in his hand Dean’s tightly-coiled fist. But their waitress was swinging back with more coffee and he knew Dean would not be appreciative. Such a gesture would only add to the tension in Dean’s shoulders, not lessen it.
It was supposed to be easier, now, like this. It wasn’t.
They paid the bill and drove in near-silence back out into the forest.
Dean parked the Impala in the same crescent-shaped turn-off they’d used previously. Both of them went, without discussion, to the trunk, where they loaded up on more weaponry than was probably necessary considering that they still didn’t know what the threat was-if there even was one. Cas watched Dean fastidiously check his clip, and when Dean caught him watching they exchanged a set of tiny grins: the closest they could come to acknowledging how deeply freaked out they both were-the two of them, after the things they’d seen!-by a bunch of trees and the type of fall foliage that usually brought out the tourists like zombies to a brains buffet.
It was ridiculous; and yet, “Stay close,” Dean commanded.
Cas bristled a little at the order. Almost said something like, I can take care of myself-perfectly true, though he doubted he’d ever be as naturally good a fighter, a hunter, as Dean was. But in the end, he bit his tongue; Dean would not be Dean, Cas knew, if he wasn’t looking out for somebody.
And there was no one else in the woods, not a single other human soul, but them.
The breeze picked up and died down, picked up and died down, making the leaves look like they were waving at them. Cas titled his head, listening for the birds. Something chirped, maybe the year’s very last robin, and Cas heard the sound echo back. Call and response, call and response.
It came on him in a rush, like the feeling he got if he stood too close to the stone wall on the bridge above the falls-a plunging sensation, not unlike vertigo. Cas sucked air into his suddenly needy lungs, heard the echoing birdsong and the wind roaring past his ears and Dean’s worried, “Cas?” Then he took off running.
Fallen branches splintered and leaves rent themselves beneath his boots. The trees flew past him until they were almost like one tree. He stumbled and scraped his palms on a trunk, then got up and ran again until his lungs burned, until some instinct, buried but not obscured, told him to stop.
He skidded to a halt, panting. When he straightened up, he was standing face to face with himself.
They were the same height, of course, and yet looking at this double, this mirror image, Cas had never felt so small. It struck him for the first time how poorly disguised his brothers and sisters were when they walked through this world. How could anyone look at them and not know, not feel in their fragile, human bones what they were in the presence of?
Cas was aware that something-much, all-of his shock, his awe and his fear, must be showing on his face. Surprise had flashed briefly across his other self’s visage (his true self, insisted some traitorous part of his brain), and Cas waited in dread for his expression to turn to disgust. But instead the lips merely thinned out, the eyes growing quiescent and cold, until Cas found himself faced with an expression of pure angelic blankness.
It was indecipherable to Cas now.
A crunch of leaves, a sudden sheltering warmth at his back: Dean. Dean had arrived. Cas heard him suck in a breath; then, “Holy crap,” he said. Cas knew without looking that Dean’s silver knife was already in his hand, even as he struggled to fully process what they were both seeing: that preternatural presence, that heavenly certainty, that swish of the trench coat that Cas himself had worn until it had become torn and stained beyond all recognition. He had finally thrown the damn thing out, more than a year ago.
Dean took a step forward; Cas stilled him with an outstretched hand. “Don’t touch the barrier.”
“Barrier?”
Cas wondered if Dean could see it. Cas could, almost: a shimmer in the empty air, glimmering out of the corner of his eyes like a mirage.
“It’s a tear in the fabric of the universe.”
“You want to run that by me again, Scotty?”
Cas did not turn to look at him. He did not take his eyes off his other self’s face.
“That’s what’s been happening,” he said slowly. “The people who disappeared, the ones who appeared with memories of different lives: the walls of the universe have weakened here, and they fell through.”
“That can happen? Like alternate realities and all that? Shouldn’t,” Cas didn’t need to be able to see Dean to know what he was indicating, “be rocking a goatee or something?”
Cas decided to focus on the relevant part of Dean’s question, tried to summon a little of the preternatural calm he was seeing (that he could remember) but was in no way feeling. “It happens very rarely.” He saw his other self shift, saw him open his mouth and speak an inaudible sentence, the quivering, nearly invisible barrier between them like a wall of soundproof glass. “It is something we-it is a minor task angels of my-of my former rank were occasionally dispatched to address.”
“So you know how to fix it.” He felt Dean shift uncomfortably beside him. The other-other version of Cas, Castiel-he was still standing there, alone and still, watching them both, waiting.
“Yes,” said Cas, suddenly so grateful for Dean’s mere presence that it pained him. “But I can’t. I’m not-” He swallowed, and those blank eyes were not judging him, they weren’t. “It’s not something a human can do.”
He felt Dean step closer. “Well, what’s his problem, then? Why isn’t he stepping up to the plate?”
“He can’t.” Cas hated the soft echo of his words against the barrier, striking and then bouncing back at him. “Not alone. It takes two, one on each…”
He trailed off. Castiel had spoken again, muted, but Cas could read lips well enough to see that he was essentially repeating Cas’ own earlier command: Don’t come too close. Talking to someone. Someone moving through the trees on his side of the woods. Two figures, clad in denim and leather. Dean. And Sam.
Cas felt Dean-his Dean, the one who had never left his side-stiffen. “Sam,” he said, so that the word echoed all around them. He took a dangerous step forward, drawn inexorably as he had been toward the waterfall’s spray, to a point from which he could be all-too-easily snatched by gravity’s paw. Cas grabbed at him, forced him back. “Don’t,” he said-too little an order, too much a plea. “You won’t be able to get back.”
Dean was breathing heavily, his lungs working like they alone could impel his body across those last few crucial inches. “Figure something out, Cas,” he said, voice no more than a rough whisper. “Get rid of it.”
Cas closed his eyes. He could still feel Castiel watching him-see, on the undersides of his eyelids, the shadow-echo of his true form (his true form), one look at which would no doubt turn his eyes to ashes within his skull.
“Cas.”
He steeled himself and looked. The three figures on the other side of the barrier were eying him and Dean curiously, with varying degrees of shock and unease on their faces. Sam looked much as Cas remembered him, his quick, analytical mind clearly looking at the two figures (only two) on the opposite side of the rift and drawing the obvious conclusions. Dean’s face was a mask. Castiel…regarded him with interest.
I’m sorry, Cas found himself mouthing. I didn’t-.
But the angel shook his head. Then he turned, said something over his shoulder to Dean. Dean blinked, then handed him his knife. Castiel turned back, blade in hand, and looked at Cas with eyes no one should mistake as human. And he nodded.
“Subtitles, please,” Dean said. For a second, Cas barely heard him over the beating of his own heart. He took a steadying breath. “Give me your knife,” he said.
Cas felt the hilt slap against his palm. Across from him, Castiel had rolled up his sleeve and was cutting dispassionately into his forearm. Cas needed a second to psych himself up, though he’d long-ago learned that the anticipation of the pain was almost worse than the actual moment the blade sliced into the skin.
“Angels sure do work that blood kink,” Dean was muttering.
Cas glanced over at him; Dean was pointedly not looking at the other version of his brother. Cas decided to keep his eyes on Dean’s face as he made the cut, watched the firm line of Dean’s jaw as he felt the searing pain and the blood welling up. He tried not to make a sound, but a gasp slipped out, and Dean turned to him. “Jesus, Cas! I thought you said you couldn’t-”
“I have to try.” Castiel was still watching them, watching him, perfectly calm as his blood dripped onto the fallen leaves, and he had to. “The longer we leave it open, the larger it will grow. The more dangerous it will become.” He handed the knife back to Dean and coated his newly empty palm in the welling blood. “I’m the only one who can-” he started, and before Dean could protest, because he could feel him starting to protest, he reached out and slammed his bloody palm against the barrier, directly across from Castiel’s red right hand.
He didn’t know what to expect. Humans, animals-living, mortal things-usually passed through these weak spots like water through a sponge: it sucked them up and squeezed them out again on the other side. But whether thanks to the trappings of the ritual, or the presence of an angel on the other side, or-and wouldn’t he like to believe it, such a pretty, pretty lie-the lingering presence of something holy within him, he held, his body tipping forward and then rocking back firmly on its heels. And he felt-he felt- Castiel standing across from him, palm to palm, and it came roaring into his fragile, human bones, brittle as the broken branches and fallen leaves, what it was like to be possessed of divine power, divine grace. He felt it or else he remembered, a burst of light and energy and strength, coursing through him like a drug, and for several long seconds, an eternity, he wanted so badly to lean into it, to fall forward through the chasm that even now he was aware was slowly closing, drawing in on itself like an iris. It was so close, right there in front of him: everything he had given up, thrown away, lost.
But there was a weight behind him, too-a strong tether, an anchor; and it was Dean, Cas realized, who was holding him up, whose hand was gripping his arm, who was reaching out and turning Cas’ face up to meet his. Who was kissing him-fiercely, hungrily-one defiant eye open and turned toward the other world, toward Sam’s bowed head and the set of shoulders, twin to Dean’s own, going stiff with shock.
Cas let himself be drawn into the kiss, feeling now like he was being engulfed by electricity on both sides, like he was merely a conduit through which the charge could run. Perhaps the analogy was apt, because it was as Dean broke away, broke away and sucked in the cool fall air before returning to kiss him again-it was then that Cas finally saw Castiel react, felt him jolt against Cas’ palm as if shocked. The angel’s eyes fluttered closed, and that was the last thing Cas saw, framed over the sloping line of Dean’s shoulder, before the tear narrowed and sealed, the energy evaporating, eating itself, until not even the blood-marks of their twin palms remained.
Cas fell forward, not quite to his knees, steadied as he was by Dean’s outstretched arm. The woods in front of them looked perfectly natural now, perfectly normal, perfectly empty. The birds sang without interruption.
“You all right?” Dean breathed.
Cas nodded. His arm was still bleeding, though his hand was clean and bare.
“See,” Dean said, too casually, “you’ve still got mad skills.”
Cas could only hope his laugh didn’t sound too hollow.
They ate at the Mexican restaurant that night. The food was pretty terrible, but the beer was good-cheap and plentiful. Cas was on bottle number four and still picking hopefully at the dregs of the nachos when he felt Dean’s hand brush against his bandaged wrist. “Hey.”
Cas looked up. Dean’s face was cast in amber light, the shadows flickering through the beehive pattern of the metal and glass candleholder. Cas could see a certain natural hesitance warring with his desire to say something. He shook his head. “Don’t.”
Dean nodded, drawing back. “Yeah, okay.”
They sat in silence for a while, just looking at each other. Tinkly fake mariachi music played softly in the background through the restaurant’s crackly speakers. There was a giant fake cactus positioned against the wall, directly behind Dean’s head, its stubby wooden arms reaching out like it wanted to give him a hug. A grin tugged at the corner of Cas’ mouth as he imagined prickly Dean meeting his prickly match.
“What?” Dean asked, lowering his head in order to hold Cas’ gaze as his eyelids dropped, as he chuckled. “Do I have refried beans spread somewhere awkward? What?”
Cas shook his head and sipped his beer. He shifted his shoulders, adjusting his free hand so that it was positioned halfway across the table again.
Sometime later, a few seconds or minutes or maybe more, he felt Dean’s hand brush against his. Cas felt the tightness in his chest loosen, the hole sealing over with a crackle and spark. They sat together in the flickering yellow light, their fingers tangling together like bare branches scraping softly in the wind.
NOTES:
1. Title (and summary, sort of) from Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken.