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It's late. He doesn’t know how late because the clock in his motel is broken—flashing 12:00am over and over since he’d broke it. He doesn’t bother checking his phone.
Sam'll call him if there's an emergency.
A half empty bottle of whiskey waits on the table next to him. He takes another swig, savoring the familiar burn on his throat in its way down. Jack Daniel’s is an old pal to him now—a constant presence in his life since puberty. He takes another swig.
“Why’d you do it, Cas? Why’d you bring me back like this?” He spits out, tasting bile and whiskey on his tongue.
It’s late. It’s late. He shouldn’t be up. He doesn’t even know what time it is. And for some stupid reason he'd prayed for that blue-eyed son of a bitch to get his feathery ass down here.
He's got words.
“Dean—” Castiel starts but Dean isn’t gonna let him finish. Not until he speaks his piece first. His heart is racing and he feels like he’s got a hot iron lodged in his throat, but the words bubble up right past it anyway. He called him here for a reason.
“You should’ve left me there.” He says, “You should’ve fucking left me. I wasn’t—I’m not the person you need me to be. I’m not it.”
It feels true and he’s been dying to say it since he met the guy.
“Dean.” Castiel replies, more firmly this time. The angel looks away for a moment, frustrated and searching for words, before seeming to find them. “You are The Righteous Man—” He begins. Dean cuts him off with a scoff—"You were chosen for this. Heaven chose you for this.”
“Oh don’t give me the whole ‘Heaven doesn’t make mistakes crap’—‘cause I have heard it all before, buddy. And I’m not buying.”
Castiel squints. “What do you—"
Dean laughs at the confused look on his face. “The ‘Righteous Man’, Michael’s vessel.” Dean gestures one hand vaguely at himself. “I must be some kinda joke to you.”
The words sting more coming out than he thought they would. The beginning of tears prick at his eyes, threatening to let loose. But he’ll be damned again if he lets the angel see him cry. So he turns away instead, trying as much as he can to preserve what dignity he has left.
Nothing is said for a moment. Then, slowly, the gears in Castiel’s head kick into place. Realization dawns.
“This is about your body.”
“No shit Sherlock.” Dean retorts.
“Dean—” Castiel says once more—and damn it all if he doesn’t love saying that name—but he’s struggling for words once again. For a cosmic being, he seems close to floundering.
But one more moment passes and he grabs Dean, pulling him so that they face each other again. His expression is maybe graver than Dean’s ever seen, and his bright blue eyes feel like they bore directly into his soul.
“You son of a—”
“Listen.” Castiel grits out. His grip on Dean grows tighter, and Dean can feel a faint tingling where the angel’s hand covers the mark left on his shoulder. “I rebuilt you Dean Winchester, from the molecular level. I have known your soul since the moment I first rescued you in hell and I have stitched it a million times into bone and muscle. I know you. And you are not a joke to me.”
The grip on Dean’s shoulders loosens only slightly. Dean can hear his heart hammering through his head.
I know you rings in his ears.
“Then why didn’t you fix me.” He whispers. And if Castiel weren’t an angel then he might not have even heard.
Castiel lets go. He sighs.
“Humans beings are…different. Complicated. I didn’t realize the significance your body had to you. Only that it need be healthy.” He looks up to meet Dean’s eyes again. “…My apologies.”
Dean nods. He doesn’t say anything. He takes another swig of whiskey and sets it back on the table. An apology was what he wanted. Or maybe just to yell at someone and give ‘em hell for a while. But it's not enough. It never will be.
All the hunts and whiskey in his life and it never will be.
“Do you think you could do it again? Rebuild me, I mean.”
He hopes without letting himself hope. He already knows the answer.
Castiel looks away, something akin to shame on his face. “I am truly sorry but…no. I had the host of Heaven’s power behind me then. I don’t think I’ll have that again. At least not to—”
“To waste on something stupid. I get it.” Dean finishes.
“You are so much more than your vessel, Dean.”
“Funny you should say that.” Dean laughs. “Isn’t that what this whole apocalypse thing is about?”
Castiel frowns.
“I meant what I said. You are more than a soldier, more than just The Righteous Man…” Castiel pauses, as if he wants to say something more but stops himself. “...I just hope you can see that someday as well.” He says.
Dean blinks, and hears the whoosh of angel wings on their way out. The sun is just beginning to peak through the window of his motel room, light splintering through the blinds, but it’s a long time after till he goes to sleep.