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At least he has something to stare at that’s not the opposite end of his cell.
After Sam and Dean retire to bed, Cas putters around the bunker rather aimlessly. With nothing better to do, he straightens some of the books in the library—in their sleepless search for a way between worlds, the Winchesters hadn’t quite been paying attention to where they’d put things back. After that, he dusts. Dean clearly hasn’t been nearly as meticulous about the bunker since Mary disappeared.
He’s halfway through with making a grocery list for the next time they head out to restock their supplies when Sam stumbles blearily into the kitchen.
“Add apples, would you? Dean keeps forgetting.”
Cas nods. “Apples.”
He takes it down in careful hand, each letter stenciled neatly beside the next, almost completely square. Comes with the territory of never having to write something down for a million years, he supposes.
“I’m sure Dean told you the same thing, but um—I wanted to apologize. For not realizing that you—that Asmodeus—”
Cas waves the apology away. “I know you wouldn’t have left me there if you’d known.”
A year ago, that statement would have been a lie. But dying has put some things in perspective. The Winchesters may have the weight of the world on their shoulders, but they’ll do anything for family first. And now Castiel knows he’s one of the family.
“Yeah.” Sam’s smile is tight, but it’s there. “Never.”
He eases himself on to one of the benches attached to the table. One hand drifts up to massage at his forehead, almost as if he doesn’t realize that he’s doing it. Cas sets the grocery list down on the counter.
“How are you holding up?”
Sam glances over at him. “What? I’m fine.”
If there’s one thing that he’s learned about humans, it’s that they never mean it when they say something like that. Cas sits down at the table across from him, folds his hands. Waits.
Eventually, Sam seems to realize that he’s not going to just go away any time soon. “I thought maybe he was gone this time.”
Castiel shakes his head. “He’s like a cockroach, isn’t he?”
A huff of laughter. “Yeah. A cockroach with virtually limitless powers and a vengeful streak.”
Cas wishes he could respond with some sort of platitude, something about how they’ll get him this time. Instead, he has to resort to patting Sam on the wrist. He looks down at the contact like it’s something foreign, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Dean told you we ran into Rowena again, didn’t he?”
“Another cockroach.”
Sam considers a moment. “Maybe. Maybe not. I gave her something, Cas. A page out of a grimoire that could unlock her powers. She told me about seeing him—his true face. And I just couldn’t bring myself to stop her from getting something to protect herself.”
Cas sucks in a breath. He’s seen Lucifer’s face, too. Sharing headspace for so long had made it impossible to avoid. But he’s an angel. It was the equivalent of seeing a particularly gruesome demon possession for him. He can’t imagine what it’s like for a human. It must make them feel painfully small.
“You’re wondering if you should have done it?”
Sam nods.
“You empathized. It’s human.”
Sam’s hands clench. “It’s weak.”
Cas smiles. “It’s human.”
They sit in quiet for another fifteen minutes or so. Cas keeps a careful eye on him, only breaking the silence once to ask if he wants something to drink. Eventually, Sam gets to his feet.
“Good night, Cas.”
And he ambles off to bed.
Another few hours pass without incident. Cas skims a few books on parallel universes—some magical, some not—just in case the Winchesters missed something. When Donatello asks, he brings him a few aspirin. Finally, Dean wanders out of his bedroom, rubbing furiously at his arms to shake the chill of the bunker off.
“Cas—I’ve got something for you.”
Slightly bemused by the behavior, Cas follows him back into his room. Dean shuts the door behind them.
“You know I’m not mad, right? You just scared the hell out of me.”
He’s standing rather close. Cas clears his throat, suddenly realizing what Dean must have meant all those years ago when he complained about a lack of personal space. Dean seems to realize it at the same moment, but he doesn’t step back. Instead, he reaches into his pocket.
“When we—when we had to burn your body, I saved this. I couldn’t—couldn’t see it burn, too.”
Cas recognizes it the second Dean pulls it out. The mixtape.
“It’s a gift,” Dean says, the corner of his mouth quirking. “You keep those.”
He reaches up, pulls the flap of Cas’s trench coat back, and places the mixtape in the pocket over his breast. Cas expects him to pull away again, but he doesn’t. Instead, one hand rests over his heard and the other curls around the back of his head. Cas’s breath catches in his throat.
“It isn’t your fault.”
They’re probably close enough that Dean can feel the breath on his face.
“I should have known it wasn’t you. God, Cas, if he’d killed you—if I’d been talking to your killer this entire time—”
Cas can only think of one thing to do to shut him up. So he seizes the front of Dean’s pajama shirt and pulls him into a kiss. It’s nothing fancy—they almost knock their foreheads together, and Dean lets out a sound that, had it been anyone else, Cas probably would call a squeak. Cas smooths a hand down his back and tugs him closer.
Finally, Cas lets him go and steps back.
“You’re forgiven, Dean. Let’s leave it at that.”
He doesn’t want to do this again. The constant cycle of blame.
Dean has to smile at that. “Thank you.” Then, “I don’t suppose you’d want to forgive me again, would you?”