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Castiel let the gains of sand slip through his fingers, lost in the sharp texture of each grain as it feel back to Earth.
Heaven was closed. The gate shut. Any angel left now--left behind on Earth without his wings--barred from entry.
He'd expected it to hurt. Instead, he just felt empty. The grains of sand were cool against his skin.
The Bunker was empty, too, when he returned. The map table was covered in the usual detritus of hunters on the trail of a case, but the vast corridors were silent. He wondered vaguely if he should call them, call Dean. See if he could be of service.
The halls of Heaven had been quiet, too.
The kitchen was silent and still, the unopened beer Dean had passed him still on the counter. He traced a hand along the stainless steel, minute imperfections standing out along the grooves of his fingertips. No molecule out of place. Orderly. Quiet.
His footsteps echoed down the hall to Dean's room. Perhaps he'd left something behind that might lead to Gabriel. Sam's room was still covered in Enochian graffiti from Gabriel’s time with them. He should probably remove it.
Sam might want to document it first, though. Perhaps it would be best to wait.
Dean's room was just as still as the rest of the Bunker, but as soon as he entered, some of the chill he hadn't even noticed receded from his limbs. It should feel like a violation, being here without Dean knowing. The last time he'd been alone in here he'd stolen the Colt. It had been under Dean's pillow. Such a strange place for a weapon, he'd used to think, but he'd observed Dean long enough to know it was his habit to keep a gun there. It only made sense that he'd keep their most powerful weapon at his fingertips.
The Winchesters’ most powerful weapon had been him , once, he thought idly.
A distant clang broke the pall over the Bunker, and Castiel immediately moved toward the sound.
“ . . . all I'm saying is, you've got a huge target painted on your back now. I don't think it's smart to leave Rowena out there knowing you're the only one who can kill her.”
“Okay, but also, if I'm the one who kills her, then I can't die until that happens.”
“Yeah, but . . . Ugh, my freakin’ head hurts.”
“Hello, Dean.”
Sam and Dean looked up at Castiel as they descended the last few steps into the war room, both just a little startled at his presence. Dean's face was covered in bruises and scratches, cleaned up well but still gruesome. Then again, Castiel had never liked seeing Dean injured.
Especially ever since the crypt.
“Hey, Cas. How'd it go with the God Squad?”
“Not well,” Castiel answered truthfully. Dean gestured down the hallway, and Castiel followed him back toward Dean's room. Sam parted ways with them at his own room. Castiel needed to remember to ask about the graffiti.
“All right, lay it on me,” Dean said, dropping his duffel and sinking onto his bed. He reached down stiffly and began to unlace his boots. There were deep purple bruises on Dean's knuckles.
“Dean, what happened with Rowena?”
“Ah, nothin’ we couldn't handle,” Dean grunted, pulling off one of his boots. He grimaced in pain. Castiel reached for him.
“Here, let me--”
“I said I'm fine, Cas,” Dean snapped. “The angels. What about them?”
“They can't help us,” Castiel said, voice impressively even.
“What, another Apocalypse not enough for them to get off their high horse and lend us a hand? Couldn't they find Gabriel in, like, two seconds?”
“No, they . . . Dean, Gabriel hid from Heaven, from Michael , for centuries. Even if they could, I'm not sure anyone can find Gabriel if he doesn't want to be found.”
“Still, though, those winged dicks could at least do something. You just go back there and you tell them--”
“I can't.”
Dean was standing, then, strangely vulnerable in his socks. Castiel could feel the barely contained rage of him building, just under the carefully controlled surface.
“What do you mean you can't?”
Castiel steeled himself. “Heaven is closed,” he said, surprised at the continued lack of feeling on the subject. “The gates are shut. Without wings, I'm locked out.”
“Why would they do that?” Dean demanded. “Is this more of that ‘death with dignity’ bullshit like with Amara? What the hell--”
“Heaven is failing. There are so few angels left that there isn't enough power, enough grace left to keep it running.”
Dean's mouth fell slack, and he winced at the movement. Castiel reached up to touch him again, much closer than before. “Dean, let me heal--”
“Hang on, I thought souls powered Heaven?”
“No, Heaven guards souls. Using them for power drains them. They couldn't use the souls like that. They wouldn't.”
Dean huffed a mirthless laugh. “Pretty sure most of the angels we've seen rule Heaven wouldn't say no, if it meant keeping the lights on.”
Castiel scowled. “They want me to find Gabriel. They think his grace will be enough to save Heaven. Naomi said--”
“Wait, Naomi ?! I thought she was dead.”
“As did I, but apparently not. Dean, she was . . . I've never seen . . . Dean, she was scared .”
Dean gazed at Castiel for a moment, considering. “So, what? Now we've gotta save Heaven, too? Sure, why not? Just throw it all in there.” He sighed, slumping back onto his bed, scrubbing his hands down his face until he flinched in pain again. Castiel reached for him a third time, open palm sliding hesitantly to cup Dean's jaw. Another echo of the past as Dean tilted his face up, eyes closed, and Castiel sent a soft pulse of grace through Dean, knitting his molecules back together, his skin smooth and stubble rough under the angel's hand. Dean's eyes blinked open, injuries newly healed, and for a moment their gazes caught. Dean suddenly stiffened.
“Wait, shit, Cas, stop!” Dean pulled back, rushing away from Castiel’s touch. Castiel felt a stutter in his chest, heart clenching as Dean pulled away. “Fuck, your grace! When you were cut off before, you couldn't . . . You should save it, man. Just in case.”
Castiel looked down at his hands, the human whorls of fingerprints. He hadn't considered. Would that be a possibility? He didn't feel cut off. The dull background buzz of angel radio was quiet, but then with so few of them . . .
How had he not noticed?
“I'm sorry, Dean,” he said. “I'm afraid I won't be of much use to you, if that is the case. And . . . and I need to find Gabriel, now. More than ever.” He looked up at Dean, still a wary distance away. “We need him to find Jack. Jack can fix this.”
“Yeah, don't want to lose your membership to that better club, huh?” Castiel looked at Dean curiously. Dean shook his head. “Never mind.”
“Dean . . .” Castiel began. “I know that it is flawed. Deeply so. And it has been corrupt, but . . . Heaven is . . .”
“Your home, yeah, I get it.”
“Yes.”
They were quiet for a long while, Dean finally moving to unpack his duffel, his stockinged feet muffled on the floor. Castiel simply watched in silence, as usual.
Suddenly Dean stopped, dropping his small pile of laundry and running a hand through his hair.
“But, uh, if it doesn't work out, you know . . . If you didn't have another choice, you could . . . It could be, uh . . . here. If you wanted. Home, I mean.”
Castiel felt warm again, filling a tiny portion of the hole that had gaped in his chest since the sandbox.
“Thank you, Dean.”
But Dean seemed on a roll. He moved toward Castiel, still looking at the floor. “And, uh . . . You're not a tool, Cas. I just want you to know that. You're--”
“A brother, yes, I know.”
Castiel watched Dean's Adam’s apple bob with the force of his swallow.
“You're, um . . . you're more than, uh, that . To me.”
The strangest thing about atoms is that the way they're constructed means nothing is ever actually touched. Touch is an illusion.
Castiel reached for Dean's hand anyway and thrilled a little when the touch was returned. Each molecule of their skin a grain of sand, Earth-bound, as Castiel cascaded through his fingertips.