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“Do you hate me? For the things I asked of you.” Castiel is not quite sure why it matters, considering the grand scheme of things, but the question burns in his mind.
Dean laughs humorlessly. He does that when he finds the answer to a question unpleasant but can’t ignore his urge to at least try to be honest. Dean Winchester, Castiel finds, is a complicated man.
“I wish I could,” Dean murmurs, so low that Castiel can’t be sure he’s meant to hear it.
Dean closes his eyes, as if the barrier of his lids could keep Castiel out. Dean has walls upon walls built around him, some of them old, some new since he came back from hell. Since Castiel gripped his soul and brought it back to life.
Not sure how to proceed after this non-answer, Castiel stretches out his grace and enters once again the wide labyrinth of Dean’s mind. No, Dean doesn’t hate Castiel, how should he, if all that hate is aimed toward himself. Dean’s guilt is a choking grey smoke. It layers every single good thing in Dean’s thoughts with a thick coat of bitter ash.
Beneath it, there’s doubt and a life-old rage, and desperation. Sometimes Castiel wonders if he did Dean a favor to rescue him. For Dean carries his own hell with him wherever he goes. Determined, Castiel pokes and searches for an image of himself. He combs through Dean’s recent memories, the torture of Alistair – a fresh wound, still bleeding and raw, interspersed with pictures of the flaming pit. Flailing souls and anguished screams.
Castiel digs deeper. Hallways full of memories. Dean’s brother, Bobby, and further back, his mother. Castiel steps around them all gingerly, retraces the paths he’s walked before, until he reaches a door he hasn’t encountered yet. The wood is old and beaten. Rust flakes from the hinges. A sign, handwritten, battered, says “Keep Out”. Castiel wonders what Dean could stow here, when all of Dean’s worst memories lie so close to the surface. Castiel tries the handle, shoves against it, till the heavy door budges.
It’s a wide and luxurious room. Dark wood and deep red tapestries give it an intimate impression. Small memory bubbles hang in the air like Christmas decorations, each one clear and sharp like glass.
Dean, much younger then, holding hands with a boy.
Dean on his knees in a dark corner of an alley, gripping the thighs of a faceless man.
Dean, hiding a magazine under his pillow when his father comes into the room.
And there’s Castiel, too. Standing very close next to Dean in the kitchen at Mr. Singer’s house.
Castiel edges closer to examine the memory. Just like he did that night in the kitchen, he can see Dean’s rapid heartbeat, and the way he licks his lips. But it means something different now. Now that Castiel has learned more about human nature and more about Dean.
Dean stirs in his sleep and Castiel loses his focus. In a blink, he’s back in his seat by the bed, darkness encompassing him once again. He lets his head fall back against the chair and takes a deep breath of the stale and sterile hospital air. Machines are beeping somewhere. Down the hall, an old man waits for the relief of death.
Castiel perceives all of it, but over the last weeks, his perspective shifted. He’s no longer an impartial bystander. The life of one single human, no more than a mote of dust compared to his existence, shifted the very foundation of what makes him the angel Castiel. Castiel knows what is happening to him, he has been aware of it for some time now. To raise a soul from hell comes with a price. Once an angel takes a human essence inside him to lift it from perdition, a bond is formed.
Castiel will be bound to Dean forever. He knew that beforehand, when he was ordered to leave heaven and save the righteous man. What he didn’t expect is the depth of that bond, the surge of protectiveness and a deeper emotion, one he can’t quite name yet. And he didn’t expect Dean to feel it, too.
Humans, for lack of a multidimensional consciousness, translate strong sensations into mortal emotions. Once, Castiel had read Dean’s feelings as fear, but what he found just now, in the secret room, is something else entirely. There’s lust and longing and a deep desire for connection, one Dean himself does not understand, and underneath that: shame and self-hatred for being attracted to Castiel, for experience their bond so strongly.
While Castiel ponders all this, Dean sleeps fitfully. Castiel watches him, the cuts and bruises on Dean’s skin, his eyes moving behind his closed lids, the way his hands tense into fists now and then. The unnamed emotion surges at the sight. It’s tender and protective and coveting … and something sharper, something selfish.
Dean didn’t want Castiel to heal him, and Castiel will honor Dean’s wishes, but he can ease his pain without Dean ever knowing. For every rule, there is a way around it, Castiel learned. He learned it from Dean.
Dean looks smaller on the bed, a fragile human with the iron will of a titan. Castiel reaches out and lets his fingers trace the lines of Dean’s face, his strong jaw and his slightly crooked nose, the fullness of his lips and the crease between his brows. The touch quiets Dean’s restless movements, and his face relaxes gradually when Castiel takes away the pain. It’s time for Castiel’s heart to hammer in his chest. His wings spread in another sphere, the rustle loud in the silence of the night.
Castiel lets his touch linger. Standing next to the bed, he foresees that not only the fate of the world but his own will be tied to this man. Whatever comes next, it will happen with Castiel right by Dean Winchester’s side.
Dean smiles in his sleep. And Castiel, for the first time in his long existence, smiles too.