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Cas has done a lot of crazy shit since he fell (including, but not limited to, trying to preform exorcisms in his sleep), but this is by far one of the nuttiest.
The wind outside is ripping past the Impala in angry gusts, rocking her wide frame on the narrow road they’re plowing down, and rain pelts against the windows with a vehemence that has Dean wincing.
Thunder cracks through the air, vibrating through the seats, and Dean grips the steering wheel tighter. “We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm, and you wanna stop and feel the rain?!” Dean barks the words out accusingly, but Castiel doesn’t flinch.
“Yes,” he answers easily. “Please stop the car."
"No.” Dean growls, because he can’t condone this. Not when Cas could get hurt.
“Then I’ll roll down my window,” Castiel counters, and Dean’s blood boils.
“Cheap shot, Cas,” he grumbles.
“Dean,” Castiel says, his voice is low and calm, and Dean tears his eyes away from the road for the barest of seconds to study Cas’ face. “I am not afraid.” Castiel states.
Dean’s chest tightens. “That’s what worries me,” he bites out.
The cab is silent for a beat, the whistle of the wind sending a chill raging through Dean’s bones, and another roll of thunder sounds outside the car.
Dean sighs and eases off the gas, pulling the Impala off to the side of the road and under the cover of a large pine tree that does little to protect them from the rain. It’s not safe, but what about their life is in the first place? “I’m coming with you,” he says, shifting the car into park.
Castiel’s eyes are grateful, his smile small and warm, and reaches for the door handle, but Dean stops him with a hand on his arm. “Take your coat off,” he instructs, “ and your henley. You’re gonna want something warm to change into when we get back in.”
Castiel looks down at himself and nods.
They shed their topmost layers, Dean already shivering in nothing but a t-shirt and climb from the car.
They trudge to the middle of the road with the rain pounding against their backs and dripping down into their eyes. Dean watches as Castiel turns his face towards the heavens, smiling something soft and sad.
“I miss the rain,” he states, his voice barely audible against the roar of the storm.
“Rain happens all the time, Cas,” Dean points out.
Castiel shakes his head. “I miss being the rain,” he clarifies, “flying through it, bending it to my will. I was the calm, and the rage, Dean.”
Dean nods. He remembers. He remembers that fear he always harbored, that terrifying knowledge that Castiel was something bigger, something more compressed into the fragile body of a man.
He studies Castiel’s back, the hard line of tendon and muscle clung to by a thin, sopping shirt, and as thunder slices across the sky, bright and silver and furious, Dean swears he can almost see the outline of two hulking black wings.
It’s an illusion, a trick of the light against the opaque night sky, but in Dean’s opinion Castiel has never stopped being that otherworldly being he once was, so full of grace and light. “You still are, Cas.” Dean mutters to himself.
Castiel holds his arms out at his sides and closes his eyes, the rain sluicing over him like he’s just any other piece of nature in its path to the ground, and Dean smiles.
He moves to stand next to Castiel, gripping his arm and pulling the fallen angel close to him. Castiel turns, pressing their chests together. There’s droplets of water clinging to the tips of his hair and eyelashes, and there’s something remorseful in his smile.
He slides his lips over Dean’s, his mouth warm against the frigid wind that picks up around them.
For a moment Dean can still feel that burn of electricity behind Castiel’s kiss, that current that flared when their bodies would align, and he understands Castiel’s longing.
“Thank you,” Castiel murmurs.
Dean smiles. “You ready to get out of here?” he asks as Castiel rests his forehead against Dean’s own.
Castiel twines his arms around Dean’s waist. “Yes.”