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A ray of sunlight sneaks in from the crack of the front doors of the library opening; Castiel feels his heart lurch before picking up its pace in agitation and false hope — hope, because the doors stay open a crack, instead of opening further, for several long seconds. Let this one go, he prays silently, please, let this one go. He’s tired. He’s tired of being a vessel of this violence.
Of death, and, he hopes, of oblivion, not tragedy.
He has long since given up keeping a track of the time passing, but he thinks it might have been a little less than five months, since the last human entered the library.
He thinks it has been decades since he last felt the sunlight caress his skin, rather than just see it from the brief crack of the library’s doors, whenever someone enters.
There’s nothing beautiful in the light of the sun, after all that time.
Castiel breathes through his nose, even but shallow breaths. Heaves out a broken sigh as the doors resume their movement, opening, not closing, opening and bringing upon the fate of the stranger stepping inside. He presses his eyes shut, tight, heartbeat settling, hope breaking.
“Hey. Everything good, buddy?”
Castiel runs a hand over his face before opening his eyes and facing the man, arranging his features into a businesslike smile; the only fate he has in this world, is to play his part. (He’s tried to rebel. Oh, he’s tried. And every single time, it has ended badly for the library’s next victim. The least he can do is obey and not cause any unnecessary hurt.)
“Yes. Apologies — it has been a long day.” His tone is flat, hoarse from not having said a word in... too long. “How can I help you?”
I cannot help you. I’m sorry.
The newcomer’s lips quirk upwards as he leans against the counter, a spark glinting in his eyes as his body language spreads humane warmth towards Castiel’s direction.
“Yeah, this is gonna sound a bit... Swear I’m not as creepy as my tastes in books,” he says with an easy laugh, one that shines light to Castiel’s lungs, and makes him feel as if he might choke. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything on vampires? Looking for something sort of specific — not your usual horror stories, but anything on something a bit less... shy to weaponry. You know, a more powerful subspecies, stuff like that. Any origin would do.”
Castiel stares blankly.
“You mean something like the Twilight trilogy?”
The man stares back at him, for a few seconds, before bursting into laughter, stepping back from the counter, bending over. Castiel tilts his head slowly, observing the stranger. “What’s so funny?” In all honesty, the wholehearted way the man laughs is the most pure joy Castiel has seen in all of his decades trapped in the library. He doesn’t know whether it makes him happy or sad. Maybe both.
“I’m sorry, man,” the guy wheezes, trying to catch his breath, straightening up, his eyes glinting even brighter at Castiel’s direction. He shakes his head, a full-on grin on his lips. “No, no, I meant — I meant lore. Mythology, anything. Not fiction.”
“Oh.” Castiel’s lips curve into a whisper of a smile, despite himself. That makes more sense. He tilts his head further, making eye-contact. “No, I’m sorry. We’re exclusive to fiction.” Even so, it’s too late for the man to change his mind and walk out the doors. Castiel wishes he’d chosen another library, even as he knows better.
Nobody chooses the library.
The library chooses the people.
Even Castiel.
“Oh,” the man mirrors his words. “Guess I should’ve tried my luck at the town main library, eh?” Castiel recognises the look on his face, the confusion working its way into his features. The vitality of his forest green eyes (it’s been so long since Castiel has seen such a shade of colour), however, doesn’t fade. He might be imagining it, though, considering the amount he... likes this one. Castiel takes a second to frown at himself. He’d do better for his own soul refusing to connect with anyone walking in the doors of his prison. He’s learned better, a long time ago.
All he can do, though, is to try to make the guy’s last moments as comfortable as he can. Still, distracting people with kindness and not getting attached is a hard equation to solve.
“Unless it is an urgent matter,” he offers, his focus on the man again, “why don’t you stay a while? I specialise in rarities—” to put it mildly “—we have a cosy little reading area. Who knows, maybe you’ll fall in love with a story, today.”
Not that the man screams the reading type; in here, though, it doesn’t matter.
“I’m—”
Castiel keeps his smile intact as he watches the man frown — at him, at himself, at the building. He can see his mind faltering.
It never gets easier.
“Follow me. I actually have a novel in mind.” He gestures with a hand, inviting the man to follow, not checking behind him to see if he does. “Sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name. I’m Castiel.” He makes a point to remember the names. The faces fade and flare, but the names... He wants at least someone to remember them. All of them.
“Dean, it’s Dean,” the man replies from behind him, his focus obviously elsewhere. “Winchester.”
“All right, Dean. Just make yourself comfortable.” Castiel turns to grab a gentle hold of his shoulders as they reach the reading area, guiding him to sit down on the comfiest chair. “I’d offer you a cup of tea, but I’ve unfortunately run out. Sit tight and I’ll at least find you the novel I had in mind.”
He’s grown smooth at this part of his existence — the same little small talk he offers everyone, these days, decades of rehearsal making every little move second nature. But it’s not just acting, with Dean. There’s a candle flame residing in his heart, one he can foresee wreaking havoc with burns once he loses it. Maybe that’s a good thing.
He does get to choose the books he offers the library’s prey, one benefit of the job. And while he’s never been skilled at reading people, while he detests every single story residing in the library, knowing where they came from, he takes comfort in choosing the very best, for their very last.
He runs a finger over dusty book spines, carefully pulls out a thin fantasy. He goes for comfort, with this one. A new world, with little to no conflict, with familial warmth. He likes to imagine there’s something bigger than him guiding his choices, but he has no illusions of it being more than self defense, an attempt to make his own fate a bit more bearable.
“Here,” he says softly as he returns to Dean, placing the novel in his hands. “Just make yourself at home. Stay as long as you like. I close late on Mondays.” He takes in soft breaths, lowers his eyes. “It’s OK. It’s going to be OK.”
He turns around and tears himself off the reading area, returning to his post behind the counter, hands pressing tight against the wooden surface.
His prayer changing from let him go to let him go peacefully.
—
He doesn’t quite know how to react.
Sometime during hour four, Castiel gave up and tiptoed closer to the reading area to find Dean still there, reading. Usually, they are dead by the end of hour three. It’s closing on five and a half hours, and Dean is nearing the last pages of the novel. Castiel is starting to wish he wasn’t reading so slowly, doesn’t know if that’s just who he is as a reader, or if it’s the library’s effect on him, making him study each paragraph closely. Fact still remains that nobody, at least during the years Castiel has been the library’s vessel, has ever been alive at the end of their novel.
He’ll believe it when he sees it, but it’s starting to look like something new is happening.
And he doesn’t know what is going to happen if this one actually finishes his novel.
Eyes unblinking, he tests the waters, lifting an arm over the limitations of where his chains allow him to move. But they are still there, unseen, but present, not letting him go. The library glitching enough to leave him time to escape with Dean was probably too far-fetched to hope for, anyway.
And he still has at least ten pages left. The library still has time to devour him.
But Castiel can’t stop himself from gazing at him. Can’t stop his heart from thumping against his ribcage.
In hope.
Futile as it is.
—
Castiel is still gazing intently at Dean, as the latter huffs a sigh, closes the book on his lap.
What the fuck just happened?
Nothing feels different inside the library, at all. Nothing has changed, aside from the obvious.
Dean Winchester is standing up from his chair, the novel hanging from his hand. Finished. Their eyes meet. It takes Castiel a while to realise that he’s being smiled at.
“Were you watching me read?” There’s no accusation in Dean’s tone, just... a playfulness. Castiel blinks.
“Yes.” Wait. “No.”
Dean quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’m convinced.” His smile is very much turning into a grin.
Castiel is too taken aback to stop staring. This isn’t supposed to happen.
“I know. I tend to have that effect on people,” Dean jokes. He walks over to Castiel, offering the novel back to him with a wink. “For what it’s worth, I don’t remember ever enjoying sitting down with a book, like this. Guess you’re good at your job. Cas, was it?”
“Castiel,” he corrects, still staring, nearly dropping the book as he takes it from Dean’s hands.
“You opposed to Cas? Has a nice ring to it, if you ask me.”
“No, that’s— quite all right.” He attempts to gather himself, sets the book aside, walks to the counter again, lifting a hand to his head, frowning to himself before facing Dean again. “You... uh.” What is he supposed to say?
“Hey, tell you what,” Dean says easily, circling at the front of the counter, snatching a pen from the holder, a piece of paper from his jeans pocket. Smiles at Castiel again before scribbling something down. “Since you managed that — how about a reward? I’m in town for a couple of weeks, just pick a bar, a restaurant, anything. My treat. If you want. Or if you’d rather just pretend this never happened, that’s fair. But,” he slides the paper towards Castiel, his features warm, “the offer stands. Deal?”
Not that that is Castiel’s concern — he still can’t help but return the warmth, mirroring Dean’s smile as he glances down at the phone number on the paper.
Not that he even owns a phone.
“That... I...” He ends up nodding. Staring, not yet daring to believe it.
Is this man actually about to walk out of here?
“Great,” Dean laughs. Seems to hesitate a little, before finger-gunning into Castiel’s general direction and stumbling towards the entrance... the exit. “It’s a date.”
His heart stops a little as Dean pushes at the doors—
—and they open.
It’s hard to keep breathing.
For the first time ever, a human is exiting Castiel’s personal hell.
“Wait—”
But the doors are closing behind Dean, once more trapping Castiel out of the reach of the sunlight.
—
Why hadn’t he asked for help?
The one time something unexpected happens, the one time there’s an actual spark of hope — and Castiel just let his hope walk away from him.
But maybe that... is exactly what he deserves.
—
A deafening sound of metal against wood tears through Castiel’s mind without any warning, and at first he believes it’s the sheer surprise having his chest tighten; until the sensation stays, until he feels the tug on his arms, his ankles, as well. For a terrifying couple of seconds, he’s unable to draw in breath. His feet stumble, nearly refuse to hold him in balance, and he grabs the front of the counter, being forced backwards. His breaths finally come as gasps as he retreats behind his counter, and then — it’s gone. He spends minutes regrouping himself, hands shaking against the countertop.
The next time he tries to reach the front side of the counter, he’s stopped.
The invisible chains holding him captive have gotten several feet less lenient.
—
His head snaps towards the library doors as he hears them creak open. The only life he knows has him expecting a new prey.
And whatever his brain may have toyed around with, with improbable dreams — he’s certainly not expecting Dean Winchester.
It’s unimaginable enough to have had a person walk out of the library unaffected; but to have him return — Castiel’s dusty corner of a universe is turning upside down.
“Dean—” The name leaves his heart a little too much like yet another prayer, with both desperation and yearning. For something better.
But before he has enough time to process through his confusion, his chest is contracting again. The chains are digging into his flesh, making him gasp and groan, and this time he is unable to keep his balance at the pull of his limbs, ending up sprawled on the floor, grasping for a hold of something, anything, to drag himself in compliance of the chains, to regain his ability to breathe. Once gulping in air again, he startles at a hand squeezing his forearm, wide eyes staring up at Dean.
“Whoa, hey. You’re OK. Easy, there.”
Cas sits up, his entire body shaking, but doesn’t pull away from Dean’s touch, instead concentrates on his presence, presses knuckles against his forehead.
“How’re you feeling?” There’s reassuring experience and compassionate strength in Dean’s tone, as if he’s no stranger to taking care of others. “You need me to call 911?”
Castiel swallows a few times, shakes his head, makes conscious efforts to calm his breathing into a more steady rhythm. “No. No, I’m all right.” He’s not all right. “Thank you. I—” He lifts his gaze up to look at Dean again. Maybe he really is the taking-care-of-literally-everyone type, or maybe it’s the plea in Castiel’s eyes, he can’t say, but something has Dean’s eyes reflecting deep concern.
“Cas — what happened?” He keeps holding Cas’s eyes with his own, and something tugs at his very soul. “That didn’t look like — I don’t know what that looked like, but it’s not gonna freak me out, OK?” He’s still holding Cas by his forearm, thumb brushing reassuringly. “Look, this might be a long shot, but — if you think it’s something no one would believe. I would. I will.” He lowers his chin very slightly, emphasising the last four words with a seriousness.
Cas shakes his head again. No, he wouldn’t. Even if he would, there’s nothing anyone can do — and strangely, what maybe is confusing him the most about Dean, is not that he claims he’d believe him.
It’s that he seems to, honestly, care.
Even after Castiel pretty much indicated interest in the man, and then never contacted him.
Dean, as if knowing exactly what he’s thinking, continues, “Listen, don’t even worry about — I just figured...” He lifts his hand off of Cas’s forearm, retreats a little, still crouched to Cas’s level. “No stalkery intentions, just... there’s something that bothered me about this place. Call it a paranoid instinct. And now, whatever just happened...” His lips press against each other as his eyes wander around, as if assessing the safety of their surroundings.
Before Cas is able to stop himself, his hand searches for Dean’s, closing around his wrist, only to withdraw seconds later, instead of urging him to — resume their proximity? Tell him not to move farther away? Clinging onto the idea of someone being able to stop this cycle?
But his hand does withdraw.
His eyes fall shut.
His tone grows cold.
“Get out of here.” Help me. “If you ever come here again — just don’t. Get out. You are not welcome here.”
Because he’s not going to be that selfish. He’s not going to risk an innocent life; if Dean is lucky enough to get out of those doors twice, he’s not about to...
“Cas—”
He refuses to hear the compassion in Dean’s voice.
“Go.”
And only after he hears the library doors close softly behind Dean does he let himself open his eyes again, resting his head against the bookshelf behind him, more tired than ever during his time serving in the library.
—
Castiel has very little control over falling asleep. When the victims' stories need to be written, he dreams. And what little control he might muster over trying to force himself to stay awake, he has no control over what happens in his dreams. He’s merely a vessel, through whom the stories flow, adding up to the shelves of books in the library.
There never was anything important about Castiel.
Maybe he just was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He has come to believe the library simply needed someone, after the previous vessel was used up.
He’s the pen inking the pages, not the author holding the pen.
And he has to observe it happen.
Stories, he’s found, are usually less kind to their characters, than the real world is. With the exception of people like himself, and the victims of the library, maybe.
He might be only an observer, but among what he observes, are his own hands, painting sceneries, painting others’ fates, whether he likes it or not.
No book gets written overnight. No story gets perfected with just a single dream. So even though the library has not had new prey in several months, there’s still plenty of work to be done.
Pages after pages of tragedies to be written.
—
“I had all intentions to come back, with my brother, guns blazing.”
Cas remains silent. Three times, now, Dean Winchester has visited the library. Three.
“See, I told you. That I would believe you. Trust me, in my line of work, there’s not much that goes bump in the night that surprises me, anymore.”
He still does not reply. Does not even look at Dean. Life’s gotten way too out of what he was used to for him to as much as consider ways of reacting.
“But unfortunately — or fortunately — that never meant I’d fall for an attempt to shun me away in anger, just to keep me safe.”
At that, Cas finally lifts up his gaze, brows rising in surprise. Dean smiles, his arms crossed.
“Thought so. You know, I think my brother once told me that I invented the gonna-drive-you-away-with-insults when about to do something stupid. You can’t fool the master.”
Cas opens and closes his mouth. Dean snorts, smiling, an inexplicable fondness taking over his features for a moment before his face settles into an earnestly serious look. “Cas, listen to me. There’s obviously something going on in this place. And the ‘something’ is not you. I’ve done my homework — this library?” He gestures around them. “Doesn’t even exist, on paper, at least. Not a single record, not on any map. Nothing. I mean, I thought there was something off about — something — the first time I popped in... What I don’t understand is why you don’t just walk out the doors. And before you tell me you can’t,” his eyebrows raise, “I see enough to know that something’s keeping you here against your will. It’s nothing I’ve encountered before, but your body language pretty much screams you want out of here. So just... let me help you. Let me try. Just for the hell of it, Cas, because I’m pretty good at what I do; just let me at least try. All I’m asking from you is that you talk to me. Honestly. And I promise you, I will do everything in my power to get you out of this place. Now I’m not gonna ask you if we have a deal, because the last time we did that, you kinda bailed—”
“Not by choice,” Cas interrupts, finally finding his voice.
“Yeah, I kinda figured that part,” Dean says, offering him another smile. “Just... talk to me. Would you?”
Blues search the vibrant greens, in desperation. It doesn’t look like Dean is giving up on him. It doesn’t look like the library is about to devour him, either — even if it was, Cas has no idea what else he could do to try to prevent that from happening. Talk to me. So he does.
So, for the first time in decades, he talks about it. About how he has barely any recollections of his life before the library. About how he prays every time another person enters the building. About how he has no choice; how he tried to take his own choice, how that ended up in just... worse things. About what happens to the people who come there, how they die, are written into stories, and disappear. About how he is being used, about how he can’t control what happens to them. About guilt.
Not about the tug he feels, poking at his soul before gently nudging it forwards; not forcefully wrapping around him like the chains he’s never grown used to, but as a thread, bending, extending, never forcing, always adapting.
—
He’s barely finished telling his story when it happens for the third time — the chains around his chest, arms, ankles, tightening around him, pulling him backwards, away from Dean, towards... he doesn’t know.
The force knocks him on his back on the floor, violently dragging him past several shelves of books before he hits the top of his head at a wall. He’s vaguely aware that Dean is following him, rushing after him, saying something, he doesn’t know what, can’t make it out, but his tone is angry, scared.
Cas heaves his upper body from the floor, trying to get back on his feet, but as soon as he sits up, his chains are tugging at him again, effectively pinning him against the wall, leaving him only inches of freedom to move. He tries to struggle against their force, frustrated (and, yes, scared), but freezes at the realisation that he can see them. The chains, black and thin, circling his body, in plain view. His stare remains fixed at his left wrist, his breath refusing to flow, until Dean’s hand rests against his cheek, gently. This time, it doesn’t startle him, even though his attention snaps to the touch. “Can you see them? The chains? I’ve never — I’ve never actually seen them...”
Dean nods. “Just... just... let me see what I can do.”
He waits for several moments before withdrawing his hand, to examine the restraints. Cas can tell from his tone that, familiar with the paranormal or not, Dean has no idea what he’s up against, what he even can do.
And all Cas can do is try to regain his composure, to remain as calm as he is able.
“Dean,” he says, when the other has spent a long while swearing at the chains under his breath, “I’m — I am not going to blame you if...” He trails off at the glare Dean shoots him. Sighs. “It’s not worth it. I think my fate was determined a long time ago. I don’t think you are able to—”
“I just need more information.”
“Dean...”
“No. Not leaving you here. Again.”
Cas exhales a long breath. Gazes at Dean, still trying to work with the chains. That unfamiliar, gentle tug at his soul — it isn’t just tugging him forwards. It’s tugging him towards.
Towards Dean.
Towards a man who is practically a complete stranger to him.
A stranger who has, for some incomprehensible reason, shown him more kindness than anyone — ever, as far as Cas can remember.
“Dean.” His tone more determined, this time.
Slowly, Dean’s hands fall away from the chains around Cas’s chest. He straightens his posture, huffs a breath through his nose.
“Thank you. Thank you for—” Cas hesitates. “Trying. No one, ever...”
Dean shoots him yet another, oddly protective glare, that has him grow silent, again.
“Just need information,” he says, voice strained. “I... I’m coming back for you, OK? I don’t just leave people behind. That’s not me. I just — don’t know enough. I need to hit the lore with Sammy, I need — I’ll be back for you.” His features are shifting from fierceness to uneasy sadness. “I’d never leave anyone like this if I could help it. I’m...”
“Coming back for me, I know,” Cas repeats, locking his eyes with Dean’s. “Look, just... I think we have established by now that I am incapable of making you change your mind, so... just don’t... risk letting anyone else enter this place, OK? I’ll wait.” Not that he has much of a choice, but that’s not the point. “I trust you to come back, I’ll be all right.” Strangely, he’s not simply reassuring Dean; he does trust the man, maybe because he’s ready to cling onto any display of care and kindness, but maybe... because there’s something more to it than just that.
“I will. Come back for you. I will.”
“I know.”
“Just — don’t go falling asleep on me while I’m gone. Your dreams... Probably not a good idea.”
“Trust me, I know.”
Dean looks at him with sad eyes, for a long eternity, before squeezing his arm, nodding, and walking towards the front of the library, leaving Cas alone in his trap, once more.
Alone?
No. It doesn’t feel like he’s alone, anymore.
—
“I’m sorry.”
“None of that.”
It’s not like it’s Dean’s fault. And Cas hopes he had enough freedom to move to wrap his arms around him.
“I just can’t think of anything else — I’ll hit the lore again, I’ll ask around, I will, I just... need more...” he trails off, glancing at Cas before covering his face with a tired hand. “I won’t give up on you.”
Cas simply observes him, silently wills him to resume eye-contact.
Finally, Dean does.
“One more day. Give me one more day, Cas. I know I keep saying that, but—”
“And I’m grateful that you return, every single one of those days.” Cas’s brow knits, his expression gentle. He’s not distressed. He wouldn’t blame Dean, if he bailed out, one of these days. As terrifying as the thought of being so utterly trapped, for who knew how many decades more, alone, is; with the library holding him in some sort of stasis, never once having needed sustenance, for all Cas knew it could be centuries, he doesn’t have it in him to feel bitter.
“I’m coming back for you. I’ll see you tomorrow. OK? Tomorrow.” Cas can nearly hear the real intention behind what Dean is saying. I’m always coming back for you. He nods, summons a soft smile, closes his eyes as Dean leans closer, expectant of the gentle touches he’s kept offering him.
This is a first — Dean’s lips, soft against Cas’s forehead, staying there a while; they shiver a little before withdrawing.
Something inside Cas’s heart fills up.
The thread binding Cas’s soul to Dean’s flows between them like a river, like an uncontrollable force, washing through the both their hearts. Cas shivers, feels something unravelling, while new bindings are being agreed upon.
The chains around his form loosen up before intertwining with the atmosphere, there one second, gone the next.
The air comes to a stillness.
The sound of Dean’s voice makes it move, again.
“What the fuck?”
Cas shifts his hands away from the wall, slowly, not quite daring to believe what is happening — but nothing forces him back, nothing holds him back.
“Uh, never mind what the fuck,” Dean continues. “I’ll take that, while it lasts, just... just... come on.” He stares at Cas, the both of them dazed, offers his hand to help him on his feet. “Let’s get you out of here before the universe decides to, I don’t... know what just... OK, moving, now.”
“I... Dean,” is all Cas can muster up.
“I know.”
And neither of them believes it to be true; that Cas is free, that the library is letting him go. They hesitate at the front doors. Dean takes a hold of Cas’s hand, squeezing. Cas returns the affection with his.
Finding his determination again, Dean opens the doors, walking outside with his head held high, tugging Cas to follow him; and the moment Cas believes comes when he has to close his eyes at the sun caressing his skin, feeling both the warmth of the star the Earth is orbiting, and the warmth of Dean’s hand, tightly held in his own.