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Castiel hears Dean calling while in the middle of what Dean would call a “stake-out.” Castiel has baited a trap for Raphael with Balthazar’s stolen weapons, but so far there’s been no sign of his brother. He has begun to suspect that Raphael won’t show up.
They are fighting a war of attrition, and Castiel’s side is losing. He’s resorted to guerilla tactics by necessity and not by choice. He doesn’t have time to see Dean.
And yet, Castiel knows that he’s made a promise, and he’s loath to break it.
Castiel summons Hamael with a thought. “I must see to pressing business,” he explains. “Call me if Raphael’s forces appear.”
Hamael assents without argument, which is one of the reasons Castiel finds Hamael’s presence soothing.
Castiel flies, drawn by Dean’s steady invective as he stomps through Singer’s Salvage Yard. Dean isn’t praying as much as he is cursing Castiel in increasingly new and inventive ways, but Castiel hears the worry and the fear as he says, “And the least you could do is let me know you’re all right!”
There is something in Dean’s words, and in Dean’s voice, that warms Castiel to the core, heartsick as he is from his most recent losses. His relationship with Dean, as complicated as it is, as wrong as it is, is one of the few pleasures Castiel has these days.
In spite of his promise, Castiel hesitates to reveal himself to Dean. He has little time to spare, and they did not part on the best of terms the last time. Not for the first time, Castiel questions whether he’s making a terrible mistake by allowing the bond between them to flourish and deepen. Inevitably, there will come a time when Castiel must use Dean again for his own ends and his own goals.
Castiel thinks it inevitable that Dean will come to regret their liaison, to regret their relationship, and that’s a burden Castiel doesn’t think he could bear.
“It’s not that I think you can’t take care of yourself,” Dean says to the empty space in front of him, sitting abruptly on the hood of an old junker. “It’s just that we lost Rufus. We lost Gwen. Hell, even Samuel is dead. I need to know, Cas. Where the fuck are you?”
Castiel feels a wave of longing sweep over him, wanting so badly to offer comfort, even though there’s nothing he can say, nothing he can do.
Dean lets the beer bottle he’s holding hang from two fingers, and he murmurs, “Fuck.”
Castiel has become all too acquainted with the grief that Death leaves in his wake, and for a moment he wants nothing more than to erase it from Dean’s mind.
And if he tries, Castiel thinks, Dean would happily try to kill him.
For a moment, he feels as though he’s suspended between one world and the next—between Heaven and all its attendant problems, and Dean and the things of the flesh. Castiel longs for Dean and is bound by Heaven, and he’s desperately afraid that he will soon have to choose between the two of them.
Castiel feels Hamael’s call; Raphael has not come, but his forces have, and all hands are needed. He has no time to see to Dean’s needs right now, but perhaps it’s for the best.
Still, he cannot resist leaving behind some small token to let Dean know that he’s heard, that he is alive.
Castiel brushes past Dean, breathing in his ear, “Be at peace. I am here.”
And then he’s gone.