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Castiel. Wake up.
He opens his eyes. The night sky fills his vision, an indigo sea strewn with billions of glittering lights, cold and immeasurably distant.
“Jack?” The sound of his own voice, rough and papery, jars him—he hadn’t noticed the profound silence surrounding him until he’d broken it.
He’s lying on his back. The earth beneath him is cold. A stone—or perhaps a root—cuts painfully into the flesh next to his spine. With effort, Castiel rolls to his hands and knees, then stands. The ground sways under his feet and he closes his eyes again for a moment to steady himself.
A grassy field stretches around him in all directions, black in the moonlight. The ground before him slopes gently downward toward a dark line of trees in the distance.
“Jack?” he calls again.
Castiel shivers. The cold night air leaches through the thin layers of his clothing, chilling him. His knees ache and his skin feels wrong somehow, too tight.
He waits, and gets no response.
Alone, then—alone, and most definitely human.
He takes a steadying breath and starts off down the hill. As he walks, the silence slowly melts away. In its place, the night air comes to life with the humming of a thousand crickets.
+
Near dawn, the trees begin to thin out and the soft carpet of pine needles beneath his feet turns to litter-strewn mud. Castiel scrambles gracelessly up an embankment and emerges onto a roadway.
There are no cars in sight. The road stretches out endlessly in both directions. Castiel picks one—left—and keeps walking. The thin trees quickly give way to vast fields of corn on either side. Castiel’s breath steams in the morning air. His toes have gone numb in his shoes.
The sun slowly breaks over the horizon to his right. The weak morning rays warm his face. Castiel finds himself grateful for the light more than anything.
Eventually, a car appears in the distance, coming toward him from the opposite direction. As it approaches, the car slows, then stops parallel to him. The front bumper is dented in more than one place. The window rolls down and the young woman sitting behind the wheel raises her sunglasses to look at him. She takes in the sight of him—mud-streaked and covered in scratches from his night trekking through the woods—and her eyebrows disappear behind the fringe of her dark hair. “Uh, do you need some help, dude?”
“How far is it to Lebanon, Kansas?” His voice is hoarse from disuse.
“Um, like forty-five minutes? But you’re walking the wrong way if that’s where you’re going. Here, hop in.” The door locks pop up with a click.
After glancing quickly in either direction, Castiel crosses the road, rounds the car and opens the passenger door. The footwell is full of empty coffee cups and food wrappers. He lowers himself carefully into the seat and the car lurches into motion before he’s even closed the door.
“So what’s your name?” The young woman glances at him, eyes narrowed, as though she’s only just realized letting a strange man into her car on a deserted road might not be safe.
“Castiel,” he says, fixing his gaze out the passenger window to appear non-threatening.
“Weird name.” She tests it out—"Castiel"—elongating the vowels. “Is that religious or something?”
To the stalks of corn rolling by, he says, “Most people call me Cas.”
+
He has her drop him off a quarter-mile away, at the place where the cracked pavement turns to poorly maintained gravel and pockmarked dirt.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” she asks. “I don’t think there’s anything down there.”
“I’m sure,” he says, opening the door and stepping out onto the road. “Thank you.”
She watches him through the windshield for a moment, then puts the car in reverse and turns. He raises his hand in farewell.
Castiel’s knees creak in protest with every step. There are open blisters singing with pain at his heels and the soles of his feet. He’s shivering despite the perspiration gathering at his back and underarms. Yet when he rounds the corner and the front entrance comes into sight, Castiel feels lighter than he has since he woke up.
He limps down the staircase and pounds on the iron door with the side of his fist.
“Dean!” He calls. His voice cracks in his parched throat, so he clears it and tries again. “Sam!”
Deafening silence is his only answer. He knocks again. As he lowers his hand, his fingers encounter the distinct shape of a small object inside his coat. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a key, perfectly matched to the tarnished iron of the door before him.
He fits the key into the latch and turns it. The door swings open, squeaky on iron hinges. The space beyond is dark and cavernous. Castiel enters the bunker.
He turns on the entryway light and descends the stairs. “Sam?” His voice echoes between the walls. “Dean?” he calls, softer.
The library and kitchen are dark and empty, but there are signs of recent life—a takeout wrapper in the waste-bin, a well-worn book open on the kitchen table. Most surprising to Castiel are the dog bed under the table in the library, the assorted stuffed animals and squeaky toys scattered around the floor.
Castiel makes his way through the living quarters and down the hall to his room. Everything is as he left it, as it’s always been—the flannel blanket folded at the foot of the narrow bed, the set of beekeeping books Sam had once gifted him stacked on the bedside table.
He sits on the edge of the bed, turns on the lamp, and picks up the phone. The number he dials is imprinted on his memory in the same way the moment of the Big Bang once was—carried back time and time again from Hell, from Purgatory, from the Empty itself.
The phone rings three times, then disconnects. He dials again, to the same result.
Castiel sighs and puts the phone down. He scrubs a hand over his face. His back is aching. Now that he is alone and indoors, he feels his humanity acutely—alone, exhausted, and in pain. Castiel shifts on the bed, stretching his legs out and leaning back against the headboard, and dials again. No response. As time passes, his eyelids begin to drift shut of their own accord.
When he opens them again, the phone is in his lap and the hands of the clock-face on the opposite wall have shifted. Castiel’s head is pounding and his mouth is bone dry.
Water, he thinks. I need water.
Reluctantly, Castiel stands again. His feet carry him begrudgingly to the washroom down the hall. He turns on the tap and drinks water from his cupped hands.
When he looks up, he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror above the sink. His hair is a mess and there’s a scratch on his cheek, crusted with dried blood. His suit is dirt-streaked and sweat-stained. Castiel has never paid much heed to his mortal appearance before, but he realizes now that he looks tired, and older than the last time he’d studied his reflection—during his first bout of humanity several years and at least a few lifetimes ago. There are new lines around the eyes now, the creases marking the forehead deeper than they were.
Markers of great wisdom, Dean had quipped when Sam had pointed out the new lines on his brother’s face. That had been on his fortieth birthday. Dean had smiled at Castiel then, and the creases that crinkled around his eyes and mouth had reminded Castiel of the ocean tide—their patterns worn and familiar and ever-changing, carrying a gravitational draw that made the rest of the world feel small in the face of its breadth.
Castiel sighs. He strips out of his soiled clothing and showers under a steaming hot spray, watching layers of dirt swirl down the drain and savouring the bright sting of water in the cuts on his face and hands.
Afterward, he sees very little appeal in donning his ruined suit, so he returns naked to his room. In the dresser are clothes Dean gave him years ago—soft flannels and t-shirts and denim. In case you ever feel like takin’ the day off, wearing somethin’ more comfortable, he’d said, shrugging and pushing the clothing into Castiel’s arms without meeting his gaze.
Castiel had blinked and nodded awkwardly in response. You should have said it then, he thinks, with a pang of frustration at his younger self. While there was still time.
He selects a grey t-shirt and a muted blue flannel, which he pairs with the softest pair of jeans he can find. Then he returns to the bed and dials Dean’s number again.
The phone rings once. “Who is this?”
All the breath leaves Castiel’s lungs with a whoosh. “Sam,” he says. “Where’s Dean?”
A pause on the other end of the line. Then, “Cas? Is that really you?”
“It’s me,” he says. “Sam, where are you? Are you all right? Is Dean?”
“Christ.” Sam exhales, a long burst of static in Castiel’s ear. “It’s good to hear your voice. We’re at a hospital in Canton, Ohio. It’s Dean, Cas.”
Castiel is on his feet before Sam finishes speaking, every molecule in his body alight with fear. “What happened ?”
“Uh, vampire nest,” Sam says, his voice a little unsteady. “We dealt with it easy, but one of them shoved Dean into a wall stud and impaled him on a five-inch spike.”
Castiel can feel his heart pounding somewhere in his throat. His next words come out thin and compressed. “Is he—?”
“Alive, Cas,” Sam says quickly. “He’s alive. He was in surgery for six hours and they got him stable.”
The relief that floods through Castiel’s body is dizzying. He sinks back to the bed.
“He lost a lot of blood,” Sam continues. “They said another quarter-inch to the left would’ve hit his aorta. They said they couldn’t believe he was that lucky. The damage to his spinal cord though—they don’t know how he’ll recover from that yet. Cas, where are you?”
“At the bunker,” Castiel says, getting to his feet once more. “Tell me how to get there.”
Sam laughs, relief and disbelief echoing down the line. “You can take my car—it’s in the garage. I’ll walk you through the directions.”
+
The drive from Lebanon to Canton is almost exactly one thousand kilometers. Castiel covers nearly half that distance in just over six hours. The sun of his first day has sunk below the horizon when the fuel light on the dash illuminates. He curses and pulls Sam’s car—a shiny silver Toyota—into the next gas station he sees.
He finds a few crumpled tens in the glove box and heads inside to pay the clerk. Then he returns to the pump and lifts the nozzle. As he fuels the car, the smell of gasoline overwhelms his senses and sets his head pounding again. When he moves to replace the nozzle, he sways on his feet and gasoline drips down the side of the car.
Castiel sits in the driver’s seat with his feet on the concrete and breathes, trying to will the world to stop spinning around him. It’s then that he realizes with mounting dread that he neglected to tell Sam about the particulars of his return to Earth.
In the next moment, his stomach growls painfully. Oh. He hasn’t eaten since he awoke in that empty field a day ago.
Castiel stands slowly and goes back inside. He buys a pre-packaged peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which he eats as he drives.
It tastes as good as he remembers, and he feels better almost immediately. The strange paradox of human life—achingly slow, infinitesimally short, and riddled with inconvenience, but somehow brighter and more rewarding than any other form of existence. It hits him then, with new clarity, why Dean enjoys food so much, and why he insists on cooking for the people he loves—the ones lucky enough to call themselves his family.
Castiel savours the sticky-sweet flavours as the car crawls slowly across the midwest, a solitary ship in an endless dark sea.
+
The corners of the inky sky have begun to lighten by the time Castiel arrives at the hospital. As an angel, Castiel disliked hospitals—though for different reasons than most people do. Back then, walking into a hospital had an effect akin to having his senses dialled up a hundredfold—every last atom crackling with the sounds and the smells of people being born and people dying, of people weeping and laughing and quietly praying. The delicate seams between dimensions of life and death pulled taut and threatening to burst.
Walking into the hospital how, he’s struck by how quiet it is. His footsteps against the waxed linoleum are the only perceptible sound. The few people he passes on the way to the elevator are silent. Their palpable exhaustion mirrors Castiel’s own.
In the third-floor hallway, Sam is standing at the automatic coffee dispenser, jabbing ineffectually at the buttons, brow furrowed with irritation. The sight of him eases something in Castiel’s bones. “Sam.”
Sam looks up, expression haggard, and Castiel sees the same release of tension in the slump of Sam’s shoulders. “Cas.”
Sam embraces him, folding Castiel in his long arms. Castiel remembers a time when he hadn’t known how to do this—when he’d held his arms stiffly at his side and patted Sam gently but awkwardly on the back. But that was lifetimes ago, and wrapping his arms firmly around Sam in answer is the easiest thing Castiel has done since he awoke in that field. Sam sags into him and holds on tight.
After a moment, Castiel pulls back. “Where is Dean?”
Sam jerks his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to the doorway at the end of the hall. “He’s sleeping. They’ve got him on some pretty heavy drugs but he’s been awake on and off. I told him you were coming, but I don’t think he believed me.”
The guilt returns then, a sick shock to his stomach. “I can’t heal him,” he says brokenly. “Sam, I don’t have my powers anymore. I can’t fix him.”
Sam’s eyebrows knit together. “Hey, Cas.” His hand lands on Castiel’s shoulder, squeezes the muscle there. “It’s fine. That’s not why you’re here. Tell me how you came back.”
Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. “I thought I heard Jack calling my name. Then I woke up in Kansas.”
Sam’s fingers tighten briefly at the junction of Castiel’s neck and shoulder. His eyes sparkle with tears of pride.
Castiel knows it would be best to leave it there but the rest spills out anyway, raw and ugly—the question that’s been dogging him since he woke up: “I can’t work out why he brought me back, Sam. I went willingly to the Empty. I had made peace. There was nothing left unresolved for me. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Sam shrugs, unperturbed by the existential quandary laid bare before him. “You ever think maybe it wasn’t your unfinished business he had in mind?”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Castiel says, even as something in his chest spasms bright and painful.
The corners of Sam’s mouth lift in amusement. “Sure you do. Cas, I know him better than anyone. Trust me.” Then, before Castiel has time to respond: “Now give me your car key.”
Castiel blinks. “My key.”
“I’ve been sleeping in a chair for the past two days,” Sam says. “I’m gonna go crash back at the motel.” He clears his throat. “And then I’m leaving town. I’ve kept someone waiting and I need to go tell her I’m sorry before it’s too late. Anyway”—He pulls a set of keys from his pocket and holds them out—“you’ll be needing these.”
Castiel takes the keys. He runs his thumb over the smooth silver bullet attached to the keyring. The metal is warm. Mutely, he produces Sam’s keys and passes them over.
Sam claps him on the shoulder. “Thanks. I’ll call you later. Look after him, okay?”
“Of course.” Despite his bewilderment, the response is immediate, instinctive. Having found his voice at last, Castiel says, “Good luck, Sam.”
Sam smiles again, small and a little uncertain. Then he jerks his chin in a nod, squares his shoulders, and takes off in long-legged strides—down the corridor, around the corner, and out of sight.
Castiel takes a breath, puts the keys in his pocket, and turns to face the doorway at the end of the hall.
+
The rest of the hospital is quiet, but the silence in this room is sacrosanct. Castiel is nearly overwhelmed by the absolute stillness, but then his gaze falls to the bed and he sees it—the rise and fall of Dean’s chest, barely perceptible, perhaps shallower than it should be, but unquestionably alive. The sight of it nearly brings Castiel to his knees.
He approaches the bed, careful to preserve the quiet. Dean is asleep, though the bed is elevated in a half-upright position. He’s pale, and there are several lines tethered to the fragile veins at the insides of his arms. Castiel is struck by how young he looks in sleep—the lines of his face smoothed out, the burden of the universe lifted for once.
The last time he’d looked at Dean, Castiel had been certain it would be the last. Half-blinded by tears and grief, Castiel had drunk in the sight of him—the precise arch of his lips and the immaculate cut of his jaw, the kaleidoscopic colours of his eyes, shades of green and grey and gold that Castiel had spent twelve years struggling to name. With every power he had, Castiel had fought to carry these pieces of Dean with him to the Empty.
But even then, he realizes, he had missed crucial details—the cluster of barely-there freckles on the bridge of Dean’s nose, the slant of his honey-toned eyelashes against his cheekbones, the delicate pink of his earlobes.
As an angel, Castiel had known he loved Dean from the way the world went quiet when Dean was close—the other sights and sounds and smells that normally flooded his celestial senses fading like into the background like a hand turning down the volume dial on a radio tuned to static. Now, Castiel looks at Dean and his brain goes loud, cataloguing every detail and parrotting them back at him in an endless feedback loop. Now, looking at Dean hurts , sharp and bright, and Castiel has to look away before his ribs crack open.
His gaze falls to the chair beside the bed. Dean’s green canvas jacket is draped over the back. The jacket is ruined—a gaping tear in the center back, wide bloodstain blooming dark across the surface. Castiel shudders, wishing Sam had thrown the thing out. There’s blood on the shoulder as well, lighter in colour than the rest. Older. Dumbstruck, Castiel fits his fingers against the lines of his own handprint.
“Cas.” The word is barely a breath—softer than a prayer.
Castiel’s heart lurches and he looks up. Dean’s eyes are glittering in the half-light, clouded with drugs and sleep.
His answer is just as quiet. “Hello, Dean.”
Dean blinks, hazy. “Sam said he talked to you but I didn’t believe it.” He licks his lips and his eyes narrow in suspicion. “How do I know it’s really you?”
Moving the chair aside, Castiel perches on the edge of the bed next to Dean’s hip. Gently, he lifts Dean’s hand in both of his—warm, he thinks, he’s warm—and pulls it to his chest, flattening Dean’s palm against his breastbone. The heartbeat there is quick and fragile as a hummingbird’s wings.
“It’s me,” Castiel says. “I’m here.”
Dean exhales, his breath trembling, and looks at their hands. His fingers flex against Castiel’s sternum. “He heard me.” Another half-whisper.
Castiel waits. “Dean,” he says softly, after a moment. “ Tell me what happened .”
“I was dying,” Dean says, meeting Castiel’s gaze again. “Sam went to call for help and I could feel it happening—you know how it gets cold like that, near the end.”
Castiel does know. He nods.
Dean shivers. “I don’t know why,” he continues, “but I started praying.” His lips quirk with the ghost of a wry smile. “No point to it, I know, but I think I couldn’t help it. I prayed, and I just kept thinking that wherever I ended up, I hoped it’d be…”
Dean blinks and shakes his head, then seems to realize he’s pressing his hand into Castiel’s sternum, digging his fingertips hard. Castiel, still cradling Dean’s hand against his chest, realizes he’s leaning forward into the pressure. Dean relaxes his grip and Castiel drops Dean’s hand, which falls limp into Dean’s lap.
Dean looks down at his hand. “There’s something I need to say,” he says, and his voice burns with a quiet desperation. “You never gave me the chance to say it before you.” He breaks off and swallows, jaw working hard—back to wrestling with himself as always, the lines of burden settling back into his face.
“Dean,” Castiel says. “You don’t have to—”
His next words are lost as Dean curls his fingers back into the front of Castiel’s shirt and tugs. Castiel lurches awkwardly, throwing out a hand to brace himself against the mattress by Dean’s shoulder as Dean surges forward and kisses him.
Dean tastes like sleep and cheap hospital coffee he shouldn’t be drinking. His lips are chapped and his stubble chafes against Castiel’s face. In all, it’s certainly not the most pleasant kiss Castiel ever shared with anyone. He gets his free hand around the back of Dean’s neck and presses their mouths together more firmly.
Dean clutches Castiel’s shirt like a drowning man grasping a lifeline. He pulls himself farther upright, opens his mouth to deepen the kiss—and breaks away with a gasp. “Shit,” he hisses, and collapses back weakly, his features tightening with pain.
“Dean.” The panic surges in Castiel’s chest again. His hands search Dean’s body helplessly, searching for the source of pain. “What’s wrong? Do you need help?”
Dean shakes his head slightly, clearly trying not to move. “Nah,” he says, drinking shallow sips of air. He catches Castiel’s hand and brings it to a place just below his sternum, near the fluttering of his own heart. “Doesn’t hurt much anyway. Can’t feel much of anything below it.”
Through the thin hospital gown, Dean’s skin is warm. Such a small thing, in the space of a nanosecond—a cosmic fluke, laughable in its insignificance—was all it took to nearly rob the universe of its most precious life. In the past, healing the wound there would have been effortless, barely costing him a thought. Castiel blinks, his eyes stinging. “I’m sorry I can’t help.”
“Don’t.” Dean’s tone is firm, sounding more solid than it has since he woke up. His gaze is unyielding. “I didn’t ask to be healed. I asked for you.”
Castiel bows his head.
“Cas. Look at me.”
“You don’t have to say it,” Castiel whispers to his knees.
“I know. I love you.”
The words wash through Castiel, a benediction. Beneath his hand, Dean is warm and alive—an anchor in the sea threatening to swallow him.
All my heart subdues itself before thee, since it all before thee faints and fails.
When Castiel finds the strength to raise his head again, the crow’s feet at the corners of Dean’s eyes are crinkled in a fond smile. “I like the clothes,” he says, and smooths a hand down the front of Castiel’s shirt—the flannel is wrinkled from where he’d gripped it.
“They’re comfortable,” Castiel says. “Thank you.” Then, frowning slightly, “Do you have a dog?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, face brightening. “We do. He’s back at the motel—Sammy said he’d go feed him again in a bit. You two see each other?”
Castiel nods. “I don’t think he’ll be back for some time. He said he was on his way to see someone—to make amends.”
Dean’s smile reaches near-dazzling proportions and he lets out a careful half-laugh, pleased. “‘Bout damn time.” The smile falters and he eyes Castiel skeptically. “And you?”
Castiel blinks, puzzled. “Me?”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “What’s the plan, now you’re back on Earth?”
Dean’s tone is carefully light, but Castiel sees through the facade to the glimmer of fear underneath. He links his fingers firmly with Dean’s and brings their hands to his mouth. “The plan is to take you home.” He presses a kiss to Dean’s knuckles. “If you’ll let me.”
Home. Dean’s lips form the shape of the word. He looks at their interlocked hands, brushes his calloused thumb over Castiel’s. Then his eyes shift back to Castiel’s, brilliant green flecked with bits of molten gold like glittering stars. “Yeah, Cas,” he says. “Let’s go home.”
Outside, the edges of the sky take on an azure hue, beckoning the dawn of Castiel’s second day.