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The grass rustled under Dean’s heavy, dragging steps, and he scuffed his boots against it, watching the dew that the sun hadn’t had a chance to burn away yet fly up to cling to the hems of his jeans. There was a strange kind of quiet on a cloudy day, the type where you can taste the oncoming rain in the air — something electric, something earthy.
A patch of wildflowers caught his eye — yellow, daisies of some sort, perhaps, spots of colour standing tall in the grass, one of them bent at the stem where a gust of wind or a questing bird had pushed it down. If the times were sweeter, more deserving of tenderness, Dean might pick them, might put them in a vase and talk and dine and laugh with their round petaled faces watching him. He might press them into the hand of a lover, kiss their knuckles and whisper affection.
He kept walking.
The sun was hidden behind a wall of clouds like some cosmic mountain range, holding them in, casting the restraints of their world down in concrete. If you travelled far enough, you might meet the wall of thick water vapour, somehow solid to the touch. It was easy, for a moment, to imagine how people so long ago must have felt, looking out to the clouds all round. The dome of the sky. The skull of a giant, the mountains his teeth, all the world made of ancient flesh and bone.
Dean rounded the bend of the walking trail, the one near the fallen log next to the stream that the path went alongside for a stretch. There were signs, but they were old and long-decayed, printing in some fading blocky font, posted up on the tree trunks. Dean was familiar enough with the trail by now not to need them.
The air shifted as he walked, the change muffled by the thick layers of leaves separating Dean from the sky. It was something electric, something earthy. He opened his mouth to taste it, and the air was crisp and cold, biting at the insides of his cheeks, pulling water from his tongue. It smelled of pine and new growth and lightning.
Lightning, the product of too much friction — too much conflict — peaking in a bright whip of light, arcing through the sky, through bone, setting on fire what has not been protected. The thunder, the crashing aftermath, is delayed by how far one stands.
Like lightning were the words that Cas spoke, setting wonder aflame in Dean’s soul, and then pain as something deeper than Hell claimed him. And thunder, the successor of the initial blast, where it all came tumbling down — where Cas came back, his coat crumpled and his hair ruffled, looking like no time at all had passed and where Sam pressed Cas in a hug and Dean hung back with no words to say. And like the rumbling sound that makes the lightning known to all, like the vibrations in the foundation of even the sturdiest house, like rattling windows and slow beating hearts, Sam knew. Jack knew. Everyone knew, everyone could tell. Dean didn’t say a word about it, but he felt Sam’s eyes on him whenever him and Cas were talking — stiffly, disjointedly.
And like the smell of petrichor after a storm, it was overwhelming. Blinding.
Dean trailed his fingers along the rough bark of a tree that had sprouted up between two rocks, rocks that may have been a single whole some eons ago, but had been split by the persistence of growth.
He sighed.
There weren’t words to describe it. There wasn’t anything to harness it, no painting to illustrate it, no moving orchestra to show the breadth of it in song. Maybe it could be found in the light of a supernova, or in the purr of a sun–warm cat. Maybe in the gentle laying of hands or in steaming mugs of coffee set down by elbows, in murmured assurances. Maybe it could be found in the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, or in the crashing of the tide, returning endlessly to the shore. Cas, returning endlessly to Dean.
Maybe he was scared.
That would explain it, after all; the deep pit in his gut, the tension that twitched around his temples — yeah.
As ashamed as he was to admit it, Dean was terrified.
But then again; what were you supposed to feel?
What were you supposed to feel, after years and years of a love that had been a few times — a few too many times — the only thread tethering the universe to existence?
After a love that burned and stung but still kept you warm, like the orange glow of the flames you watched eat up someone who used to be, in a grave redug by calloused hands that had held too many shovels for the same purpose. A love that ran deep like the Grand Canyon, a great crack in the facade Dean had kept, that reigned eternal like endless oceans — sometimes calm to the outside viewer, sometimes raging, but always churning with life and holding multitudes, little darting schools of colorful fish and great teethy monsters alike.
Dean didn’t know. How could he? How could anyone? Theirs was a unique brand of love.
There was a worn handrail, here, to guide wayfarers down a particularly tricky jumble of rocks. Dean gripped it tight, in all its rust and cobwebs, and tried not to break his ankles getting across. He certainly wasn’t as young as he used to be, that was sure.
The trail ambled a bit here, looping and veering. There’s a tree fallen in one part which Dean keeps meaning to move, but he stepped over it as usual. It was starting to rot, becoming a home for broad–capped mushrooms and swathes of moss.
The wind picked up above the canopy, rustling the topmost branches. Dean sighed.
Was there a status quo? Was there something expected? The man you’ve loved with every fibre of your being for longer than you can clearly recall, the man who you’ve gone through Hell for, who you’ve saved again and again — what’s the normal reaction for when that man tells you he loves you and tells you goodbye in the same breath?
Sometimes, he heard it. That sound, that awful sound he’d heard right before Cas was seized from reality, right before something worse than Hell tore him from existence at his own beck and call, surrounded his tear-streaked face with something darker than the night sky in winter, something darker than the eyes of a demon. It lurked in the corner of his mind, and even when he closed his eyes, the secret colours behind their lids reeked of the Empty.
Sometimes, Dean thought about Sam and Eileen. He thought about how little Sammy — eating Lucky Charms dry from the packet and learning his letters only, what, a few years ago? — was on his way to a picket–fence suburban house fantasy. How any day now, Miracle would have a new friend in a labrador or some shit and how there would be pie cooling on the sill and little screaming tykes drawing on the walls. He thought about how their ending was so simple, compared to his. So soft and blissful.
Tears found their way to well up in his eyes and trail down his cheeks whenever he thought about it. About that apple pie happy ending.
What were you meant to do when the dreams ran dry? When it was finally over, and peaceful, and everything was okay for once in your damn life? When the ancient design was dismantled, when there was no summit to reach, no great evil to defeat?
Walk through the woods cold and alone, Dean thought bitterly, trudging through a slurry of mud left over from the last rain.
Dean didn’t stop walking, even when the rain started to come down in earnest, seeping through the trees and dripping all over Dean’s shoulders and cheeks, and the wind started to really pick up, making him shiver and wish he had a hood on one of the coats he was wearing. Next time.
The rain was nice, if cold. It provided some sort of filter, he supposed, like keeping the fan on so the creaking of the house don’t bother your slumber. If he just focused on the sensation of it flattening his hair to his forehead, he could almost tune out the constant drip drip drip of thoughts, of worries.
I loved the whole world because of you , Cas had said. He’d said so many things to Dean that should’ve pointed his thoughts in the right direction over the years. So many things that dug deep into some secret place in his ribs, right between the Enochian that Cas had etched into the bone when he’d stitched Dean back together in Hell.
It all seemed like so long ago now.
Dean remembered the blue cast of the light as Cas stretched his wings on some other ethereal plane. The way the lightbulbs had blown out, the way something like thunder had rolled as Cas spoke.
If he thought hard enough, he could remember the intensity of Cas’ stare. An intensity that still held, sometimes, today. Dean was thankful for the occasional breaks in it, the gentle smiles and the peace that overtook Cas’ face when he was sleeping.
Drip, drip, drip . He couldn’t stop the thoughts now. They pressed at his skull insistently, begging for an out, begging for him to say something . Like a heartbeat; like the pulsing of the universe as it expands, they pounded.
So what if he was scared shitless? Who wouldn’t be?
Dean dragged in a breath through his teeth, heavy. He could taste the rain in it.
Entirely too soon he’d done the loop, and he found himself back at the outside of the bunker. There was mud streaked all over his boots, and he scraped it off on the half–sheltered dirt that was still dry. He’d clean them properly later. The door was heavy as ever, closing with a resounding thud as Dean let himself in. He could still hear the rain outside.
Layers shucked as he went, Dean found himself in the kitchen with a bundle of coats in his arms. It was all quiet down there, the rain a distant memory, the endless pattering smothered by layers of earth and stone. Something smelled like noodles. Something smelled like coffee. Far away, thunder rolled.
Dean ran his fingers along the wall, feeling the tiny grooves, willing for something to happen, anything. He didn’t know what. But the walls were pressing in, suffocating him —
There was a sound, and movement, at the edge of his vision, and Dean whirled around, years of hunting tripping the alarm, sounding out panic. Then, just as suddenly, he stilled.
“Oh,” he said. “Cas.”
Castiel blinked at him. “Hello, Dean.”
Antsiness itched at Dean, and he shifted his weight between his feet. “What’s, uh, what’s up?”
Cas stared with that same intensity as Dean had been met with all that time ago, in a barn in the middle of nowhere. He could feel it boring into him. “You’ve not said anything.” Cas’ tone was not accusatory, merely a statement, but it made Dean clench his fists in the pile of clothing he was holding.
“About?” Dean prompted, even though he knew exactly what Cas was talking about.
Castiel sighed. His disappointed gaze said, you know what I mean . Dean took in the tilt of his head, the loose curl of his hands at his sides, savoured the vision.
“Sorry.” Dean put the jackets down on the table. He had a feeling he’d be here a while.
The air in the bunker was stale, but he could still smell the rain on his clothes. His hair was damp, clinging to his skin, and he ran a hand through it, biting his lip, trying to think of what he could say.
Cas beat him to it, though, of course. He always did, with the things that mattered. “You don’t have to say anything, Dean. I… I understand. I just thought, maybe —” Cas paused, swallowed visibly. “— Maybe you felt the same.” His voice was terribly weak by the end of the sentence. Dean wanted to console him, but, “I understand. I do,” Cas continued. “And it’s alright.”
Dean frowned. “Cas,” he said, surprised to find his voice was hoarse. “Cas, I don’t —”
“I know,” Cas said, in a voice too gentle for the tears Dean could see in his eyes.
Thunder rolled again, louder, closer, this time.
“No — let me speak, dammit. I ain’t letting you get the last word on this one, man. Look, I — Fuck.” He laughed uncomfortably, in time with another thunderclap, threaded fingers through his hair. “I love you too.”
There.
He’d said it.
He’d told him. It was out there now, in words, and Dean almost started to panic, but he was struck all over again by the lines of Cas’ face and the feathery softness of his hair and the smile he’d worn while he sacrificed himself, again, and the fear quieted.
It hung in the air for a moment and, even though they were deep underground, Dean swore he could taste the electricity of the lightning.
The tone of Cas’ gaze changed — his squinting turned wide–eyed, his mouth fell a little open.
“Dean.” And his voice was rusty, and, fuck, there were streaks down his face, glistening seawater. Dean thought of the ebb of the tide.
“I don’t have any… any fancy speech or some such prepared. Sorry ‘bout that,” Dean said.
Cas shook his head silently, wonder dancing in his eyes. He was looking with too much gentleness, more than Dean deserved. He was looking like Dean had hung the stars and set blaze to the sun, like he’d set the moon aglow and crafted every jutting piece of shoreline that was worn to sand with time.
Dean cleared his throat. He didn’t know what to do with his hands.
Seemed like Cas did, though, because he took them in his own, still smiling perfectly at Dean, eyes still brimming with shine.
Dean let out a breath through parted lips, and then caught it again as Cas pressed his mouth softly against his. Thunder crashed.
He kept his eyes closed for a long, long moment, and the flashes of purple–blue–white amid the black spoke of glowing stars.