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Touch was never a problem before he’d lost his grace.
Castiel’s sense of touch had grown infinitely more sensitive now that he was fully restored. And that was a problem.
Experiencing the merging of your skin’s surface on a quantum level with everything, constantly, might sound appealing, but when it was your quarks interacting with the air, and your clothing, and every doorknob you were forced to utilize and more than once something wet on a bus seat that you knew with one touch was vomit, well....
Touch was a constant invasion for Castiel now. It was overwhelming. And it was also… confusing. Very confusing.
When humans touched, it could be quite the experience. He remembered his time as a human so vividly. Touch for him then had been a connection bordering on sacred. Because of the borders. The borders were important. What is me and what is other. What is me and… what is you. Separate, yet connecting, if imperfectly. Not joined, not one, but trying to be, perhaps. Working to be. The trying was important. And the failing.
Touch was important to humans. Possibly because it could never be fully satisfied.
If humans could know what it truly was to touch, what they were striving for, their disappointment would be monumental.They didn’t know how good they had it living in the dark. It was a bit of a theme with humans.
Humans, with their almost non-existent sense of touch, experienced very clear borders. This was, as far as Castiel could tell, what Sam would call a feature and not a bug. Humans had the ability to feel alone. They could fathom the concept. A concept that, before losing his grace, Castiel could not have fathomed.
The concept of alone was horrible; the concept of alone left room for the concept of lonely. And Castiel had felt that. Loneliness. Learned to bear it. However, as Castiel had thankfully also learned, the concept of alone created space for the concept of together. One concept could not exist without the other. There was a balance to it. The dark and the light. Like with most things, he supposed.
Balance. Borders. Me, touching you. Us, together, special because of our separateness. You, choosing to connect with me—to reach out and touch. Touch with intention. Touch by choice.
Humans chose what they touched. And Castiel missed that freedom of choice in the realm of touch, possibly more than any other aspect of humanity.
Choice. It always came down to choice. To freedom. Castiel was forever chasing freedom, it seemed—perhaps was doomed to chase it.
Perhaps.
But Dean’s touch should have been more than the quarks of his palm intertwining with the quarks of Castiel’s trenchcoat intertwining with the shirt below and the skin below that and the air in between all the layers that seemed separate but in reality were not.
At one point, not so long ago, Dean’s touch had been much more than that. Meant much more. It had been intentional. What was Dean searching out and connecting with what was Castiel. What is me and what is you. Separate entities, briefly brushing boundaries. Castiel and Dean, joined intentionally.
It had been wonderful.
Now, at full power, Castiel was always touching Dean, always connected. In just the same way that every material thing in the universe was always connected to every other. Borders were non-existent once more. Touch had lost its significance. Distance had ceased to matter.
That problem of distance—the problem that the problem of touch created—had made the concept of personal space very difficult for Castiel to grasp when he’d first begun interacting with this world—with Dean. He was thankful that he could look back now, on those interactions, and appreciate them with new understanding—humor even. Dean had been so patient with him—so exasperatedly patient. So kind.
Dean was always kind. To everyone except himself, Dean was kind. He gave kindness so freely, so generously, to anyone that needed it. Dean was kind.
Trust was another matter entirely.
Castiel remembered, after the first time he had betrayed Dean, after his perverse attempt at playing God, after a death that had unleashed monsters upon the earth, after waking, hiding from what he had done with such force that it had resembled madness, after all of that, the regret that he lashed himself with most, finding that it carried the most sting—though it was possibly the smallest of his many sins—was his betrayal of Dean’s trust.
Dean had given him something precious. Something jealously guarded. Rarely shared. Delicate and fragile. Dean had trusted Castiel. And Castiel had broken that trust.
The loss of that gift had pained him beyond belief during his lonely wanderings of purgatory.
It could never be replaced. Castiel had known that much. Things could never be what they once were between Dean and him.
Except they were. Except, when Dean found Castiel once more in Purgatory, after Castiel had purposely fled him, had purposely distanced himself from Dean because he would not allow himself the comfort of Dean’s presence—was glad that that the Leviathans on his scent gave him the small mercy of believing that his departure would truly keep Dean safer. After all that, Dean had embraced him and offered Castiel an easy excuse for his disappearance. He had looked Castiel in the eye and asked him with that look to lie—given Castiel an out. Castiel had not taken it. He’d realized his mistake in that moment.
Dean Winchester didn’t trust. He was, perhaps, incapable of it. Dean Winchester loved, instead. Dean went through life with the firm belief that trust would always be broken. He skipped ahead instead. Forgave each new person he met for a crime he wouldn’t let them commit and went on from there. With patience. With kindness. Dean Winchester was kind.
Distance was still a problem between them—Castiel and Dean. Though Castiel would happily spend all of his time hunting with the Winchesters—with Dean—he could not. Without his wings he saw Dean less than ever, face to face. He could still feel how they were connected, touching, with the intervening help of an infinity of atoms. But it didn’t satisfy. Castiel’s lack of wings made the distance between him and Dean seem more real. Tangible. It was nostalgic. It was a mixed blessing because Castiel hated the telephone but enjoyed driving immensely. His lack of built in transport had opened up the world of driving to him. A world he could share with Dean.
Still, he hated the distance between him and Dean. It was debilitating, not being able to bridge that distance with a thought.
Dean prayed still, at times, when things seemed particularly hopeless and he forgot that while Castiel could hear him, he could not immediately come to his aid.
The prayers left Castiel’s broken wings aching with instinctual attempts at flight. The prayers had made him feel helpless again for the first time since regaining his grace. And he was thankful for the feeling—for each prayer. He was thankful, thinking that Dean wanted his help, if only in saving Sam, if only for the benefit of Castiel’s strength, if only for use as a weapon. Castiel made a very good weapon. He’d had milenia of practice in the role. He would be honored to be Dean’s weapon. If only he was whole.
Castiel was the weapon that Dean feared he had been forged as himself. Sometimes that was all he was, when things were bad. Sometimes he was more. Sometimes when things were truly good, he could even forget what he had been, before Dean. Exist as what he’d made himself into after. For a moment. Possibly longer. Longer when he was with Dean. When they were close in reality and not just through the aid of quantum physics.
That was too rare these days. It seemed they never had the time to be near one another.
Time was something that would forever distance Castiel from Dean. It wasn’t until his time spent nearly human that he realized how long a minute could feel, when you only had so many of them to spare. How short, when you thought of how few you had left. He could have never fathomed the malleable quality such a short life had on time. Minutes had been as nothing to him before. Hours, days, what were these when he had watched the world unfold around him, second upon second, since creation? His patience had been infinite. It was too easy to feel that way again, now. Too easy to let time slip. Days into weeks into months.
Dean felt the minutes keenly. Seconds mattered to him—him more than most, considering his lifestyle. Many times it seemed that Castiel would scarcely have cleared the city limits after seeing Dean again before his name was skimming through Dean’s mind, digging up loose feelings. Just a stray thought—but every thought was a prayer. Every thought bearing Castiel’s name, his likeness, came spilling into Castiel’s head. There was no stopping prayer.
It was one aspect of their relationship that Castiel would never share with Dean. One unbreakable secret between them. It was Castiel’s only consolation at times, that Dean still thought of him. He couldn’t give that up. No matter what it made him, keeping that knowledge to himself.
Castiel was always gone, you see. Distance again, and time. His time was always needed by some other—by some grand emergency that he had caused by solving the last.
The one constant over distance and time was his guilt. It seemed that every time he tried to do the right thing, it turned on him. Every time he was sure he knew what was right, he was wrong.
Every single time, his mistakes cost Dean.
And yet, Dean prayed to him. Always, Dean prayed. He prayed more, it seemed, when Castiel was away and impossible to reach. He prayed most when they fought. He prayed, and with every prayer, Castiel loved him more. Impossibly more. So much more that there was enough love, after a time, for himself. Enough for the rest of the world.
He loved Dean. Dean loved the world. Dean, in prayer and action, taught Castiel to love it too. Dean’s world that he held so dear. Castiel loved Dean’s world in a way that he could never love his father’s.
Castiel hadn’t loved, as an angel of the garrison. He was perhaps incapable of it. He had trusted instead.
Nothing had shaken his unwavering trust in the Lord’s plan, until he’d seen the way that Dean loved. Unflinchingly. Unselfishly. Dean loved the world the way that God was supposed to. And that love had changed Castiel. From the very moment he grasped Dean’s soul in hell, he had been changed.
It was once said that he had been corrupted. That was not entirely wrong.
People had been beautiful, before Castiel had felt that love; beautiful and interesting as bees or whales or lichen, as stars, as all God’s creations were beautiful. Beautiful and distant. Separate in a way that was entirely unphysical. Castiel’s time on Earth, in the daily presence of Dean’s unthinking love, his kindness, had lifted humanity out of that fuzzy distance and into an almost painful clarity. Castiel saw what it meant to love as a human from its purest source, and having seen that—not even experienced it, merely witnessed—his trust in heaven was shattered. If a human could love more fully than their father, then—
Love had been the catalyst for change. For choice. For freedom.
Freedom had been terrifying. He had flailed for another cause in the beginning. Somewhere new to place his trust. Dean was the clear choice.
Castiel was humbled to be in Dean’s presence. Castiel was humbled to be in Dean’s prayers. Castiel was humbled, daily, by Dean.
Castiel learned to love by loving Dean.
There were many forms of love. Castiel learned that from Dean as well, but not through experience—not even observation. Through films.
He sat with Dean watching films filled with the various flavors of love: between friends, between lovers, between family, between strangers, and Dean would try, without knowing that he was, to instruct Castiel on all of love’s subtleties. The movies were always more help than Dean was on the subject—Dean’s love was not a subtle and multi-toned thing. Dean’s love was vast and protective, spreading from him to cover the world. It was more concentrated where it touched those nearest to him—Dean must protect Sam, for example, above all—but with everyone he loved it was the same. Protect. Save. Keep whole. With his father, who was so broken after the death of his wife. With his mother, who seemed so fragile after a stolen lifetime. With his friends, always brave, always doomed. He protected. He sacrificed. It was how he loved.
Castiel had never needed Dean’s protection.
Castiel always came back. To Dean. From heaven. From his duties. From the farthest reaches of the planet. From hell. From Death.
Castiel was safe.
Castiel was safe to ignore.
By the hand of God, or angels, or unnamable entities, Castiel always found his way back to Dean. Every time, every death, should have been his last, but never was. No matter what Dean did, or didn’t do, Castiel came back to him. It was the one constant between them. Castiel wished he could take credit. He was merely a necessary character in God’s favorite story. He had what Metatron would have once referred to as “plot armor”.
It didn’t bother Castiel. He was happy that he wasn’t a burden to Dean. His only wish was that not being a burden didn’t keep him from the reach of Dean’s love. And sometimes he wished one more thing. He wished that Dean could let himself love someone selfishly—simply because he enjoyed their company, their laughter, their ideas and hopes and fears and dreams and existence—without the fear that drove his need to protect. Sometimes, Castiel even wished that someone could be him.
Castiel missed those films. Those lessons. Those nights and their oh-so-human closeness. Their safety and happiness.
He wondered what it would feel like to be loved by Dean, selfishly or otherwise.
Dean’s love was one thing Castiel feared he’d never experience personally, as it should be experienced. Connected in time and distance and trust and mortality. Connected at the boundaries.
Since his time spent nearly human, he’d had some experience with love in its different forms. He’d experienced love from strangers that had helped him when he had been lost, without a home. He’d experienced the love of friendship many times, not least of which with Sam. He’d experienced the love of a father for a son, when Jack had arrived.
Sitting in the bunker with Dean, years before any of that, watching some piece of pop culture history that was apparently vital material for his continued existence, Castiel had realized that in the area of love, in the one area that he would have never expected, it seemed he was more knowledgeable than Dean.
Castiel knew something that Dean did not.
That sacrifice was not the height of love, let alone its only measure. That the height of love was measured in its small, quiet moments. In those rare moments, where love allowed two people to understand each other—to connect. In a shared thought. A shared silence. A shared smile across a crowded room. In shared pleasure. Shared sorrow. A shared orange after a long day. In those little moments that people shared, rather than experienced alone, love was at its greatest.
Love was not measured by volume. Love was not measured by weight—the pull of its gravity. Not by the lengths it would drive you to. The time it had existed. Its speed or its acceleration or its potential energy or its volatility.
Love was forgetting what it meant to feel alone.
It wasn’t any fault of Dean’s that kept this knowledge from him. Any lack of intelligence.
He’d never been shown any other way to love. He’d been raised to save people. To help people. To protect them. And watching over them, he’d grown to love them. Had sheltered each victim under the protection of his love. Had sheltered the world there too, when it was threatened again and again and again. And to save the ones he loved, he knew he’d need to be ready to do anything. Ready to sacrifice his own life.
Castiel was not the only being excluded from Dean Winchester’s love. He shared that distinction with Dean himself.
Dean had conquered his fear of death by convincing himself he was worth less than everyone else. And Castiel wished he knew when worth less had slipped into worthless. Wished he’d been there to prevent Dean’s inward apathy slipping into hate.
If Castiel wasn’t in need of Dean’s love, in Dean’s estimation, well then he himself was unworthy of it. Because the more he hated himself, the easier it was to sacrifice himself for those he loved.
It was unfortunate, their situation. Castiel, by virtue of his angelic existence, forced to know Dean so intimately. Dean, by virtue of his humanity, unable to understand Castiel at all. They were so far apart, from the beginning. So far from coming together in a shared moment. So far from love, by any definition.
And yet, here they were, sharing a couch, a bowl of unsatisfying popcorn, a movie, a conversation. Here they were, trying to connect. Always trying.
And maybe that was love, too.
Given time, perhaps the gap between them would shrink. They would feel less and less alone in each other's presence. Given time to work on it. Given time.
Maybe, with enough time, Castiel could teach Dean a better way to love. Maybe, with enough time, Castiel could help Dean to love himself.
But time was always a problem between them.
Castiel had been experimenting with time. Age, rather. Over the years directing his vessel to age as it would have without his presence—his grace. Over the years keeping time with Dean as Dean aged. Second by second. Hour by hour. Day after day. He told his cells to die. To replicate. To grow anew. To make mistakes. To wear. Weaken.
Castiel had to admit, the experiment was not without its more personal rewards. Changing with time allowed Castiel to feel a part of time, as much as was possible. Drifting in time’s stream along with all the humans that couldn’t escape its current. All humans. Not just Dean, but most importantly Dean.
Most importantly Dean.
They existed in rooms together, perpetually, and yet they were always so alone. Despite their constant desperate efforts, the two of them remained worlds apart. So different.
Not so different.
Castiel once measured love in sacrifice, like Dean. Felt the call to both protect and serve a distant father, his abandoned siblings, all of humanity, Dean. Most importantly Dean. Would have given his life for any and all of them. Without hesitation. Had given it, in fact. Because he hadn’t mattered. He’d never mattered as much as others. As much as the cause. Never. Since the beginning of time.
Yes, Castiel knew how Dean loved. Intimately.
Watching Dean love had shocked Castiel. He saw how worthy Dean was of love, and how wrong Dean was for not allowing himself to experience it. He saw how little Dean thought of himself and couldn’t fathom it. He hated it. It grated on him.
Eventually, he even realized why.
Dean had been a mirror. Watching Dean had led Castiel to watch himself. Had led, eventually, to Castiel trusting himself. Loving himself. Eventually loving himself enough that, to his surprise, he had enough genuine love left over for others. Didn't have to steal any love he had for himself and share it between all of existence. Didn’t have to sacrifice to prove his love.
He learned that living for people was much braver, more effective even, than waiting to die for them. And he learned it all because of Dean.
Dean had saved him.
Returning the favor was the least Castiel could do.
And he would, too. Would have. If only he’d had the time.
Time was always a problem between them.
He looked Dean in the eyes, desperate. The pounding at the door was as inescapable as the ticking of a clock. Billie would get in. They would die. Both of them. Unless Castiel could pull off one small miracle.
And maybe he could.
“When Jack was dying, I— I made a deal. To save him.”
Maybe he could find his own true happiness through sacrificing himself. Somehow turn self-sacrifice into an act of self-love. The challenge would have been enough to tempt him even if he’d had some choice in the matter—the option not to try.
He wasn’t worthless. He was worth as much as anyone. He had to work on living for people. Stop throwing himself on top of the proverbial grenade any time living would be harder to live with than dying. Yes. He was aware of all of these things. All of the growth he’d fought so hard for. All of the love he’d invested in himself.
“You what?
But Castiel loved Dean selfishly. And in his selfishness, he wanted Dean to live. The thought of Dean continuing on past today, alive and flowing in the stream of time with all the rest of humanity, made Castiel happier than the thought of both of them meeting their ends there and then. So he started there. Started there on the path to true happiness.
Also, Castiel always came back to Dean. Somehow. Anyhow. Castiel always found his way back. Even now, with God raging against them, he was half convinced this wouldn’t be his end. It wasn’t really a sacrifice. It was just a bit more distance. Just for a bit more time between them.
Statistics were on his side in this. He’d never yet managed to remain dead.
“The—the price was my life. When I experienced a moment of true happiness, the empty would be summoned and… it would take me forever. ”
It had seemed like such a trivial thing to give away, at the time. Old habits, resurfacing. Sacrifice for love, in the face of losing Jack. Easy to slip up. Old habits. He knew Dean would approve—would have done the same.
Castiel knew Dean. In this one trait, they were completely connected. In this one trait, Castiel had been striving for distance rather than connection. In this one trait.
Having decided on sacrifice, Castiel felt immediately closer to Dean—their one common thread mended.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
If only Dean knew Castiel a fraction as well as Castiel couldn’t help but know Dean. If only Dean could see Castiel. Understand. Connect. Shared a moment with him. Just once. Just that small miracle would be enough to do the job. Easily. One moment of happiness, split in two. To be known. To know. Together.
If only it could be. They had so few moments left. So little time.
Not nearly enough.
“I always wondered… ever since I took that burden—that curse— what it could be, what—what my true happiness could even look like.”
He looked at Dean looking back at him and not understanding at all. It was a familiar look. He ached with the impossibility he was faced with. Happiness. Here. Now. True happiness. Knew he wasn’t being completely honest with Dean. Castiel knew exactly what true happiness would look like for him. After all these years of fighting his way closer to Dean, true happiness would be to finally connect. For Dean and Castiel to exist, for one moment, together, instead of just alone in close proximity.
“And I never found an answer. Because the one thing I want— it’s something I know I can’t have.”
He’d never have Dean. Not to keep. Not ever enough of him. Not when he was the one creature that was safe and therefore outside the wingspan of Dean’s love. Not when Dean was incapable of giving love without giving it away and leaving himself empty. Not when Castiel would have to compete against the whole world for just one small fragment of Dean’s affection. Compete against time. Against distance. Against Dean’s lack of trust. Against his own inability to communicate. He wasn’t getting through. Would have to do better. Much better.
“But I think I know—I think I know now… happiness isn’t in the having…”
And suddenly he did. Know. He knew how to solve it all. Because happiness, unlike love, could be expressed fully by a single individual. Happiness didn’t need to be shared. Castiel didn’t need Dean’s love in order to be happy. He had his own. Didn’t need to share one perfect moment. Didn’t need anything. Didn’t need a lifetime of matching Dean wrinkle for wrinkle, of keeping close, of touching and truly feeling. Castiel didn’t need Dean.
He simply wanted him. Selfishly.
“It’s in just being. It’s in just saying it.”
Feeling it. Being it. Happy. Truly happy.
“What are you talking about, man?”
Time for a goodbye is what he was talking about. Goodbye for now. Maybe. He smiled. And suddenly, the words flowed like water.
“I know. I know how you see yourself, Dean. You see yourself the same way our enemies see you. You're destructive, and you're angry, and you're broken. You're "daddy's blunt instrument”.”
He knew only too well. He knew intimately. He could be talking about either of them, really. Either one. And that was connection too, wasn’t it? A horrible connection. Destructive. Painful. But true. It was the chain that had always bound them together. Even when Castiel had pulled against it, trying to fix himself.
Maybe if they had both pulled together, they could have been free to find a new connection.
Maybe, maybe. Maybe somewhere they had. It was a happy thought.
“And you think that hate and anger, that's... that's what drives you, that's who you are.”
Maybe in some other universe Dean had found some other fuel to power his way through life. Something a little more clean burning than self-hatred. Another happy thought. Castiel would need it.
“It's not.”
Castiel watched a shift back to incomprehension on Dean’s face. Of course he didn’t understand. Of course not. Maybe in some other universe, Castiel had been able to love like Dean—so vastly that Dean couldn’t help but notice. Maybe that Dean would have better luck in explaining love. Would do better than Castiel had managed. Happy. There. One more happy thought for the road.
“And everyone who knows you sees it.”
At least Castiel had managed to try and explain—however crudely. At least time and pressure had made him strong enough to shine a light on what was between them this once. Just once, before the end. This end. Maybe the end. Maybe.
“Everything you have ever done, the good and the bad, you have done for love. You raised your little brother for love. You fought for this whole world for love . That is who you are. You're the most caring man on Earth. You are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know.”
Even if it kills you. Even if it’s torture. Especially then. Castiel smiled and it was only slightly self-deprecating. And maybe Dean noticed that. Maybe Dean would understand that they shared something in this. That they had shared love, or at least a way of loving.
Maybe in another universe, Castiel had been in need of protection. Hadn’t been yo-yoed between life and death like some cruel parlour trick. Had been vulnerable. Human even. And maybe that version of himself had been gathered in naturally under the span of Dean’s love. Maybe once, some version of him had experienced it. Had been happy. Had made Dean happy.
Maybe.
“You know, ever since we met, ever since I pulled you out of Hell... Knowing you has changed me. Because you cared, I cared. I cared about you. I cared about Sam, I cared about Jack... I cared about the whole world because of you . You changed me, Dean.”
If only Castiel could have returned the favor.
Dean was no nearer to clarity. “Why does this sound like a goodbye?”
If only there was the time.
“Because it is.”
If only there wasn’t this distance between them.
“I love you.”
If only.
Cas watched his love run off Dean’s impenetrable armor of self-hatred. Had been waiting for it. Knew that this would only end one way.
Still, the saying it—the unburdening of it all—did make him happy. He’d tried. At least once, after all these years fearing anger, loss, revulsion from Dean, he’d said what he’d wanted to say all along. He’d said it. Weathered it. Was still standing. Him and Dean were as close now as they ever had been. Joined by quarks. By distance. By time. By the barest hint of understanding between them.
“Don't do this, Cas.”
The empty came, as it had promised. Castiel didn’t watch its grand arrival. Castiel watched Dean. This would not be the last time he watched Dean—watched over him. He didn’t know how he knew, but—
“Cas…”
He just did. And as Dean turned back, desperate and shocked and trying vainly to process anything in the seconds they had left together, Castiel touched Dean, colliding on a quantum level till they were inseparable. Till there was no more you, no more me, just us. And it wasn’t what he wanted. But it was something. It sure was something.
He’d touched Dean once for the first time. Maybe now, he was doing so for the last. It felt right. Held a certain poetic balance.
Time to test his invulnerability once more.
“Goodbye, Dean.”
“What?”
Castiel shoved Dean aside at the last possible moment, second, nanosecond. He savored every last drop of time he was given, connected to Dean. He watched Dean even after. Watched Dean watching him, comprehension slowly dawning. The reality of Castiel’s end. The enormity of it. They locked eyes and in that one moment—Castiel knew they both felt it—they had beaten alone together. At last. The last. Castiel and Dean shared one singular moment between them, together, and like all things between them, that moment was bittersweet.
Castiel couldn’t help but smile. Couldn’t help but smile at the irony of it.
He finally turned to face the thing that had vowed to keep him from Dean. Forever. Forever and then some. And he smiled at it, too—happy to be taken, for every selfish reason, and even a few selfless ones.
Time to face his fate. See if it could hold him in the end.
Time to go.