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Castiel moves into his new apartment on a Thursday. There’s not much to it – one bedroom, one bathroom, a galley kitchen, and a maybe 4 x 6 balcony. Emphasis on the maybe.
He brings a little more to it. A queen-sized mattress rests on the hardwood floor of his new bedroom with a set of pale blue sheets on it, a matching set in yellow in the closet. A beat-up round table for just outside the kitchen and a place to pile up his postcards from Hannah. Potted plants for the windowsills and a small basket to hold his Astronomy magazines. His bike leans against the wall by the door.
Gabriel shows up the next day with his dresser, coffee table, and couch in a U-Haul and sticks around just long enough to get the furniture upstairs and bug Castiel about not having a TV. He arranges the furniture himself, decides his home is more than functional as it is. After all, he’s got a working router and a laptop, who needs a TV?
-
Three days after Castiel moves in, his possessions begin to move on their own.
It’s small things at first. Two of the pots on his windowsill are closer together. The milk and the cranberry juice switch places in the fridge. His teapot jumps from burner to burner. He tries to brush it off as his own absent-mindedness, notes that he’s been tired lately and may have forgotten moving some things around.
But then his coffee table moves perpendicular to the couch. He double and triple checks the locks on his door and windows that night.
-
“I’m not crazy, Hannah.” He says into his phone, nestled between his shoulder and his ear, as he unlocks his door. “Someone has been moving things around in my apartment. I certainly would remember shifting an entire table.”
“Maybe you’re being haunted.”
He nudges the door open with his free shoulder, rolls his bike inside. “I concede ghosts may exist, but not in apartment buildings in downtown Lawrence.”
“You never know. Maybe somebody died there and that’s how you got it at such a low price.”
“Trust me, the rent is not that low.” Castiel sighs into the receiver as he pushes open the door to his bedroom. “Besides, I doubt that –“ He cuts himself off as he almost drops his phone.
There’s a man lying on his bed.
“Castiel?” Hannah’s voice is tinny, distant.
“I’ll call you back.” He says it slowly and hears Hannah trying to object, but he’s already ended the call. It only occurs to him then that maybe he should’ve had her stay on the line, in case this is an attempt on his life. Though why anyone would be trying to kill him, he’s not sure.
He stares at the man on his bed, resting casually with his legs outstretched and his arms behind his head. Tries to keep his voice level as he speaks. “Who are you and what are you doing in my bedroom?”
“I’m Dean.” He offers a gracious smile, reaching out a hand for Castiel to shake. “I think I’m dead.”
-
Dean is definitely a ghost. Or at least some form of an incorporeal human spirit. Castiel discovered as much when he tried to accept his handshake and his hand passed right through Dean’s. Dean had frowned, almost as if he hadn’t expected that to happen.
Dean also has freckles. Castiel has never heard of a ghost with freckles before. He finds himself quite distracted by them, until the realization that Dean is talking again snaps him back to the present.
“So, anyway, I’m sorry for moving all your stuff around.” Dean is saying, “I just wanted to let you know I was here without, like, writing on the walls in blood or something. I bet blood is a bitch to get off of walls.”
Castiel’s laugh surprises himself. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t have much experience in writing messages in blood.” If he had to get the haunted apartment, at least it was haunted by a rather polite ghost. “May I ask why you’re here?”
“I used to live here, man.” Dean spreads his arm and gestures to the apartment as a whole. He’s stood up by now and Castiel can see he’s much less solid than previously perceived. He can see the corners of the room and the shape of his dresser through Dean’s body. “I guess it’s kind of important to know that you have a roommate, even if it’s someone who doesn’t take up any space or eat your food.” He thinks to himself for a moment. “I also can’t pay rent. Sorry.”
“It’s alright. Thank you for being… honest with me.” God, this whole situation was so bizarre. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to call Hannah back.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Sister. Twin, actually.” Castiel doesn’t know why he felt the need to clarify that. It’s not like Dean could spread false information to anyone. He doesn’t even know if Dean can leave the apartment, let alone the building. “I have more siblings, but I talk to Hannah the most.”
“That’s cool. I have – had – a little brother. Sam.” There’s something welling up in Dean’s eyes. Not tears, exactly, (can ghosts even cry?) but sadness.
“Dean,” Castiel starts, but Dean is gone. Vanished. He supposes that’s something he’ll have to get used to.
He’s not looking forward to Hannah’s ‘I told you so’ but he hits the speed dial anyway.
-
“Are you a writer, Cas?” Dean’s voice sounds at his shoulder and Castiel tries not to jump out of his skin.
Over the past few weeks, Castiel has learned that appearing and disappearing without warning happens often with Dean. He still hasn’t figured out if it’s just a habit or if Dean just hasn’t been a ghost long enough to learn how to control it.
“I like to write, yes.” He carefully minimizes his tab and sets his laptop aside. “But it’s not my job.”
“What do you do, then?” At a glance, Dean seems to be lounging on the couch like any other person but closer inspection shows that he’s really suspended an inch or so above the cushions. The fading floral pattern on the pillows clashes with the plaid flannel Dean is always wearing.
“I work at the downtown branch of the library. Weekdays, mostly.”
“That’s the one with the pirate ship for the kids, right?” Castiel nods and Dean floats a little higher. “Sam used to love that thing.”
Castiel tugs on a loose thread from his sleeve. “How old is Sam, Dean?”
“22. I’m four years older.” Dean’s well above the couch by now, almost spinning upside down in the air. “Why, how old are you?”
“30.” Castiel has to wonder if the floating bit is something that happens when Dean is happy about something, or just when he’s bored. “It’s not that important. Same number of years as between you and Sam.”
Dean pauses. “Yeah.” And then he’s gone.
-
Whenever Dean actually appears over his shoulder or above the coffee table, Castiel closes out of his word document politely, only continues his work once Dean has returned to wherever he spends his free time.
Sometimes, however, he’ll feel the room temperature drop a few degrees, a breeze across his cheek. It’s almost like Dean is reading along.
-
In the middle of his dinner preparations, a sharp wind from the window scatters Hannah’s postcards from the table to the floor. Castiel abandons his pot of water on the stove in his hurry to gather them and it’s only once they’ve been neatly stacked once more does he turn apprehensively towards the stove, expecting to see the pot boiling over.
It’s a pleasant, albeit strange, surprise to see a wooden spoon stirring the water by itself.
A few seconds later, Dean materializes around the spoon. “I’ve got your back, Cas.”
“How do I know it wasn’t you who messed my postcards up in the first place?” Castiel asks wryly.
“You wound me.” Dean continues to quite literally stir the pot, placing his free hand over his heart dramatically. “Even as I stand here, preventing your stove from being ruined. Besides, I can’t do big stuff like that.”
“What can you do?” Cas steps in to take the spoon from Dean, turns the burner down.
“Hold on to things for a little while, give you the chills, just small stuff.” He shrugs, but the casualness of the action is lost to his overtly casual stance a few feet off the ground. “You already know I can’t touch people, like, at all. I’m kind of a lame ghost.”
Cas dumps the noodles into the pot. “I have it on good authority that you’re a very good and nice ghost.”
“Thanks, Cas.”
-
Castiel is approximately three minutes into Monsters, Inc. when the screen of his laptop flickers and Dean is there, asking why Cas didn’t have the sense to make popcorn for movie night.
“You can’t eat, Dean.”
“Yeah, but it’s movie night. You need popcorn for movie night.” Dean takes up no physical space, but he still makes Cas scoot over so he can sit next to Cas on the bed, backs pressing against the wall. “You also need a real bed.”
Castiel ignores his second remark. “I don’t have any popcorn currently. And you know my microwave is shady at best.”
“Just play the movie, Cas.”
-
When Castiel wakes up the next morning, he can’t remember if he actually finished the movie or not. The apartment is chilly but the extra blanket from the foot of his bed has been pulled up over his shoulders, and his laptop is shut and plugged in, carefully resting on the floor by the wall.
Castiel smiles at the empty room. “Thank you, Dean.”
-
Even though Dean had known Cas was going to stay with Gabriel for a few days at least a week in advance, he had still seemed a little bummed about Cas’ departure.
When Castiel returns, he’s unsure of what he’s expecting. An apartment trashed by a discontent ghost, his regular apartment but without its spiritual tenant. What he’s not expecting is to be rushed as soon as he’s in the door.
“Cas!” It’s Dean, of course, trying for a hug. His arms pass right through Cas, leaving him shivering. As soon as he realizes what he’s done, he pulls back, eyes wide. “I- I forgot. I’m sorry.”
The front hall is empty once again.
-
Later, when Castiel is reheating mac and cheese in his crap microwave, Dean shows up again. He’s so close their shoulders would be brushing if Dean could actually touch people. He clears his throat. “I missed you.”
The microwave beeps, loud and impatient.
Castiel ignores it for the moment. “I missed you too, Dean.”
-
Cas wakes up in the dark one night, unsure of what woke him until his brain clears of the fuzzy just-woke-up feeling and he hears the rain pounding against the window. The window itself is tightly closed, but the curtains still sway as if there were wind.
“Dean?”
Dean’s form solidifies as much as it can beside the window. “Hey, Cas. Sorry if I woke you.”
Castiel’s elbow digs into his pillow. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing, really.” Dean flinches as lightning strikes outside and the room is illuminated for a few seconds. “Just brings back memories.”
His hands are shaking. Castiel didn’t know ghosts could get anxious.
“Dean.” He says it softly, going off a hunch. “How did you die?”
Dean’s gaze snaps to him. “What?”
Thunder rumbles in the background. “How did you die?”
The window swings open with surprising force, slamming against the wall and sending the curtains into a nervous tangle. The storm from outside surges into Castiel’s bedroom, rain splattering against the floor and the wind sending a forgotten mug of tea into the opposite wall. It shatters against the plaster, the sound seeming to continue echoing through the room long after Castiel has shoved the window shut.
Dean is nowhere to be found.
-
Castiel dreams of his bedroom, but different.
There’s no mattress on the floor, only a dirty tarp bunched up in the corner. There are no curtains on the window, so sunlight spreads freely through the room, dancing over the walls and the canvases leaned up against them. Bottles of paint in a whole spectrum of colors are scattered across the floor, brushes resting across their open lids or on the ground beside them. The paintings around the room are almost abstract but still recognizable as people, in the barest sense of the word. The colors are unrealistic, hyperreal even for a dream. The features are either exaggerated or understated. They’re still beautiful.
Birds chirp from the windowsill and the door behind him opens.
He opens his eyes. It’s still raining.
-
He puts his old sneakers on before he cleans up the broken mug.
It takes him three minutes to remember where he put the dustpan so he can sweep up the slivers.
-
YOU CAN HATE ME IF YOU WANT.
It’s scrawled on the bathroom mirror. Not in blood, but in toothpaste.
Castiel sighs as he grabs an old washcloth. “I don’t hate you, Dean.”
“I’m sorry.” Dean hovers above the toilet seat. “I overreacted. Honestly.”
Cas continues to scrub at the mirror, trying hard not to think of the sound of a ceramic mug smashing into the wall, the gouges left by the shards in the hardwood. “It’s okay, Dean.”
“No, Cas, it’s not. You deserve to know and I-“ His voice drops, almost too quiet to hear. “I could’ve hurt you.”
There’s fear in his voice. Cas keeps scrubbing.
“I was driving with Sam and it was raining. Storming, like last night.” Dean pulls at his fingers agitatedly. “This truck came out of nowhere so I spun the wheel and the next thing I knew I was here. Alone. I don’t even know if Sam is alive.”
Cas drapes the washcloth over the side of the sink. “You sacrificed yourself to save him.”
“Hell of a sacrifice.” He snorts derisively. “I don’t even know if it worked.”
-
They don’t talk about it after the conversation in the bathroom.
Dean’s hands still shake when it rains.
-
The apartment balcony came with a flower box. (It was one of the key selling points for Castiel.)
Most of the time he waters the flowers in the morning, either right as he wakes up or before he goes to work. Occasionally, after rushed mornings, he goes out in the afternoon.
Dean likes to float on the other side of the railing and pull faces. The light from the sun causes Dean to be almost transparent.
Cas doesn’t notice their faces are level until he lifts his head from the geraniums and Dean’s nose is almost touching his. Dean smiles a little, huffs the sort of laugh you can only hear if you’re right next to a person.
“I wanna try something.” He whispers. The words hang between them as he cups Cas’ cheek. His touch is cool, almost solid.
And then he ducks in, presses his lips to Cas’. It feels like kissing someone who’s there and isn’t there all at once. It feels like he’s holding a bolt of lightning in his mouth. Dean doesn’t taste of anything, but he doesn’t feel wrong.
Dean pulls away just as suddenly, hands held in his tight fists at his sides. “I’m sorry.”
He leaves Cas alone with the geraniums.
-
Almost a week after what Castiel is calling the Balcony Incident in his mind, there’s still no sign of Dean.
He keeps dreaming of his bedroom filled with paint.
Sam Winchester, a twenty-two year old law student, comes in for an interview at the library.
-
“Dean?” Cas addresses the apartment at large. “I don’t know if you’re listening, or even if you’re still here, but I want to make it clear I’m not angry about the balcony. I have something important I need to talk to you about.”
Everything is still and quiet. He has no way of knowing if anyone is listening to a word he’s saying. It feels like praying.
“Dean, it’s about your brother.”
The microwave starts beeping. When he turns towards the noise, Dean is sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter, his head almost drifting through the cupboards. “What do you know about my brother?”
-
Sam works his first shift with Castiel on a Tuesday. He’s earnest and helpful, like a puppy but considerably less clumsy. Sam gets off at seven, attempts to pull his coat on and check his watch at the same time as he prepares to leave.
Cas looks up from the online catalog. “Are you late for something?”
“What? Oh, no.” Sam finally manages to shrug his coat on. “Visiting hours at the hospital end at eight.”
“Someone you know is in the hospital? I’m sorry.”
“It’s –“ Sam cuts himself off. There’s something different about this Sam than the Sam from five minutes ago. This Sam has all the happiness sucked out of him, he looks empty and just sad. “It’s been a while. A while back, I was in a car accident. My brother’s in a coma. I try and visit him as much as possible just in case he, you know. Yeah.”
“Oh, Sam.”
“Yeah.”
A thick silence descends over the room. Castiel taps his pen on the tabletop, Sam makes for the door.
“Before you go, Sam-“ Castiel cringes at the volume of his voice. “May I ask a strange question? I will understand if you do not want to answer.”
Sam shakes his head, a smaller movement for the much bigger task of trying to shake off the sadness. “Yeah, I guess.”
Castiel pauses, affording himself one last chance before possibly insuring this man never speaks to him again. “Where did you brother live?”
Sam’s eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. “An apartment building a couple blocks from here. Why?”
“I think I live near there.”
-
Sometimes, when he can’t sleep, Cas will trace the wall behind his head and imagine the colorful canvases that used to rest against it. This is one of those nights.
The room temperature shifts a few degrees and he goes with it. “Were you a painter, Dean?”
Dean rests his hand beside Castiel’s. “I tried to be.”
Cas traces an aimless swirl. “You were very good.”
Dean looks at him sharply. “How would you know?”
“I’ve dreamt about your work.” The walls of the apartment have been white since he moved in. Maybe if Dean wasn’t in the coma ward at Lawrence General several blocks away, he would paint Castiel’s walls for him.
“Okay, Cas.”
It’s late and Castiel is still staring at the way Dean’s not-really-there fingers press against the wall and he thinks it may be the time for big questions. “Dean, why did you kiss me?”
Dean’s fingers sink through the wall abruptly as he loses his concentration. Castiel abstractly notices the freckles on his knuckles. “Instinct, I guess.” Dean’s suddenly very interested in his own hands. “Like, the feeling that if we had met when I wasn’t as good as dead, we might have had something.”
Cas reaches for Dean’s cheek, brushes the pad of his thumb over where Dean’s cheekbone should go. They both shiver. “I don’t think that means we can’t try.”
Dean’s mouth still tastes like lightning.
-
“What if I don’t remember you when – if I wake up?”
Dean’s touch is electric, calls almost all of Cas’ attention to where he’s lightly running his fingers down Cas’ arm.
Cas tries to subtly lean into the touch, as if he can trick whatever ghostly power there is and let Dean actually touch him. He wants to hold Dean’s hand more than anything.
“I’ll introduce myself.”
-
A few weeks later, Castiel has another strange request to ask of Sam.
Surprisingly, Sam agrees.
They walk to the hospital together.
-
It’s odd to see the man that’s been more or less rooming with Castiel for the past two months or so asleep and painfully real on the bed across the room. It’s a puzzle his brain struggles to put together, trying to connect his broad Dean and the same old flannel with this thin, pale man in a hospital gown. At least his freckles are the same.
They stand awkwardly for about thirty seconds, until Sam mutters something about coffee and leaves the room before Cas can even respond.
It’s weird how he can step forward and reach out a hand to brush Dean’s hair away from his forehead, how he can run his knuckles along Dean’s unshaven jaw. He takes Dean’s closest hand in his, startled by the warmth of it. Dean is here. Dean is here and he’s alive and he’s solid and Castiel can hold his hand.
“Dean, I don’t know if you can hear me but I’m here.” He starts quietly. “I’m here and I’ll try and be here when you wake up. Just know that I’m here.”
Sam steps back in with two foam cups, dwarfed by his hands, and Cas drops Dean’s hand back onto the knit blanket.
There’s a frantic beeping. For a second Castiel thinks it’s his microwave. But it’s Dean’s heart monitor. Nurses rush the bed, sending Castiel and Sam out into the hall to wait. A few minutes later, a doctor exits the room with a smile. Cas can see the tears in Sam’s eyes.
They let Sam in first. Cas checks his email on his phone, then checks it again. He curses his past self for deleting the few games Gabriel had downloaded on his phone.
The door creaks.
“Hey.” Sam steps out into the hall, tears (the good kind) in his eyes. “He, uh, he wants to talk to you.” He makes a face then. Not mean, just confused. “Said he’ll explain it to me later.”
“Thank you, Sam.”
He walks into the room carefully. Dean is sitting up in bed, picking at the IV on his arm. When he sees Cas, a smile breaks out across his face. It feels like sunshine. “Hey, Cas.”
“You know who I am.” He can feel his eyes welling up as he crosses the room, but he doesn’t care. Dean’s eyes are green. So so green. He runs his hand along Dean’s cheek again and Dean reaches up to hold his hand there. “You’re a bit scruffier than I remember, though.”
“’Course I know who you are.” Dean keeps grinning at him. “Who do you think you’ve been living with the past few months?”
-
Castiel and Dean move back into their apartment on a Wednesday. The elevator is down for maintenance again so they take the stairs. Dean holds Cas’ hand the entire way up.