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The woods are lovely, dark and deep
and I have promises to keep…
If only his life could be simple
as a Frost poem. But Cas
doesn’t think Robert
ever had to deal with monsters
or learning to be human,
just promises and snow and,
on one memorable occasion,
deciding which path to travel.
As for here—
well, here the monsters
are the easy part.
Monsters can be attacked,
can be understood.
Figure out what they want
and you can use it against them.
It’s the feelings bombarding him—
yearning and pain
and hunger and itches
and boredom and despair and even
(sometimes)
hope
all at once—
that threaten to drag him under.
It’s no wonder people think he’s crazy.
The drugs help, some.
They make everything
bigger
but soften the edges,
turn Picasso
into Monet.
It’s not an escape,
though he’s sure most everyone
(Dean)
thinks it is.
But he doesn’t care.
Without the drugs he’s
drowning,
adrift in a storm
with nothing to hold him up.
Except for nights
with Dean.
Cas walks faster, dead leaves
crunching
under his feet.
He doesn’t delude himself.
Dean might have loved him once,
or been teetering on the brink
of something like love,
but now he only wants Cas
for the release,
for the distraction,
for the solace.
But Cas still clings
to every moment,
every chance to breathe
and remember who he is.
Who he is.
Not who he was—
heaven’s good little soldier,
weapon forged in god’s own armory—
but who he is now.
Rebel.
Fallen angel.
Penitent bowing
at the altar of Dean Winchester.
The door creaks
when Cas pushes it open.
The camp is run so smoothly
Cas is sure Dean keeps the others
from oiling the door
so he always knows when Cas is there.
Everyone else knocks—
soldiers reporting to their commander—
but Cas is an invited guest.
“Cas.”
He takes a few breaths
to stand, eyes closed,
in the doorway,
hiding from the world,
to let the brightness that is Dean
chase all the shouting shadows away.
In, out.
In, out.
In, out.
Through his lashes he sees Dean,
body bent over a map in the flickering candlelight,
tension evident
in every line.
It hurts,
seeing Dean like this,
but Cas knows he can help.
“Tell me,” he says,
and for an unknown time
Dean talks
and Cas listens.
He paces the space,
sometimes brushing a hand
along the back of Dean’s chair,
sometimes reaching to grip a shoulder,
to hold a hand.
But mostly he listens.
And when Dean’s voice is rough,
when he has no more words
and only pleading in his eyes,
Cas nods.
They’re both lost,
Cas knows,
but they can help each other
find a way.
With time.
…and miles to go before I sleep,
and miles to go before I sleep