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“I’ve started seeing things.”
You turn to him later that night, watching him slump against the doorjamb to your room, his eyes downcast. He’s agitated—not truly angry, but he’s getting there. You’re both aggravated to an extent; the day’s dragged on long enough. Amara and Metatron are in the wind, you’ve been thrown against too many walls for your back to stand, and if you look hard enough, you think you can see blood under Castiel’s fingernails. He probably doesn't notice it—otherwise, he would’ve scrubbed himself clean by now, rubbed himself red until the remnants of battle were erased from his skin.
“What, like, visions?” you ask him, rising up from your bed and walking in his direction. He doesn't look to you at first, doesn’t glance up from the floor or his scuffed shoes. His coat is gone, probably in his room, along with his jacket and tie. He looks too approachable here, too tempting to reach out and take his face in your hands. “Cas, if something’s wrong—.”
“Nothing’s… wrong,” he mumbles. Somehow, you don't believe it. “I’ve… I don’t want to leave here. Earlier, I…” He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”
You stop him before he can leave, your hand cupping the bend of his elbow, fingers digging into his skin under the rumpled fabric of his button down. He’s warm, a temporary relief in the chill of your home. “Tell me,” you push. You can’t handle the lies anymore, the secrets. The spiel you taught him years ago, to hide his feelings and never show them in the light of day. Things are different now—you can’t take the risk anymore. Because one day one of you will slip up and the things you’ve longed to say will be your dying words. If that. “I’m not having you zone out on me if you’re seeing—Lucifer, or something. Spit it out, Cas.”
Briefly, you wonder if he’ll leave. If he’ll pull away and storm back across the bunker and hide in his room for the rest of the night. He probably should, based on your exchange earlier, the venom that had dripped from both of your words. A vein jumps beneath your thumb; you ignore it the best you can. “I’m having… flashbacks, I guess you’d say.”
He pulls away from your grip, but instead of leaving, he walks past you and sits on the end of your bed, letting himself fall into the sheets. You shut the door; Sam doesn’t need to hear this. “I remember things. I remember… hurting you. Before we cured you, I remembered the look in your eye when you pinned me. The… countless fights, the people I’ve killed and seen murdered before my eyes. After everything I’ve done…”
“None of that was you.” Scrubbing your face, you walk over to join him, perching yourself by your pillow, your back turned to him. You can’t look at him when he’s like this, when he’s reflecting. There’s always a sadness to his eyes, an anger there that never burns away. Even now, he’s still every bit as holy as you remember, despite the Netflix binges and trash television. Hopefully he hasn’t gotten to Jerry yet. “And it wasn’t me, either. You know that.”
“But you were still there. Still aware, at least.” You glance over your shoulder; his eyes are closed, breaths coming in silent sighs. “The same couldn't be said for me. I fear my… attachment towards you is only bound to hurt us in the end. …All we do is hurt each other, Dean.” He pauses, covers his eyes with his arm. “Maybe Metatron was right. Maybe, after all of this, I really am broken.”
“Hey.” You stop him with a hand to his shoulder; he doesn’t acknowledge it, simply continues to breathe like you’re not there. Your heart aches at the sight, with the knowledge that you've done this. All you’ve ever done is hurt each other: physically, emotionally, all of it. And that’s all you’ll continue to do, too. “How many times have I told you not to listen to him? He doesn't—He doesn’t know you, Cas.” Not like I do.
“He knows me well enough to see that I’m scarred.” He finally removes his arm, red-rimmed eyes staring up at you, an almost invisible wetness threatening to spill down his temple if he allowed it. “Why do we continue to do this? The… fighting and the secrets, the lies. I thought living here, it would be… easier, that we’d heal. Together.”
You lower your head and squeeze his shoulder a bit tighter. “I don’t know,” you mutter, your heart not in it. To be honest, you don't think you’ll ever know. “Not exactly known for healthy relationships.” Your attempt at humor falls flat; Castiel glares at you, and this time, you do see a tear fall. “Look, Cas. I… You know me. You know you’re the closest thing I got to family anymore, and you’re…” You stop, swallow; you can do this. You can talk to him. No one’s listening, no one’s here to judge you except yourself. “I destroy everything I touch. That’s just what I do. And I’ll never forgive myself for what I’ve done to you, because that was me.” The words clog your throat, coming out in a wet growl. “But I’ve forgiven you. And I’ll always forgive you. After everything I’ve done, gettin’ my face beat in is the least that I deserve.”
“You don’t deserve that.” Now, Castiel glances away, turning his back to you. You let your hand drop, fingers idly tracing the sheets where he once rested, the warmth still there. “We don’t deserve to hurt each other, and we don’t deserve to come home every day and act like nothing has happened.” He sighs, almost hysteric. “I didn’t think love felt like death.”
You laugh despite yourself, running a hand through your hair. “Yeah, well… Love’ll do that.” Even now, the word tastes foreign to you—the feeling feels alien, but you know that’s what weighs you down. That drives you at the same time, that makes you want to reach out and smother him in his sleep and kiss him stupid. You can’t differentiate between wanting to run and wanting to pull him close anymore—they might as well be the same thing. “We don’t deserve each other.”
“We do.” Castiel rolls over onto his back, blinking at the roof. “We deserve the pain we bring upon ourselves, upon each other. We deserve to stay here and suffer for our transgressions together, for better or worse.” He laughs, hollow. “We should get married.”
You can’t help the hysteric chuckle that breaks free at that, more fear than anything. But as much as you don’t like to think about it, it’s the most reasonable option. Two idiots so in love with each other that they can’t even kiss—and Castiel wants to make sure you can never part, either. “You think so?” you ask. “You’d wanna marry me?”
He looks to you, mirth and sadness in his eyes, another tear falling. He probably doesn't even realize he’s crying; you wipe his face dry regardless. “I don’t think we’re fit for anyone else. Out of all of the times we’ve died, we’ve always found one another again.” He reaches over, taking your hand in his, bloodied fingers covering your own. “That way, we won’t hurt anyone else.”
Slowly, you nod—it’s better than anything else you have in mind. You don’t want him to leave, never—but one day, he’ll die, or you will, and that’ll be the end of it. And if one of you goes, the other will follow, dominos in a never-ending line. “After all this is over,” you tell him, and lower yourself to his side, keeping your hands locked tight, your shoulders brushing. “We get rid of Amara, and I’ll take you to the first courthouse I see. How’s that?”
Castiel nods and lets out a breath; he turns his head to you, your foreheads touching. If you moved another few inches, you could kiss him, seal your arrangement the old fashioned away. He does it for you instead, his free hand to your cheek, fingers curling around your jaw. “Keep your promise,” he says, an order.
You nod and kiss him again—it’s the least you can do.