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Dean
(After Castiel was taken by the Empty)
Cas is dead.
Dean might as well be.
He lost the will to live when the Empty took the angel from him. Correction: when the Empty took his angel from him.
The Empty should have just taken Dean, too.
He remembers that night like it was yesterday. And not nine weeks, four days, 21 hours and 13 minutes - give or take 30 seconds - ago. The memories scorched deep in his senses, curdled around his soul so that they're there with every breath, every blink, each step he takes. Its hold now a permanent part of him.
One more he couldn’t save.
Thump.Thump.Thump. The measured pounding of Death's knock on the door, arrogant and foreboding
Time slowed down, nothing more than sluggish ticks on a timepiece, yet somehow running out too quickly anyway
The musty smell of the dungeon dripping despair alongside ghosts of past deeds imprisoned amid forgotten artefacts
The sticky, staticky noise of old pipes and fluorescent bulbs hesitating as if deciding whether they can bother to stay on or not
The damp walls rinsed dingy grey and the cracked veins on the floor disappearing into them
The air thick and suffocating, choking their words off at the tips of their tongues, sounds lost before they’re even conceived
They stare at each other.
Then…
“Goodbye, Dean.”
Castiel’s hand presses firm on Dean’s left shoulder - it singes at the memory - the intent known only to its owner as he pushes the hunter crudely to the floor. There’s no malice in it, though. Regardless, it’s hard where he lands, his hip smashing against unforgiving concrete. His brain fighting to make sense of the nonsensical.
Why would Cas push him away after holding him so close?
When he looks up, he catches it out of his peripheral vision, the black ooze that streams fluid and lifelike from a fissure that magically appears in the wall. It moves fast like laughter rushing to meet the source of the comedy, sick and dark.
Dean watches it engulf the angel and seconds later…they’re gone.
All that remains is…
Nothing.
Everything - sound, light, perception - chewed up and swallowed down.
Except for Dean; untouched and forgettable.
Dean shudders at the memory and reaches into his pocket for his flask, seeking its content's dulling effects. He drains the last mouthful, disappointed that he didn’t fill it before he left his room. He's been here before, broken and sad and lonely. The product of a life unlived and wasted, hanging on until the next tragedy makes him useful again.
Yeah, he should probably stop drinking.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he spends his nights grasping tightly to a bottle in one hand and the picture of him and Cas dressed as cowboys in the other. The photo is faded and worn, creased in the middle where it’s been folded and stuffed repeatedly into Dean’s wallet, weathered at the faces where Dean has caressed the image too many times to be healthy.
Dean rocks himself to sleep most nights and wakes with a headache pounding around his brain that’s not from the whiskey or beer or two-dollar wine he purchased secretly from the convenience store in the next town over. It’s the dreams - no, the nightmares - that haunt him.
There are two that recur.
In one, he and Cas are alone, maybe in the kitchen or the library. Out of nowhere, a viscous black ooze shoots out of the wall or up through the table, or else down from the ceiling and cuts off the angel’s voice at the top of a sentence.
What were you going to say, Cas?
Sometimes his blue eyes grow huge like saucers, bewildered and scared. Other times, to Dean’s horror, there’s a calm serenity washed over the angel’s face. Dean can never make peace with this version of his dream so he pushes it away.
Always, the thing consumes Cas.
In reality, it's more of a memory that has slithered into his dreams, part truth, part perversion, risen out of his grief to remind him of his worthlessness.
The other one never changes. In it, he's being pursued by a shadowed entity. No matter how fast he runs, the thing is always just a step behind, walking slowly - the way monsters in horror films move even as the audience screams at the victims to hurry - because it knows it will catch him. And it does. Every time.
At some point in the chase, Dean feels a cold bony hand grip his left shoulder, digging painfully into bone and muscle, cutting at the delicate skin to whip him around. Suddenly, he’s standing in front of the creature, staring at the putrid vacant space where once eyes and skin were, now just pockets of torn tendons and splayed muscles around a gaping mouth, maggots spilling over a blackened tongue. He can’t move. A silent shout emits from the being right before it transforms into something recognizable. Then, Dean’s face-to-face with… himself.
Dean always wakes up then, sweating, his hair plastered to his forehead and neck, breath coming in panicked fits. He’s never able to fall back to sleep afterwards. He’s given up trying to analyze the dream, even as he’s sure that there is some deep-rooted symbolism he’s meant to resolve.
That’s not to say he hasn’t tried.
After it’d happened three nights in a row, Dean had Googled: What does being chased by an unknown creature mean?
The result was typical and unhelpful as he read the pseudo-psychology response:
It implies you are being chased by your fears in real life. To dream about a mysterious figure indicates that you are surrounded by intense mental anguish. Being chased in one’s dreams is commonly a response to something in your waking life that you refuse, or are unable, to face. It is often an unresolved emotion of some sort.
Well, no shit, Sherlock (or in this case Google). My whole life is full of fear and intense mental anguish. Yet again, he dismissed the real issue behind the nighttime terrors because it doesn’t matter anyway. There’s no reason to try to fix what’s too late to be fixed.
Sitting up in his bed, reeling from the most recent nightmare, Dean runs his hand roughly down his face and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes in a fruitless attempt to blind the images settled there. He whimpers hoarsely into the night, make it stop, please. I can’t do this anymore.
***
Dean waits until it’s late, until the only sound is his own shallow breathing and the persistent whispers in his head reminding him of all the times he’d fucked up. Yeah, it's been a rough go lately.
This is it he decides, with a determination he scarcely owns, but fakes anyway. Dean’s going to Cas’ room. He’s going to clear it out, erase Castiel from their lives. From his life. Because the angel’s not coming back. Every idea, spell, incantation… hope has been exhausted. Dean has to accept it: he’ll never see Castiel again. Faced with this certainty, he swallows down a sob and chokes on his failures.
If you’d ask him, Dean would say he’s been delaying it because he’s been busy with other things: saving the world, catching up with Jack, repairing his relationship with Sam (it’s been tense the past few weeks for reasons, well…for reasons is all).
He'd be lying.
Truth is, he’s not ready. But at the rate he’s coming to terms with everything, he’ll never be ready. Might as well rip off the bandaid and hope he can staunch the flow of blood.
The walls that line the bunker halls seem to stretch impossibly far, his steps slow and laboured through them. They’re drab and pitying. They echo their condemnation of Dean: coward, it’s your fault, he deserved better than you. In self-preservation mode, he blocks it out.
He doesn’t remember walking the handful of steps from his room to Cas’, but suddenly Dean's standing at the door, his hand frozen on the doorknob. It's cold and uninviting, like the air circling the space around him, shoving at him, waiting to land the next punch.
The door itself is a basic rustic brown three-panelled door, thick and unassuming. The number 15 affixed to it is askew and Dean wonders when that happened and makes a note to fix it.
In hindsight, it's not that surprising that he’s lost track of his movements and the time spent in them; Dean's been doing most things on automatic pilot since….
Fuck!
He tosses the memory from his head with a violent shake. As usual, it doesn’t work and the image lingers, burned on the insides of his eyelids. Never releasing him.
Dean considers turning around and fumbling back to his room. At least there, he's got a bottle of whiskey waiting to embrace him for the rest of the night. It doesn't ask questions, doesn't expect answers he can't give. Couldn't give a shit when Dean babbles senselessly about black goo and beautiful smiles, soulful blue eyes you can get lost in. Won’t even bother to pick Dean up off the floor when he invariably lands there in another drunken stupor, too defeated and sad to undress and make it onto the bed.
It doesn't care about Dean one way or the other. The way it should be.
The seconds tick by. Once again, Dean hesitates, not sure he has the will to go through with it. This isn’t the first time the hunter’s stood here in recent weeks, willing the courage to cross the threshold.
He pauses to look at his shirt; it’s wrinkled again, and his pajama pants - stained and days old - hang loose from hips that are too skinny these days. His feet are bare and his hair is unkept and greasy. Dean pats at the buttons on his henley and notices the jagged state of his nails, dirt encased under each one.
Instantly, he’s mad at himself; Cas would be so worried to see him this way. With a crooked smile, that’s rare these days and doesn’t grace his eyes, Dean wonders if Cas would fuss over him, insist he shower and shave, throw a load of wash on for him while simultaneously deciding whether to make him a pb&j or grilled cheese sandwich. Would he wrap Dean in his trench coat, letting the body heat and scent of the angel cleanse him? Probably not, Dean never told Cas any of that. Never told Cas how his presence was a comfort, a safe place to rest. A refuge.
He never told Cas any single thing he felt about him or their friendship. How much Cas meant to him, how he made Dean a better man just by knowing him.
How Dean… loved him.
Dean draws in a long deep breath and steadies his shoulders. He tightens his grip on the door knob and presses it open in one fluid motion. At once, he smells Cas, the distinctive notes of rain and lavender and soil drift on the dust particles - made visible in the light that sneaks in from the hallway - to Dean’s nose. He’s not sure how he knows this is how Cas smelled, just that it is, was. In some recess of his mind, Dean’s memories hold this information so now that he’s here, it’s immediately recalled. There’s a painful comfort in this fact. Dean wipes at a tear, darting his head anxiously over this shoulder to make sure he’s alone. Grief is a lonely beast and Dean is the master that tends it.
The room is exactly as Cas left it that fateful morning, not knowing that he’d never return. Like the angel, it’s neat and orderly, nothing out of place. The sheets on his bed are tucked severely underneath the mattress and the pillow sits fluffed against the headboard. On the bedside table, there’s a pad of pretty stationary paper and a fancy calligraphy pen. Dean’s momentarily stuck on these items. Cas didn’t have need of material possessions, but he did appreciate the beauty in things: the spine of a hardcover book not yet opened, the smell of a new season in the air, the broad wings of a bird in flight.
He chuckles at the thought of Cas purchasing these items just because they’re pretty, Dean. I like pretty things, like you. Dean had gotten used to Cas saying stuff like this over the years, and he’d even let himself believe it every now and then.
Dean runs his hand over the table, letting the groves in the wood read its stories to him, his fingertips tasting the memories engraved in the knots and whorls. Imaging what Cas was doing when he sat here.
There's a ring stained on the surface, a murky spot left over from Cas’ late night tea habit. He never was good at remembering to use a coaster. Dean's irritation at him seems worlds away, a noise he hardly cares about now. Again, tears collect in his eyes even as the mark draws a smile to his lips. He laments the contradiction of it: a blemish that mars the surface, yet is perfectly symmetrical and mathematically exact, no end and no beginning, a thousand points of intersecting lines and infinite possibilities.
In their messed up world, could Dean and Cas have been a possibility?
Dean turns his attention to the notepad. With tender strokes, he runs his fingers over the top sheet; it’s bumpy to the touch, embedded with dried flowers around the border, the body of each page a softened shade of ivory sprinkled with light brown specks. It’s beautiful and Dean considers taking it back to his room. He’s not a writer or a poet, hell he’s not even good with the words he speaks. Most of the time, their meaning unwittingly changes course the instant thoughts are formed to the moment they pass his lips, their true intention getting swallowed up somehow in his throat.
On impulse, he picks it up and turns it over in his hand. It’s then he notices the uneven tear at the top of the pad where a sheet has been removed. Hmm…what were you writing, Cas?, Dean wonders and frowns at the whereabouts of the missing page. He sets it back down, mentally planning to snag it before he leaves.
His eyes sweep over the rest of the room. This should be quick Dean figures, picking up the empty box he’d left outside the door days before, big enough to contain the few books and pieces of clothing hanging abandoned in the closet and folded neatly in the top drawer of his dresser. Dean gathers them silently, intent on making short work of it, if for no other reason than to hasten his return to his room where he can drown all thoughts of this painful ordeal in crappy booze and loud music.
As he transfers the clothes, he recognizes one of his t-shirts buried at the bottom of the pile, almost as if it wasn't meant to be discovered. It's a threadbare AC/DC tour shirt Dean had picked up at a thrift store. What were you doing with my shirt, Cas? He lifts it to his nose and inhales deeply, his eyelashes brushing at the bottom of his lids. His nostrils flare as the faint scent of the angel burrows deep and rich in Dean's gut, engraving itself in all the empty spaces. Deciding that Cas won't miss it now, Dean tucks it gingerly into his waistband and then quickly changes his mind. He removes his own shirt and slips ‘Cas’ shirt over his head. He hugs his arms tightly around his sides and nearly cries from the delicious torment of it.
Determined to keep it to one trip and wondering if it’s a place the angel might stash stuff, Dean reaches his hand to the high shelf of the closet and runs his fingers across it, expecting to find it empty. His hand bumps against metal. Standing taller, the hunter peers over the warped piece of plywood that serves as a shelf and sees a rusted grey metal box far at the back. Reaching unsteadily, he grabs hold of it with both hands and carefully pulls it off, frowning when he notices the keyhole.
Dean sits down on the end of Cas’ bed and tries the lid. Locked. No worries, Dean muses as he reaches into his back pocket for the lockpick he keeps there. Within seconds, the lid gives - just enough that it still needs to be pried apart - with the familiar squeak of a hinge that needs oil. Dean winches in the silence, again nervously looking around like he’s been caught with his proverbial hand in the cookie jar. He sighs loudly when he realizes that Cas isn’t there to scold him for invading his privacy.
I hope you don't mind I'm in here, Cas.
Dean speaks out loud and chuckles humorously at the futility of it. Just another thing that’s changed since Cas died. He doesn’t laugh anymore, unless you count the sarcastic acerbic barbs he occasionally hurls at Sam, who Dean knows doesn’t deserve his anger but mercifully takes it anyway.
Turning back to the box, Dean eyes it suspiciously, experience having taught him that there’s probably nothing good in there. If Cas tucked something away, it’s because it wasn’t meant to be found. Dean bristles at the idea that he’s not worthy, that the angel kept secrets from him. It’s irrational, he knows. Dean’s the king of secrets and repressed emotions. But, Cas is different.
What are you hiding, Cas?
A final deep breath in and he pops the lid all the way open. It’s empty, save for a single envelope neatly inscribed with Dean in the centre. His brows furrow automatically and he bites his lip in confused contemplation. Did you mean for me to find this, Cas? Why would you hide it away, though? The questions mount as Dean sits motionless for several long indecisive minutes.
Eventually, Dean picks it up. He holds it delicately between his fingertips. Emotions hit hard and he’s thankful to be sitting down because his legs are shaking. He draws the letter to his chest and breathes, in and out, in and out.
Several things go through his mind at once: put it back in the box, close the lid, hide it away in the closet and forget about it.
Or, take it, read it and possibly break Cas’ trust.
Or, drink yourself into oblivion and wake up with a throbbing headache and spotty memory of any of this.
Curiosity wins out. Carefully, Dean slides his index finger into the corner and swipes across the length of it, breaking the seal. Another tentative breath and he lifts the flap up and peers inside. Folded neatly in three sections is a letter on the same paper as Cas’ bedside notepad. Again, Dean looks around the room furtively and considers stuffing it back in the box, unread and forgotten.
Yeah, right, Dean. As if you can turn back now.
Gingerly, he removes the letter, noting that it’s actually three sheets filled front to back, and unfolds it, flattening it against his knee. Instantly, he’s disappointed. The letter is written entirely in Enochian. It’s beautiful; all delicate flowing lines and symbols. And confirmation that the angel didn’t want Dean to read its contents.
But…when did Dean ever do what others expected of him. Sorry, Cas. I’ve gotten this far.
A glimmer of an idea is forming in Dean’s head as he places the metal box with the letter on top of the clothes and grabs Cas’ notepad and pen from his table. With a final nod and half-hearted grin to the room, Dean lifts the box and nudges the door closed.
***
Once in his room, Dean reaches under his bed for the bottle and glass he keeps hidden there nowadays. What Sam doesn’t know can’t worry him, Dean reasons as he wastes no time pouring a generous amount of whiskey and, lifting his gaze upward, salutes his best friend. “If you can hear me, I want, no, need you to know that I won’t ever forget you. Never. You’re my best friend, my…. I miss you, Cas”. He drains the glass in one quick gulp and immediately tops it up.
Several hours later, he wakes up curled on top of his bed, with the envelope clutched between the crumpled up bedspread and his chest. Slowly, the cobwebs clear and Dean’s surprised that in their wake he feels oddly refreshed and rejuvenated. He can’t remember the last time he slept so well and didn’t wake with either a headache or hangover, or combination of both, jackhammering the previous night's events from his brain. It’s then that he notices the letter is in his hand and wonders inexplicably if angel grace is the reason.
Dean
(Tells Sam about the letter)
Carried by his good mood, Dean walks into the kitchen, box tucked securely under his arm, where he finds Sam drinking some gross green concoction like he actually enjoys the taste of it and browsing his tablet.
“Morning.” Dean’s voice is bright and his brother’s attention is immediately grabbed as he looks up to see a rare smile on the other man’s face.
“Morning,” Sam responds cautiously and chances, “you seem good.”
Then, Sam notices the box and tracks that it must have something to do with Dean’s improved mood.
“What’s that?”
Dean puts it down on the table in front of Sam without answering, although grimacing at the way the leafy bits of the smoothie cling to his glass, thick and threatening. Absently, he reaches for a mug and pours himself a coffee. He hums his lips along the rim to take a sip. His smile remains.
Slightly miffed by Dean’s non-response, Sam follows up with, “Was that in the dungeon?”
When Castiel was taken by the Empty, both men had frantically scoured the stacks in the dungeon for anything useful in the hopes of bringing him back. After exhaustive attempts with no success, they’d been forced to give up.
“Nah, found it in Cas’ room,” Dean flushes guiltily.
“Ah, you finally did it, huh. So… how are you?” Sam asks carefully, mindful of the eggshells and glass shards lining the route to Dean’s answer.
He had tried several times over the last few weeks to get Dean to talk about Cas, open up about his feelings, but his brother always shot back at him with anger or else turned away without saying a word, which was somehow worse.
When he had offered to clear out Cas’ room himself, Dean had exploded, “he’s not gone, Sam!” and nearly broke his hand punching the wall in his rage. If it weren’t for the way his little brother had looked at him so pityingly, Dean might’ve felt bad. As it was, Dean liked the pain that the bruises and torn skin caused, the blossoming swell of tissue under dried blood. It sure as hell beat the pain that constricted his chest every time he thought about Cas not coming back this time.
As much as he hated to, Sam left it alone then. He knew his brother needed time to process the heartache - there was no other word for it - of losing Cas, suspecting as he had for a long time that theirs hinted at more than a platonic friendship. Dean’s not the most emotionally healthy guy so it’s hardly a surprise that he can’t quite connect the dots, didn't notice the pattern of shared looks and soft touches lost in translation.
But he does know that Sam’s been giving him a wide berth since he went ballistic at his brother’s suggestion. He softens his voice as he answers, “Yeah, it was time.”
A heavy pause settles around Dean’s words and Sam waits for him to finish the sentence hanging on the edge of his voice. “And, Sammy? Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Putting up with me since Cas, um, since I, we, lost Cas. I know I’ve been a lot to handle. More than usual, that is.” Dean tries for levity, but sadness paints his words in dark smudged tones.
Sam watches as the smile Dean’s trying so hard to hold slips off his face, not having his eyes to anchor it in place. He runs calloused fingers through his hair, picking his next words carefully. Despite his size, Sam is a gentle giant, the edges of his anger and hopelessness having softened over the years. He needs to get this right, talk Dean off the ledge he’s been straddling for weeks.
Save his brother.
Like his brother has so often saved him. Flashes of the countless nights the brothers - barely out of single-digits - sat holed up in some off-the-beaten-track motel room after their dad left them, again, with only Dean’s wits and resourcefulness to make it all seem normal. Finding entertainment and meals out of nowhere so Sam wouldn’t have a clue just how fucked-up and not normal their lives actually were. Playing crazy 8’s (that he always somehow won) with a 49 card deck that Dean snatched from a trash bin and eating beef jerky and stale potato chips to the repeated chorus of ‘eat your meat and veggies, Sammy’. It was only much later Sam realized his brother was more a parent to him than his own father and that Dean would sacrifice anything to protect him. Even at the cost of his own well-being and happiness.
“Dean, Cas meant a lot to you. Don’t for one moment apologize for grieving his death. It’s okay to miss him, ya know.” Sam speaks honestly, subtly giving his big brother permission to mourn Cas openly and without shame, the way anyone else would be free to mourn their partner. Sam knows for Dean, Cas has always meant… more.
Dean holds Sam’s gaze for a long beat until a warm rush, that rises up from the cavern of his belly, threatens to reveal too much and he breaks it to look down, noticing for the first time Cas’ mug in his hand. He grins fondly as he recognizes the ‘bee happy’ slogan curled around a cartoon bumblebee. With a thick pang that tugs behind his ribcage, he sighs thickly through his nose, his jaw clenched in a pained effort to contain the emotion before it can slink out into the daylight.
It’s the mug Cas used when he had coffee in the morning or tea at night. Dean teased him every time. Just get a different mug, Cas. There’s like a hundred to choose from. But, he’d fix Dean with his kind eyes and counter good-naturedly, this one makes me happy, Dean. I think it’s the little things that matter. Don’t you? He struggles to hide the wave of emotion that rushes to the surface of his cheeks at the memory.
Pressing his shoulders back and standing to leave, Dean pauses close to where Sam sits, slightly stunned by his brother's words and working out their meaning, to say something, anything, in return. Funny thing is, he doesn’t feel the usual need to lie or refute the implication Sam’s laid gently at his feet.
Instead, he places a hand on top of Sam’s head and ruffles the hair there. Under normal circumstances, this would warrant an annoyed grunt and swift slap away. Only this time, Sam reads it for the soft gesture it is.
“Yeah, I know.”
Castiel
(A few days after the ‘break-up’)
Castiel hears the low rumble of Baby’s engine before he sees her. Moments later, she’s parked beside his brown pick up truck and the driver stretches long legs out and walks to where the angel sits staring after a pair of swans that dip in and out of the water.
“Hey ya, Cas.”
“Do you know that swans mate for life?”
“Uh, no. I don’t think so.”
“Yes, once they find each other, they become inseparable. Even death can't break their bond. It's beautiful, the certainty of it, don't you think?”
“Sounds a lot like soulmates.” Confusion dips Sam's brows together, but he’s used to Cas’ ramblings leading to a point. He waits for the angel to continue.
“If only human love and connection were as simple, as lasting…” Cas trails off and turns his head to offer the young Winchester brother a weak smile.
Sam only nods.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me, Sam.”
“‘Course. What’s up?” Sam lowers his large frame to sit on the opposite end of the bench, suspecting that it has something to do with his brother.
Without preamble, Cas tells him about his fight with Dean, how Dean had been so cold, how he blamed Cas for everything that had gone wrong. How he couldn’t even look Cas in the eye when the angel tried to apologize. His words are rushed, as if compelled to expel them from his body before they burn him from within. Cas fights back tears, but Sam can hear it in his cracked words, can see it in his tired washed out eyes. Not for the first time, he wonders when the angel became so human.
Dammit, Dean, thinks Sam. This isn’t what you want.
It does, however, explain his brother’s mood lately.
Cas stops short of telling Sam how he slowly climbed the bunker stairs, wishing with each tentative step that Dean would’ve called, Cas, stop! Come back here would ya? I’m pissed, but we’ll get through this. We always do.
And he won’t tell Sam how it nearly broke him completely when he closed the door behind him knowing it was the last time he’d ever see the hunter, how he’d wished for death right then and there.
“Cas, Dean will come around. You know him, he just needs space to calm down and then he’ll call. Give it time, I’m sure of it.” He fixes Cas with his best puppy dog eyes as he lies through his teeth. He’s never seen Dean this way, but if this latest stretch of isolated silence and binge drinking are any clue, it’s not good.
“Thank you, Sam, but I’m afraid the damage is too severe this time. I wanted to tell you myself why I’ve been absent. If I know Dean at all, he’s not talking.”
“No, he’s not. Don’t worry, I’ll talk to him, Cas. Get him to see your side. He’s a stubborn dick sometimes, but I know it’s eating him up. I’ve never seen him so depressed. Now I understand why.”
Sam claps a hand on Cas’ shoulder and fixes an empathetic look at him. “It’s not over between you two. It’s just a fight. All couples, uh, friends, fight.”
Cas smooths a blade of grass between his palms and doesn’t catch the slip up.
“You’re a good friend, Sam. And a good brother. Dean’s lucky to have you.” There’s a sad fondness in his voice.
Struck with an idea, Sam sputters, “write a letter!”
“What?”
“To Dean. You don’t have to give it to him, but at least you’ll be able to ‘tell’ him how you feel, all the things you would’ve said if he’d given you the chance.”
Cas inclines his head to the side, thoughtfully considering Sam’s advice.
On a roll, he continues excitedly, “Write about your feelings, what his friendship means to you, how hurt you are, how important he is to you, all of it. I honestly don’t know if it’ll help, but it could be cathartic. At the very least, it might give you some closure.”
“Hmm…that’s an interesting idea, Sam. Perhaps I will. Thank you.”
Cas braces his hands on his knees and stands to leave. Gazing straight ahead, he confides, “I have feelings...for Dean. Feelings that go beyond simple friendship. I have for a very long time now. I think you’ve guessed.” He pauses with a heavy sigh that descends like a dark cloud over the small space around them. “Feelings I know he could never return.”
Sam sits stunned as he stares at Cas’ profile, strong even as it quivers, and lets his confession settle. Suspecting is one thing - they were shit at hiding it, really - but to hear confirmation that he wasn’t projecting his suspicions on a situation that he may very well have fabricated, is another.
He turns one last time to Sam. “It’s been a pleasure to know you, Sam. Take care of him.”
Cas pauses and Sam watches as his throat struggles to swallow around his sorrow.
“For me.”
Sam watches the angel climb into his truck and drive off. He sits there for a long time, picking mindlessly at a hole in his jeans, staring across the water and watching the sunlight dance on the tiny ripples the swans make as they swim.
Louder than he intended, he mutters, “Fuck!”
Cas
(Life without Dean/The impending Deal)
As he drives away from Sam and his connection to the Winchesters, Castiel allows the tears to fall. They don’t stop even as he pulls up to the dilapidated building that he calls home, at least for the time being.
Sitting stiff and motionless on the shabby sofa bed in the latest crappy motel in a string of crappy motels, Castiel listens to the sounds of life outside the door and through the thin walls. Somehow, he’s both a stranger and a friend to it.
His thoughts of late turn to the deal he made - a selfless promise that glares bright with his growing humanity - so far removed from his obedient immutable ‘angelness’. Not one he regrets, but one he does wish could have a different outcome, one where he won’t be banished to the Empty.
All for the act of saving a loved one. For the crime of finding true happiness. For the punishment of embracing free will and self-determination. The double-edged trappings of being mortal.
The cruelty of it is masterful, if he’s being honest.
The more he ruminates, the more his thoughts circle back to the concept of souls. Human souls are the most potent construct in all of creation. They wield immense energy and potential. Castiel thinks about this - a lot. An average soul is one thing, but imagine how powerful the soul of the Righteous Man must be, a soul God himself ordered saved before it could be defiled beyond redemption? A soul belonging to a man so loving and strong and important that he survived ruthless torture and unbearable suffering.
The soul of a man who still found a way to put others before himself.
Worth saving, worth protecting.
Powerful enough to save a fallen angel?
Even if his half-baked theory held any merit, it mattered little, Cas concedes. His feelings were clear; Dean didn’t care about him, maybe never had. Certainly didn’t love him.
After all, Cas left. And Dean didn’t stop him.
Dean
(Asks Sam for help to translate Cas’ letter)
When Dean isn’t forthcoming, Sam bows his head to stifle a sigh of irritation and presses, “Are you going to tell me what’s in the box?”
“Uh, yeah. It’s a letter. To me. From Cas.” Dean pauses before admitting, in a rushed blend of words, “Itwashiddenonashelfatthebackofhiscloset.” Even given everything the brothers have been through together, Dean still feels a pocket of shame at having taken it and shrugs nervously as he waits for Sam’s reaction.
His head lifts, eyes wide in a barely disguised flicker of recognition that he tempers quickly, and mumbles, “Oh.”
“Oh? That’s it? Don’t strain your brain there, Sammy.”
“Ya, no sorry.” Sam recovers enough to get his bearings. “Just wondering if you should leave it. I mean, Cas hid it, right? Maybe he doesn’t want you to read it.”
“Yeah, I thought that, too. But he’s not here anymore, is he?”
He growls hotly as he paws at the heat rising in his throat, a surge of anger pressing the point, deflecting it to Sam because he can’t handle it alone. “What’s the harm?” Awareness of his tone doesn’t keep the defensiveness from it, despite the warm crimson of embarrassment that follows.
What doesn’t Sam get? This is the last piece of Cas he has.
Conflicted thoughts swirl in Sam’s head as he clocks Dean’s odd behaviour, fearing that whatever’s written will have a drastic effect on his brother. Good or bad, he can’t predict.
What if Cas professed his love for Dean? Could Dean even handle knowing? Would it make things worse if his brother felt the same and couldn't reciprocate? Could this be the final straw that sends Dean over the edge?
In truth, it’s a moot point. He knows his brother; Dean’ll read it no matter what Sam says. His brain switches gears quickly and he looks at the flip side.
What if that’s exactly what his brother needs to hear? That the angel found Dean worthy of his love; after all, he did renounce everything for him (Sam long ago stopped kidding himself that he was any part of the equation). Could this be the first step towards healing?
A sudden headache nudges behind Sam's eyes as he weighs the pros and cons.
Before he can voice any opinion, Dean says,
“Problem is, it’s written in Enochian. Do you really think he doesn’t want me to know what’s in it?” The defensiveness is gone, revealing the hurt underneath. Dean clears it from his throat before Sam can pick up on it. He does anyway.
With kid gloves, Sam asks, “Can I take a look? ”
Sam’s good with languages - always has been - both reading and speaking, even has a knack for picking up bits and pieces of the otherworldly language of angels. It's for this reason he's usually the one to chant spells and demon exorcisms, to awaken ancient Latin verses from their dead sleep. It’s mesmerizing to listen to him, the way his lips and teeth twist around the sounds and syllables of obscure text, melt over them like the smooth slide of warm bourbon after a long day. So, it's no surprise that he easily recognizes several words or can make a pretty good guess at their meaning.
Friends, sorry, forgive, regret all come sharply into focus.
He treats the letter delicately, both a penance and a declaration dyed into the fibres.
Dean watches his brother, a sudden swell of pride cresting. Loving Sam has always been easy, no one would question the lengths Dean would go to for his brother, his protection always on display, shoved defiantly in their opponents’ faces as if to provoke a standoff just so he can prove it. Why, then, does he flinch at the suggestion that his feelings for his best friend should be less? Or should be denied?
Sam’s eyes flit back and forth, skimming over the clumps of letters, making quick deductions at the glimpses that take hold. All the while, conscious of his brother's stiffly held body and intense stare. Breath held. Is he expecting something, too? The thought disperses quickly as he finds it.
The phrase he looks for jumps off the page. The meaning bleeds through the paper so clearly that even Dean should be able to peel away at it, see it for the romantic intention it is, framed by all the other endearments before and after it. Not platonic. Not brotherly. Romantic.
He'll keep it to himself, though, because he feels like a trespasser with a secret he shouldn’t have.
Dean works to keep the desperation from spilling out of his mouth, but it dribbles past his vocal chords anyway. “Well? Can you read it? What does it say?”
“Nah.” Sam doesn't know why he lies, just that it feels safer. An uninterested third party. Innocent bystander. Plausible deniability.
Instead, he offers,
“Bummer. I'm sure it's nothing important. You know Cas. Probably his theory on why jelly is the superior fruit spread to jam and how it pairs perfectly with peanut butter.” He (figuratively) wipes at his brow as this truly lame theory bypasses Dean’s single-minded focus.
Until…
“Hey, didn’t Charlie and Cas translate the Enochian alphabet one weekend last fall when things were slow?,” Dean recalls with hopeful trepidation.
Even as Dean stands up to rifle through the library desk table, Sam tries, “Um, yeah, I think. But, I have no idea where they put their notes.”
“Aha! Here they are. It’s a sign, Sammy.”
And maybe it is.
“That could take a while, Dean.”
“That's why you're gonna help me, brainiac Stanford boy.”
Sam doesn't respond.
“You in?”
“Uh, Dean. I think you should do this one on your own.”
“Why? Just ‘cause it’s addressed to me?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Dean raises a curious eyebrow in his brother’s direction.
“What do ya think it’s going to say that you can't know?” (And, damn, he really is clueless, Sam sighs).
“I just think it might say things that you’ll want to keep, like, to yourself.” If it wasn’t so fragile a topic, Dean’s confused expression would actually make Sam laugh out loud.
“Tell ya what? You read it alone and if you still want to tell me, you can. After. Deal?”
“Ya, okay. Deal. But, I don't know what you think could be so private.”
Cas
(Alone, shortly after his talk with Sam)
Time’s running out. He can feel it.
As Cas prepares to put pen to paper, he wonders wistfully what, if anything, could break the deal he'd made with the Empty. He's not regretting his decision to save Jack by forfeiting his own life. He'd make the same deal a thousand times over to save the boy he considers his son.
But, he's scared, too. Not of dying, but of spending eternity reliving the regrets of all his ill-fated decisions.
Of which there are many.
The one thing he'll never regret though, is his choice to love Dean Winchester. And it's getting harder with each passing day to deny that this truth alone is the source of most of his happiness.
Even if knowing that it’s the thing that will take him in the end.
In another lifetime, maybe his love could be enough. If things were different, maybe this would be all he needed. One day, maybe Dean could reciprocate.
Maybe that would free him from the deal.
But, Dean doesn't love Cas back.
He shakes his head at the nonsense of such an idea.
***
Cas thinks about Dean, sketching him in his mind, as is his favourite habit. Smiling at the images that float to the surface like tiny bubbles springing up from the bottom of a lake to chase the buttery light, seeking the heat of a summer day and splitting the early morning fog neatly. Whispering into the stillness with quiet confidence, I’m here.
Brave. Noble. Strong.
Even though breaking the water’s invisible membrane means they pop and dissolve away.
Poof!
At least, they were here.
But it’s not the physical parts of Dean that the angel calls to mind. That would be too easy; emerald eyes framed in lines etched by trauma and, when granted permission, laughter, strong working hands, broad shoulders, a smile like an ethereal wavelength.
No, it’s his soul. The part of Dean that quietly changed an angel of the Lord. Minutely at first, to be sure. But enough that once begun, the fragile seed of doubt started to take shape, bending to the form of a new god. A loving, fallible, yet honourable god. One that looked and sounded remarkably like Dean ‘I'm going to save the whole world’ Winchester.
Until he was here, alone and sad. A widower grieving a partner that was never his.
It matters not though, for even this pain is delicious. Because to think of Dean is to think in music stanzas and colour palettes, in beautiful tragic prose.
Because…
Dean is poetry.
Cas is the poet.
Dean
(Translates the letter)
It feels good to have that familiar rush of purpose - at least for the short term - with a project to focus his thoughts before they inevitably give up the ghost and implode on themselves in the dark place that is their new home since Cas died. So Dean drains the coffee pot and toasts a slice of bread, which he doesn't waste effort to butter and only half considers actually eating. Truth is, he rarely eats much when he throws himself into a task. He can’t count the number of times he’s spent a full day existing solely on cold coffee and warm beer as he rebuilt Baby, sanding and painting over the bumps and bruises of the job, polishing away the scratches and scars he never quite forgave himself for causing in the first place. Excitement for the finished product eliminating trivial needs like food.
Mug firmly in one hand, box tucked under the other arm and the toast hanging part way out of his mouth, Dean winks at Sam and leaves the kitchen with a lightness in his step that doesn’t go unnoticed by either man.
He locks himself in his room. The only time he ventures out are to take a piss or grab another beer from the fridge. With the familiar sounds of Zeppelin playing on repeat in the background, Dean settles himself on his bed, pen and paper posed and eager to decode Cas’ letter.
Which quickly proves to be no easy task.
Enochian doesn’t share many common aesthetic features with the English alphabet. Whereas, English is about straight lines, dots and simple curves, Enochian symbols more closely resemble flowery hieroglyphs uncovered from an ancient Egyptian tomb of some long dead pharaoh no one remembers. And Dean is not fluent.
Through a lot of trial and error - which occasionally has in him throwing his pen against the wall violently and cursing anyone he's ever so much as glanced at - Dean learns that the ‘let’s patiently look at a task from all angles before calmly working through it’ gene skipped him in favour of the ‘can’t sit still for more than five minutes without losing my shit and hitting something’ gene he inherited. Briefly, he wonders whether it’s the Campbell or Winchester lineage he has to thank for that character flaw and decides it’s probably both and that Sammy is the black sheep in this very dysfunctional family.
Luckily, Charlie is a genius-level hacker who loves a worthy cause, which is to say, she's a whiz at figuring out clues and cracking puzzles regardless the reason and takes to the task with a zealousness like a dog with a bone. This trait compliments nicely with Cas’ predilection for exactness and orderly note taking. The fact that they work in perfect harmony together is an added bonus as the hunter remembers them sitting hunched shoulder-to-shoulder in the corner and giggling conspiratorially while sneaking glances at him when they thought he wasn't looking. But of course, he was looking; Cas’ laughter was music to Dean's ears and the gummy smile that betrayed its source was a masterpiece to behold.
Curious at what Charlie said that made the angel blush and tuck his head down, Dean had asked innocently, “What are you two whispering about over there in your private nook?”
Not missing a beat, Charlie quipped, “Don't get your silk panties in a knot, dude.” She paused to wink at neither of them in particular. “I was just asking Castiel here if you always look so broodingly handsome and serious when you’re pretending to do research.” Flustered at the attention AND being busted, Dean lacked the brain width to ask how Cas had answered, but did note the pink stain of the angel’s cheeks travel instantly to coat his neck and ears.
Instead, he muttered gruffly, “Get back to work” and stood up quickly, scraping his chair loudly against the floor, and excused himself with a petulant hmph.
As he stalked out of the library, he heard Charlie’s voice follow after him to ask, “Don’t you want to hear the answer?,” her words punctuated with chuckles that he pretended not to hear.
And still they trailed after him. Unable to catch up, all he caught was, “He said….”
Dean was already halfway to the kitchen when he ran right into Sam, literally. “Whoa, man!” He could feel redness flaming his face and sharpening his words.
“Are you blushing?,” Sam snickered, his younger sibling instincts kicking into full gear at Dean’s obvious discomfort over something he’s instantly sorry he missed.
“Shut up, Sammy.”
***
His brain is briefly side tracked as Dean wishes they'd both had more time together; theirs was a friendship that deserved the chance to grow and flourish.
Fondly, he turns back to their notes and is eternally thankful for the stick that was so often wedged up Cas’ ass because didn't the little nerdy dude jot down helpful annotations and tips for deciphering some of the trickier symbols in spaces all along the margins. Dean runs his finger along the words and grins at the occasional doodle - usually of bees - accompanying them, a habit the angel had picked up from his hours of doing research with Sam.
God, he misses that blue-eyed, messy hair, pouty-lipped, trench coat wearing, head tilting, beautiful angel.
Despite all that though, it’s still an arduous task. What he foolishly thought would be a couple of hours of work, turned into the whole day and better part of the night, if 3 a.m. is to be considered nighttime in any definition of the word. Rubbing bleary eyes and suppressing back-to-back yawns, Dean stands to stretch out cramped legs and crack stiff fingers, wincing at the loud popping noise it barks into the silence.
And although he's bone tired, his brain won’t let him sleep, too jittery and unsettled to simmer down, too something to calm the torrent of emotions and welcome sleep’s embrace. Maybe I should’ve left well enough alone, he worries. Things don’t have a way of turning out for me. He rubs the fragile skin around bloodshot eyes and sighs a belly full of indecision. Up until this point, his nerves had prevented him from reading the translated text - his ability to compartmentalize coming in handy - and he turns the letter over to lay face down on the bed.
Suddenly, he’s seized with panic at what the angel deemed necessary to write down, but keep secret from him. I wish I knew what to do here, Cas. I'm not sure I'm ready for what you've written. Please, tell me it’s okay.
But, Cas is gone.
So, Dean does what he does best when he can’t face a problem head-on, he deflects. And stuffs his face.
On stocking feet, Dean shuffles quietly to the kitchen where he pulls leftover spaghetti and meatballs out of the fridge. Too tired to heat it up, but also too hungry to go to bed on an empty stomach, Dean sits down at the table and grimaces at the cold congealed pasta he forks solemnly into his mouth.
Dean and Cas
(Returned from Purgatory)
Dean's more himself these days. In fact, he's better than that, he's fantastic. They’re home.
In the amiable quiet of each others’ company, his thoughts take him back to Purgatory and his desperate search to find Cas, terrified that he’d run out of time, or worse, that the angel was dead. There've only been a handful of times when panic forced its way through his stoic defences, yet it had in those terrifying moments when they were separated in a land of abominable creatures who hated angels more than each other.
And it very nearly had been the end. In that dark uncertainty, nothing else mattered. Dean’s only purpose was finding his best friend and telling him how sorry he was, to explain that it wasn’t Cas’ fault, but his. To beg for forgiveness because otherwise what was the point in any of it?
He'd thrown all pride aside and fallen clumsily to his knees, praying to the angel through silent tears, laying bare a confession of sorts. He hadn't had time to examine it then; that would come later in flashbacks and restless dreams. Dean only knew the relief he'd felt as he wrapped strong arms around Cas in that bleak forest clearing.
It was soul-restoring.
And yet, there’s something he dare not speak trapped under his tongue. All the times he was so close to…There was always an excuse, always a better time, always tomorrow.
“It’s good having you back, Cas.” They’re sitting in the library chatting softly and toasting a relatively low-key past couple of days. Dean’s happy and it shows in his relaxed posture and easy smiles that fan out at the corners of his eyes.
“It’s good to be back, Dean.” Cas regards the hunter warmly, the vivid blue of his eyes radiating outward. Life is good. He’s cautiously happy, though. The deal he made weighs heavily on his mind, warning him not to give too much room to his happiness.
Their conversation is light and effortless, punctuated by carefree laughs, periods of comfortable silence and the occasional ‘accidental’ brush of fingers and forearms. The fight now a distant memory, forgiven and forgotten.
It would be so easy…
Resolving not to tempt fate, reluctantly Cas announces, “I think I’ll call it a night.” He stands to leave and notes the instant frown that at once transforms Dean’s face.
“Wait, what? We’re having such a nice…just, it’s been too long, man. Are you sure you don’t want another?” Dean points to the whiskey bottle with his free hand, eyebrows raised, one side of his mouth upturned.
“Rain check?”
Dean tries his best to hide his disappointment as he rubs roughly at his stubble. “Sure. But, I’m holding you to it.”
He's doing that thing again with his head, Dean thinks. Shit!
Cocking his head to the side - just a little, but enough - Cas replies, “Deal. Sleep well, Dean.”
Dean watches him go and pours himself a double.
Dean
(After reading the letter)
The tears finally dry. But still Dean sits silent and unmoving. Suddenly, the magnitude of everything hits, a meteor finding its mark, intent on levelling chaos in its path as it plunges a hole in the earth's crust. The pull of gravity too strong to prevent the destruction.
His body hangs limp as it slips soundlessly off the bed to land as a heap on the floor, discarded. Dean ignores the press of his spine against the harsh steel of the bed frame as he tucks his knees up, curling his body in on itself. Distantly, he thinks maybe this will protect me. At the same time, he lowers his head to rest in his cupped hands, his sharp elbows resting on his thighs, shoulders slumped.
Hurt, anger, despair all fight to take centre stage.
Quietly, muffled in his palms, he whispers “I would’ve said it back.”
No! That’s not good enough, Dean chastises himself.
Still whispering, louder this time, “I would’ve said it back.” His voice chokes on itself as it breaks under the strain of words delivered too weak…and too late.
NO! That’s not good enough!
Dean removes his hands from his face, but keeps his head lowered, too leaden to lift under the weight of his inaction and mistakes.
“I would’ve said it back!” He spits the words out, not sure if he’s mad at Cas for not giving him the chance to say them or at himself for being too much of a coward to know they were true.
“Cas, I would’ve said it back.” He breaks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I do, too. Forgive me.”
Time ceases to exist. It stands still while the outside world has the nerve to keep churning, oblivious to the pain unleashed in a secret room in a secret bunker in a secret location underground.
Somehow in this vacuum of time, something miraculous happens…
An iridescent glow fills the room and a soft rustle accompanies a warm breeze that lifts the letter briefly before settling it back down on the mattress beside Dean. A strong hand cups underneath Dean’s chin, bringing him back to himself. Before he can register what’s happening, the hand lifts it and the hunter’s eyes meet vivid blue.
A hollow gasp is pulled out of him. What?
In front of Dean, Cas crouches inches from his face.
“I heard your prayer, Dean.”
In a rush, Dean lunges forward to throw desperate arms around the angel - even as he’s convinced it’s an illusion conjured by his mind to torture him - but stops just short. Needy lips hover a hair breath away from making contact. Hastily, he reminds himself to inhale.
Cautiously, Dean mouths, “Are you real?”
The apparition nods, holding fast to the hunter’s pale green eyes, misted over and weepy. Red-rimmed and pleading. Decades of loss and suffering laid bare in eyes that somehow still hold a glimmer of innocence in their depths.
Certain he’ll feel no resistance, after all a ghost has no substance to push back, he presses his lips to ‘Cas’. The electrical currents in his head misfire as he feels a response, soft lips move against his, a tongue snakes along the seam of Dean’s lips, tasting, caressing. It’s too much, but Dean stops trying to make it make sense, accepting that he’s finally cracked so he kisses the angel long and deep. One hand grips a handful of hair at the nape of Cas’ neck while the other skims the skin along his jawline, surprised by how real the stubble feels as it scratches against his fingertips.
When he pulls away, Dean collapses weightless into Cas, emotions overwhelming him as he cries shamelessly onto his neat white shirt.
Cas wraps tight arms around him and holds him through his tears, humming his lips in a soothing melody against his freckled temple. Telling Dean over and over, “It’s okay. It’s okay. Shh…I’m here, now. I’m here.” Willing the words to seep through the cracks of his armour, pave over the dirt and gravel and cracked earth of Dean’s trauma and replace it with clean fresh grass and sweet morning dew.
“Don't ever leave me again. I can't be in this world without you. Please.” And his please is so weighed down in grief and vulnerability that Cas almost disintegrates under its heaviness.
“I promise, my love.” And because words matter - the way humans phrase things matter - Cas doesn't promise Dean that he'll never leave him. He promises Dean that he'll always stay.
They embrace and breathe into each other for several glorious minutes until Dean believes what his body and brain are telling him. Overcome with curiosity, and lacking any ability to speak in more than one syllable words, asks simply, “How?”
“I don't know, although I have a theory.”
Cas gathers Dean's hands in his and runs his thumbs gently over them, tracing the tiny, forgotten scars Dean's collected like medals over the years and the most recent ugly bruise the angel worries is because of him, and explains,
“Once again, an omnipotent entity underestimated you.” The beam of pride literally shines a brilliant luminescent blue in Cas’ eyes.
“I felt waves of energy in the Empty. At first, it was a faint shudder, gone as quick as it came. Before long, they intensified. They woke me up as they got progressively stronger and more frequent, insistent. They reverberated in my bones, in my teeth and hair. Rest was no longer possible. Yet, it wasn't unpleasant. On the contrary, the sensation was…familiar, safe, even if I couldn't place it right away. I was tired, my brain foggy and scattered, lost in this unending void. The silence and darkness had deadened my other senses for a time. But, still, the waves would not relent. It’s like they were speaking to me, nudging at my core until I dragged myself out of it enough to pay attention. And I did. I recognized that relentlessness, that persistence. In a haze that slowly receded, I felt you."
He pauses here as much to frame his next words as to let it sink in with Dean, whose eyes are wide and mouth is slack.
“I remember your soul, Dean. Its energy. Its power. Its staggering beauty like a beacon of goodness and purpose that called to me. It’s intertwined with my grace, a tether that connects me to you, and you to me.”
As Cas speaks, tears pool in Dean's eyes. He makes no effort to stop them as they spill over the edges and slide down his cheeks.
“It's unlike anything I've ever felt. Your soul is unlike any other soul on Earth. It burns bright and true. That makes you extremely powerful. More powerful than the Shadow - the entity that governs the Empty - cares to admit. Your reputation as a human that doesn't take ‘no’ for an answer is something our black gooey friend doesn't want to deal with. Their undisturbed slumber is more important than holding onto an angel with a crack in their chassis. And I certainly don't think it wanted to go head-to-head with a stubborn pain in the ass human like you, again.”
“But you love this stubborn pain in the ass human.” There’s a shy twinkle in Dean’s eye that hasn’t been there for a long time.
“Sadly, I do.” Except the fond way Cas’ eyes hold Dean's gaze and the subtle tilt of his head tells Dean he wouldn't change him for anything.
He falls a little more in love.
Cas continues, “It was you. Your…”
“My love,” Dean finishes.
“Yes, it was your love that saved me. That brought me back. To you.” Cas cradles his breath in his throat as he watches Dean’s body language and facial features, looking for any signs of embarrassment or withdrawal. When there’s none, he relaxes, the tension evaporating from his forehead and neck, his joints unclenching.
Dean smiles and flips Cas’ hands over so he can return the favour, running his thumb along the lifelines on his palms with gentle strokes. He draws the angel’s hands to his lips and brushes them tenderly across his knuckles. “Hmm…”
“Although,” Cas continues sheepishly, “that's just a theory.”
With tentative fingers, Dean strokes Cas’ hair off his brow, letting them glance lightly at the skin there, and feathers the strands back. He drinks him in with thirsty eyes. Then, the hunter pulls him into a hug and whispers breathlessly into his ear, “I didn't get a chance to reciprocate, Cas.”
Dean plants a soft kiss at a ticklish spot on his neck where it meets the curve of his jaw and whispers, “I love you, too.”
Dean
(‘The Letter’)
The letter sits where Dean left it, facedown on the bed.
He stares at it as though it has the power to make or break him. Steady his world or completely dismantle it. No in between and no middle ground. This is it, all or nothing. And for the umpteenth time, Dean considers destroying the one thing that might actually deliver him.
Without another moment to brood, Dean scoops it up and settles himself against the headboard. He doesn't look at it, not yet. Instead, he closes his eyes and breathes a silent prayer into the room.
“I’m sorry, Cas. That I wasn’t there for you. When you needed me. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better friend, a better person. Someone you could…. Forgive me. Please.”
Before he chickens out, Dean picks up the letter, flips it over and nearly gags on a rush of bile that pushes violently towards his throat. There are only a handful of dates Dean remembers:
January 24
May 2
November 2
And the one written so innocently in his own handwriting at the top right corner of the page he holds trembling between whitened fingertips. He shudders at a sudden chill that pebbles his skin with bumps and a sheen of sweat that trickles down his spine. He blinks through tears that he swipes at irritably before they land on the paper.
Dean forces his attention back to the letter and he watches as the letters clump together into words that sharpen into focus against the page.
Dean reads.
~
November 5 , 2020
Dean,
Dear Dean,
I’m writing this letter with no intention of giving it to you. Doing so would likely serve no purpose other than to harm you further and I can no longer be the source of your sadness and anger.
Instead, I write it for me in the hopes that I might find comfort and, after seeking Sam’s counsel following our fight breakup, to tell you how I feel. About our friendship, our history together, this life I willingly chose over Heaven and my own brethren.
And my feelings about… you.
Your brother thought it might help me work through my confusing emotions. Perhaps, even offer me peace as I navigate this strange world without you both.
Your brother is a good friend with a good heart. I know you aren’t one to easily accept praise, but I’ll repeat what has been said many times before: you should be proud of the man Sam has become because of your love and devotion to him. He’s one of your greatest achievements, among many. I hope you know that.
As I sit here, I’m reminded of so much, some of which deserves to be written down.
I’ll start at the beginning.
Have I ever told you of the moment we met, other than that ‘I held you tight and raised you from perdition’? To say it was a catalyst that forever changed the direction each of our lives would take is inadequate, at best.
God, when he still could be bothered with humanity, ordered me to lead my garrison of warriors to find you in Hell and save you (of this, I think you know). I knew nothing about you other than yours was a most urgent and prestigious assignment,
Save the Righteous Man
There are no words to express how I felt when my form first beheld your spirit in that pit of endless suffering. I couldn’t understand it - I lacked any capacity to understand human emotion then - yet, I felt ‘something’. It bled through your soul to me. In hindsight, I probably should have known that nothing would ever be the same again. The bond we share, I sensed it, deep in my being in that instant. If I had breath, it would have been taken away. Willingly, I would have relinquished it all without question, but I feared it, too. It was indescribable, the pull to you. Your soul, its power lured me, defiant and strong.
Beautiful. As you are still, Dean.
I knew that it was me that had to save you, not because of orders handed down by a capricious God, but because I needed to know the man that could contain all that love and strength without being consumed by the evil forces that sought to tame it, to destroy its goodness.
In retrospect, it was you that saved me. Before you, I was nothing but a warrior, a puppet blindly obeying the will of a superior who cared little for the destruction it caused, how humanity suffered before and after. You were are the strong one, the brave one. Caring, sensitive, honourable are but a few words that encapsulate the man you are. In an instant of knowing you, I knew these to be elemental truths. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes, Dean. Then maybe you’d be more gentle, more forgiving with yourself.
Alas, to my unending shame, we were too late; I hadn’t even met you and I’d already failed you. In many ways, that would continue to be my burden. For that, I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry for the countless times I hurt you, disappointed and failed you.
It is a regret I’ll be condemned to forever bear.
Although, I tried. For the sake of our friendship relationship, you need to know that I tried.
***
Dean lifts his gaze off the page, away from the words that leap out at him, demanding attention, taunting him accusingly. He rubs the delicate skin around his eyes and smooths the tension lines on his forehead with rough hands, sniffs back the emotions that crawl at his insides. He doesn’t have a name for how he feels, but he does feel….
Is Cas…? Does Cas…?
No. No, that’s just Cas, he tells himself. He is - was - kind, sincere, honest where others were too scared. It’s this innocence and goodness that made the angel so enviable; he was everything most people wished to be. There’s a flutter in Dean’s chest that he ignores.
Instead, he reads on.
***
I'll confess that despite our unusual introduction - you did stab me in the heart after all - I was instantly intrigued by you. I didn't have a point of reference for it at the time, but if I could replay it now, I think I’d laugh at the sheer absurdity of that night in the barn - lights popping, doors slamming in the wind, an indestructible being immune to your bullets bearing down - while also remembering your bravery and cockiness in the face of meeting “an angel of the Lord.” Even then, I should have known - and on some small level, I believe I did - that you were no mere human. You were are destined for greatness.
As I reflect on our history together, I often think about this moment. I know now, this was the exact moment that I began to doubt. Long before my estrangement from Heaven and Team Free Will, my connection to you threw my purpose off course. At first, it was small; a little tweak of my trajectory pointing me in a different direction. But, it had profound effects.
You, Dean Winchester, changed me. You taught me about humanity, family, friendship, loyalty. Affection Love.
For that, I am truly grateful, even if we are no longer friends, I owe you so much.
***
Shame beats at Dean remembering his cruelty that night he let Cas walk away, too angry to admit he was wrong. Too stubborn to call out to Cas and stop him. Frozen to the spot as his fingers dug into the table to keep him in place, a coward unable to hold Cas’ eyes. Hot tears sting as they burn a path down his cheeks. You didn’t deserve that, Cas. Dean still hasn’t forgiven himself, even if Cas had. Because the proof of his callousness is in the dark black ink scratched into the soft ivory paper. He scoffs at the irony that it’s his own handwriting that delivers this slap.
***
But, I'd rather not dwell on past mistakes and instead remember the good times, times I hold close to my heart. Priceless gifts you gave me, Dean.
All our movie nights dates in the Dean cave. I swear you were at your most relaxed and happy “making” me watch the classics - Caddy Shack, Happy Gilmore, All Saints' Day marathons. I confess, I spent less time watching the movies than I did watching you. The way your face would light up, and your grin, it radiated to your eyes and carved happiness into the lines there. Honestly, I wanted that peace for you always. I know I’d grumble sometimes, scoff at wearing a cowboy hat or tease you for quoting whatever pop culture reference I didn't get, but I adored it. I adored your ability to find the joy in the little moments, especially as you battled the demons inside. Do you even know how remarkable a feat that is? I am often in wonder of you, Dean.
Occasionally, when you’d fall asleep, I would simply watch over you. I felt a certain - responsibility isn’t the right word - privilege maybe is more accurate, to always keep you safe, protected. So when you slept, I stayed close. And when the horrors of your waking day made it into your dreams, I’d touch your forehead, or slide my hand down your arm, to banish them for pleasant ones.
These memories were few and buried, not easy to reach through the others, but once coaxed out, were simple and sweet: you as a young boy sitting at the table while your mother cut the crusts off your sandwich, shooting off fireworks with Sam in an open, grassy field. Moments of familial happiness. My heart would break a little each time for that freckled, sandy-brown haired boy that craved softness.
You can have no idea how my heart leapt when one of those special moments was of you and I, laughing and talking together, huddled close with quiet voices while the bunker slept.
Other times, when the nightmares tore too deep, when they were especially bad, I would banish them altogether. You’d sleep restful, your shoulders relaxed and your soft snores humming in the stillness. I could give you that, Dean. At least.
Would you believe that I still have the mixtape you made me? I’d never received a gift before; I didn’t know how to accept it. I apologize if I didn’t properly thank you. In truth, I was overwhelmed by the gesture. I listen to it sometimes at night when I’m feeling lonely. I think it’s more the sentiment than the music itself that warms me. Knowing that you took the time to make it for me (Sam says it requires a good deal of thought and patience) lifts my spirits even in the darkest moments. Because once, you cared enough to
I imagine it’s why you surround yourself with music, in your car, your room, streaming loudly through your headphones when you need to shut it all out. It has a way of removing us from ourselves. The more I experience life as a human, the more I understand this need for escape. Music will forever be my link to you in the absence of your presence in my life. I know it won’t always be kind to me, but it will always be honest.
It’s getting late, Dean and I fear that time our time is running out. So I must get to the point, as unpleasant as it is.
The threat is not over. Far from it. Chuck means to win. He is blinded, fed by his own ego and greed and corruption. His power will only grow in his drive to win, his determination to ruin us all. And you and I specifically for the wrongs he feels we’ve made against him.
Please know, I will fight for the world, for my friends and family.
I will fight for you, Dean.
Until I can’t fight anymore.
To this end, there’s something I must confess. And I know it will be difficult for you to hear and I fear you will be very angry at my foolish naivety. But I did if for love; my love for my our family.
When the Empty came for Jack, I thought for sure It would kill him. In fact, It was seconds away from doing so right in front of me. My heart was breaking. I could see the dimness in Jack's eyes as Duma - possessed by the Shadow - squeezed his neck. I did the only thing that made sense, I offered up my own life to save his. I did this without reservation or concern for myself. Even as I said it though, I thought of you and hoped that you would understand why I had to do it. Why it meant leaving you, too. I hated keeping this secret from you, Dean, please know that. But you would have insisted we find a way around it. And you know as well as I, that that never works out for us. I couldn’t let you sacrifice anymore of yourself, your potential freedom after all you’d been fighting for so long.
Love was my only guide.
It may hurt to hear it, but I would do it again if the same situation presented itself. My love for Jack, the boy we raised together (make no mistake, you are his father, too and he loves you unconditionally), is the sum total of everything I tried to set right from my life on earth.
The Empty is a cruel jailor though and, although it greedily accepted my deal, refused to seal it right then. Instead, It wanted me to suffer. The deal would take me only when I allowed myself true happiness. You see now, Dean, why I didn’t allow you to unburden yourself in Purgatory. Why I stopped you even though I longed to hear you speak those words aloud, and not just in prayer? I had to prevent any semblance of happiness, of anything that could bring me peace and joy - like your apology confession. I worried the Empty would come for me right then and there and we still had some much to do to defeat Chuck. So I stopped you. I had to put you first. It was always you. I had to deny myself in order to stay as long as I could, with Jack and you. My family. My everything.
I promised myself that I would only summon It if I had no other choice. As I write this, I don’t know when the time will come, but when it does, I know it will be for the noblest of reasons. When I let the Empty claim me, it will be because I have found allowed myself to experience true happiness. And even though I am alone in this sentiment, the ends justify the means.
While I doubt my silence will be enough to shield my thoughts from the Shadow, I am compelled to bare the truth - that I am too afraid to voice out loud - to you now.
***
What follows throws Dean into a tailspin. He can barely read what’s written on the page; his own handwriting looks wrong, out of place and foreign. The words swim in and out of focus, his eyes blurring as he takes in only bits and pieces - isolated words, segments of sentences - the entirety of what is written too much to process. The realization hits, breaking him down. His head collapses to his chest, into the rubble of Cas’ declaration. He wants nothing more than to cry until he feels nothing, until he’s a husk of himself with nothing to care about, certainly not the angel that isn't here.
***
always wondered since I took that burden I wondered
what it could be? my true happiness look like never found an
answer one thing I want I know I can't have Happiness
it's in just being saying it
I know how you see yourself same way enemies see you Destructive
angry broken "daddy's blunt instrument" you think it drives you
who you are It's not
Everything good and the bad done for love fought world
for love That is who you are most caring selfless, loving human
being I will ever know 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
I love you
I always have and I always will.
Goodbye, Dean
Castiel,
Cas,
Love, Cas xx
***
Dean buries his head in his hands and sobs.
***
Dean and Cas
(Epilogue a.k.a. Happily Ever After)
Cas looked at him, all soft and gushy like the hopeless fools in the rom-coms Dean would make the angel watch with him. Sweet and romantic. Someone in love. Dean imagined that’s how he looked, too, as he gazed into the warm blue depths of Cas’ eyes. All wonderment and possibility of a future waiting to be discovered.
He was so used to the itch that he could never scratch away, the tightness that wound around his chest and shoulders, down his spine like a vice, that Dean was awestruck with the lightness that met him. The space he didn’t know he needed now let him take a full breath in, filled his lungs and heart. It was his love, him finally admitting it was always his love for Cas that fed him. Without it, Dean had been deprived and starving, fed on crumbs and thrown away scraps. Slowly dying from lack of nourishment, had been dying since he was a little boy. Castiel was a feast of everything Dean needed: love, security, protection, acceptance.
“Thank you.”
“What for, my darling?”
Dean blushes at Cas’ easy affection and says, “I can finally breathe.”
The good wasn’t like the bad; it never stuck around long enough to be missed. Until now. Dean knew that this - what he and Cas had - was the good. And it wasn’t going anywhere.
They were home.
The End
p.s. Years from now, when their children (and later their grandchildren) ask to hear the story of how they fell in love, the hunter and the angel will hold hands and, pressed together on the loveseat on the porch of their modest ranch home, tell them that nothing - in heaven or hell or anywhere in between - can destroy a love that is destined to be.