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It’s daylight when you open your eyes.
A clear, undisturbed lake spreads out in front of a dock, swaying pines and willows flanking its grassy banks. Moss grows on the rocks that protrude through the water’s surface, waves gently lapping at the edges. Above, a crow flies, joining the murder in a nearby oak, their beady eyes watching you, conspiring.
You’ve had this dream before. Quite often, in fact—it’s the only place you can find peace in your life, the only moment of tranquility your fragile mind can muster. Mostly when you’re stressed or panicked, or worried. Now, anxiety and nerves wrack your body, even in your dreams, a nonstop thrum of something lofting in the air around you. Maybe it’s just because it’s calm—quiet, lonesome, with only the sound of flapping wings and the subtle cresting of waves to keep you company.
Or, maybe it’s the man seated on a bench a few dozen feet from your dock. His coat nearly swallows him now, clothes almost too big, too overwhelming. An unseen weight burdens his shoulders, his blue eyes staring into nothing, almost dulled. Snapping your fingers in front of his face doesn't work—not even calling his name. Nothing you do—shaking him, hands to his shoulders, his face—wakes him from his stupor. If anything, his eyes only pale more, until they’re solid white, empty.
You wake with an inhale for the second time that night, hands desperately gripping the sheets pulled tight around you, head thrown to the side. Dreams—these are dreams, and they’re haunting. Dreams of Castiel sitting on the banks, half dead and wary, looking at something across the lake, something that isn’t there. Castiel doesn't communicate this way, at least not often; the last time was years ago, to deliver a message after being ripped from his vessel. But he has his own body now—he shouldn't be able to distance himself, should he?
Could he?
Sleeping doesn't come easy to you, not at first; two nightcaps later and you’re dozing, on the verge of falling into unconsciousness. But the look in Castiel’s eyes keeps you awake, the way he just stared, like he wasn't there at all. Like he wasn't supposed to be there to begin with.
The lake greets you again the minute you drift off. The crows watch you from the dock now, twelve of them bouncing and cawing, venturing closer with their beaks open and eyes wide. You ignore them in favor of Castiel, his head now turned to you, hazy eyes blinking. At least he’s cognizant now, aware you’re there—but he can’t speak. His mouth moves with indistinguishable words, soundless and foreign. He’s trying to tell you something—he’s trying to communicate. But you can’t hear him, and at your back, the crows grow louder, more insistent. One nips at your ankle.
For the third time, you jerk alert, your leg kicking angrily at something that isn’t there. No birds, no lake, only darkness. The clock beside your bed reads 1:17, red numbering bright, searing. It takes another twenty minutes to drift off again, your entire body antsy while you wait on your side, face tucked into your elbow. I’m coming, you tell yourself before you’re gone again, now standing before Castiel. His eyes are blue now, clearer—a crow perches on his shoulder, pecking at his hair.
He still can’t speak, but he takes your hands in his, desperately hoping you can read his lips. You watch him speak for what has to be hours, lips forming words you can’t understand. It’s simple—three syllables, but you can’t comprehend what he’s saying. He’s frustrated—you both are. Your brain won’t allow you understand—your dream won’t let him speak. Or, perhaps, something else won’t, some other power you’ve yet to discover.
It feels wrong—Castiel has felt wrong, ever since you all escaped the cage, since he appeared in the file room the day before, coatless and sleeves around his elbows. You bared your soul to him, told him your worst fears—and he took it in stride. Didn’t tell you what to do, didn’t fight to tell you your worth. Didn’t hold your face and tell you you’re not alone. No, this Castiel touched your shoulder, the wrong one, and told you that he’d be there. That the attraction to Amara may have been a good thing. Maybe you could use it to your advantage.
You’re clutching your head when you snap awake this time, fingers digging into the gash you created just hours before, an attempt to brain yourself successfully averted. It aches, now, when you pull your hand away, fingers no doubt tinged red. You need to get back there—get back to the dream, figure out what’s going on. Pacing your room only makes you antsier, your skin crawling when you fall back onto the sheets. The ceiling looms above you, mocking.
It’s nearing three when you nod off again—this time, Castiel is frantic, eyes wide with fear. A gash decorates his forehead, bleeding down his face and into his eye, staining his neck. “You have to get him out,” he yells, his face in your hands, his hands gripping your wrists, nails digging in. You feel it—you feel him, fingers trembling in terror. He blinks at you like he can’t see, like he’s fading again, blue eyes going pale the longer you hold him, the closer you pull him to your chest. “Get him out—He’s—Dean—.”
Your heart sinks when you feel him go slack, almost slumping in your arms. But he’s still aware, still there. On the banks, you fall to your knees with Castiel in your arms, one name on his lips. The name you’ve feared since your childhood, since your brother was sent Hellbound years ago—the name that turns your stomach just from looking at him.
The name of the Angel that’s Hell-bent on destroying it all. “We’ll fix this,” you tell him, his eyes wet, gray. “You listen to me, we’ll fix this. You hear me?” You shake him, the effort useless—he can’t hear you, can barely focus on your face. “Cas—We’ll get him out, okay? You just gotta hold on—just hold on.”
He doesn’t answer you, but you swear you see him nod once, fleeting. There, on that lake with the crows closing in, he turns to dust in your arms, and you wake gasping for breath, hands around your throat. Four in the morning—the bunker is silent, not even the heater purring overhead. Down the hall, Sam stirs, his bare feet padding across the marble floor towards your room, his legs visible through the grate in your door. He’s a shadow when he walks in, until he flips the switch and the lamps to either side of your bed blink on, bathing you in fluorescent yellow.
You’re a mess when you tell him, “Lucifer has Cas.” And he doesn’t look much better, his distraught expression turning more ominous, terror seizing his jaw. Hiding your face doesn't work; you can’t hide from this, not anymore. Amara is running rampant, and Lord knows what Hell Lucifer is bringing upon the Earth. But Castiel is still in there—scared and wounded, but alive.
And you don’t know how long he has left.
You don’t know how long any of you have left.