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Something isn’t right with Castiel.
Not that anything is ever right with them in the first place, but this is different. Casting Lucifer out had taken its toll on the three of them in different ways—and getting Castiel to actually expel him was a feat in itself. Castiel had been dead set on using him to defeat Amara, no matter the cost or if it killed him in the process. But now, after trapping the Devil in a ring of fire and subsequently letting him loose upon the world—an accident that Sam still hasn’t forgiven himself for two weeks later—Castiel hasn’t spoken a word.
“Maybe it’s selective mutism,” Sam had suggested after Dean had launched into a twenty-minute tirade on every reason in the world Castiel hadn’t bothered to say a word since they returned to the bunker with nothing but their car and their bodies and souls a shattered heap; Dean still can’t bend his knee all the way, no matter how hard he tries. “He was just possessed by the Devil, Dean. For months. I think he has the right to be traumatized.”
Dean had just shrugged and accepted it, but the knowledge didn't help to settle his nerves. Not when Castiel, to that day, couldn't communicate beyond hastily written messages on a whiteboard and a few exaggerated hand gestures, most of which amused Dean more than they should have.
Whenever Castiel is awake, that is. For the better half of two weeks, Castiel hasn’t left his room save for two-hour baths and when Dean forces him to eat. For all he knows, Castiel probably sleeps in the tub too. At least they’re not paying the utilities; the thought of going legit just to pay the bills leaves a sour taste in his mouth, at least for now. They haven’t hunted since they broke out of Hell with Demons at their heels, preferring to lie low and travel, at the most, over to Smith Center to pick up groceries. Castiel doesn't join them then, either, just dozes on the couch or in an armchair whenever he is out of his room; sometimes, he hands off extensive lists or messages over to Dean or Sam, whoever is the closest at the time, but nothing more.
If Castiel has changed demeanor, though, Dean chalks it up to the aftermath. Considering the hell Lucifer put Sam through after Stull, Dean still halfway expects Castiel to collapse at any moment. But he’s holding up remarkably well. And that’s what scares Dean—the fact that there’s nothing inherently wrong with Castiel. Aside from sleeping sixteen to eighteen hours a day and sleepwalking and the nightmares, there’s nothing wrong.
But never in his life, outside of Hell, has Dean heard someone so distraught in the middle of the night: screams of absolute terror in the dead of the evening, sobs that end in wordless pleas for mercy. It’s the most noise he’s heard Castiel make, and it’s terrifying. And Castiel won’t explain it either, no matter how many times Dean rushes in during the worst of it, no matter how often Sam asks him to at least explain what’s going on.
If anything, Sam understands the most of the two of them. Dean just exists as moral support, a comforting hand when Castiel can’t bring himself to be near anyone else. But still, Castiel doesn't speak. And as the days go on, he rarely leaves his room, either, preferring to sleep or just shut himself away from the world without outside interaction. A few times, Dean has heard the TV on in the background, muffling the terribly obvious sounds of tears being shed into a pillow. It breaks Dean down to his core not to say anything.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” Dean admits, almost a month after Lucifer’s expulsion. He fists his hands atop one of the library tables, head hung low while Sam browses through the pathetic excuse Lebanon has for a local paper. Sam looks up, eyes dark from sleepless nights. He shares Dean’s worry, Dean knows, but not in the same way. “He won’t talk to anyone, he won’t turn off Telumundo, I’m pretty sure he hasn’t eaten anything I’ve given to him…” He shakes his head and lets out a long, deflating sigh. “I can’t fix it if he doesn’t tell me.”
“Maybe he can’t,” Sam offers with sympathy, closing the paper in front of him. It’s just a few pages, nothing more than advertisements for work and the spring festival the residents have been attempting to get off the ground for years. “Maybe—maybe Lucifer did something to him, while he was in there. I know you don’t wanna think about it—.”
“You’re right, I don't.”
“—But maybe he can’t deal with it. He’s strong, but… I don’t think he can bounce back that easily, not anymore.” Sam exhales and stands, stretching his long arms above his head with a groan. “I know you’re worried, and I am too, believe me. I thought I was losing my mind before he took Lucifer’s pain from me. And even then, I can’t imagine what he’s feeling. How… alone he must’ve been. Why he did it in the first place.”
Dean shrugs and looks to the floor, blinking away the heat burning behind his eyes. “Wish I knew myself,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Never really answered any of my prayers.”
For once, Sam doesn't scoff. Just looks at him and nods, eyes wide. “You prayed to him?”
A nod. “After the whole Hand of God deal, I started. Figured… if he could hear me, maybe he’d make it through. Just—figured he didn't hear me.”
“He did.” Sam reaches across the table and palms Dean’s shoulder, squeezing it tight. “Maybe that’s what you need to ask him. He’ll tell you at some point—tell us—about what all went down. But it’s gonna have to be on his terms.” Dean nods, head turned to the side. “It took you weeks to tell me what happened in Hell,” he says, between the two of them. “Whatever happened to him, it’s gonna take time to cope with.”
Dean understands, really. Becoming one of Hell’s finest torture experts had been one thing, but Castiel—an Angel—willingly let the Devil himself into his body. Whatever went on in there had to be traumatizing, to the point of mutism, to the point where Castiel can’t look at any of them without fear in his eyes and a constant tremor under his skin. The few times Dean has touched him, Castiel had trembled, a low thrum that initially wasn't cause for alarm.
Now, lying in bed that night, Dean considers just what it means. After Castiel pulled him from Hell, after Purgatory and being resurrected as a demon—after his first hunt as a child, Dean had felt the exact same way. Jittery, anxious, jumpy at the first sign of trouble. Exhaustion to the point of insomnia, nausea at all hours. Worthlessness—Dean had been told to shove it down and ignore it from day one. Castiel, though, has never had to cope, not in the way Dean has. At one point, Castiel was a Seraph—one of God’s strongest, one of His most trusted servants. He could mute his feelings, ignore his own conscious and impulses.
And then Castiel was human. Even now, after regaining whatever remained of his Grace, humanity has almost become his trademark. He understands now, can feel emotions and the result of his actions, can feel pain and horror and joy. And Dean knows, at once, what it is.
He finds Castiel in the observatory tower later in the evening, long after Sam has gone to bed and the lights throughout their home—and Lebanon—have been shut off. Castiel watches the stars with his hands behind his back, pajama pants loose on his hips, shirt soft against Dean’s hand when he touches Castiel between his shoulder blades, runs it up to his nape and rubs with soft, insistent pressure.
Castiel hums and closes his eyes, pale moonlight bathing his face, illuminating the dark shadows and tear tracks, streaming into his scruff, in desperate need of a shave. Maybe Castiel will let him once they go back inside. It’ll give Dean something to do with his hands, give Castiel someone to hold on to, at least for a moment.
“I wanted to see them,” Castiel mentions and opens his eyes, cobalt blue still as bright as ever, but lighter, now, hazy. “I haven’t… This is as close as I can get, to the outside.”
It’s the first sentence he’s heard in weeks, but he’ll accept it all the same. Dean nods and looks away, towards the blackened horizon and the Midwestern plains, all of it blending into one color. Stars dot the sky, along with the flash of a radio tower and a lone plane making its way across the country, completely passing them by. Outside, not even the wind blows the trees. It’s beautiful, in a haunting way; Dean breathes it in and lets out a sigh, sits on one of the couches in the twelve-by-nine room, the glass domed roof arching high above them.
Castiel joins him, almost as an afterthought, and lets his eyes linger on the stars, their twinkles echoing his misery. “I’m not okay,” Castiel says amidst the quiet and holds himself tighter, fingers trembling where they’re clutching his shirt. Dean takes one and holds it between his palms, rubs life into his fingers; he’s cold, near frigid. “I don’t think I’ve been alright for a while.”
“That’s alright,” Dean says, like it’s some sort of consolation. He looks down to Castiel’s hand in his own and brings it to his lips, presses a feather-light kiss to his knuckles. “No one said you had to be okay.”
“It’s… strange,” Castiel comments, his eyes never leaving the stars. “I used to look at you, at your pain, and think it was trivial. Human emotions weren’t… I never considered what your feelings meant before, how they could impact you in ways that could cripple you down to your core. …And now, I’ve come to understand what you’ve been feeling so long.” He turns to Dean, eyes wet. “I never wanted to burden you with this.”
Dean holds his hand tighter, threads their fingers together. Castiel trembles, harder now, his breaths coming in shallow pants, like his body, his heart, can’t take it. “You’re not a burden,” Dean whispers, nudging his nose into the crook of Castiel’s neck; Castiel lets out a noise and falls into it, into Dean’s touch like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted. “You never were.”
“I’ve slaughtered Angels for you and your brother,” Castiel continues, barely audible. “I’ve murdered my brothers and sisters, I’ve killed innocent men and women… I’ve killed you, time and time again. The threats and the lies, deception, torture… I’ve never expected gratitude, but after I became human… I realized, how vital it is, to feel needed. Appreciated. …I saved you, bled for you, died for you, Dean. And you never…” He stops to cover his eyes with one hand, his following words drowned in sorrow. “I’m worthless. To you, to your brother. To my own family. …I wanted to be useful. I wanted to do the right thing, and all I got was…”
“You’re still alive,” Dean finishes for him and lifts his head, Castiel’s hand still in his hands. Castiel watches him with skepticism, agony living behind blue eyes. “I know it doesn't mean much, but you’re still here, Cas. You’re still kickin’, even if you’re…” He stops to look at the stars, Castiel’s eyes still on him. “You’re not nothing, and you never have been. Neither me nor Sammy think so. And we’ve been trying… God, we’re all so fucked up,” he says, ending with a choked laugh. “Every day, it’s like the world is against us, and we’re just trying to survive. And you’re right there beside us, willing to put your life on the line for the greater good.
“…And God knows I am too. I’d die for your ass, Cas. And Sammy’d put himself on the stake if it meant saving your life. Don’t you ever think for a second that we’d think twice about it.” Softly, Dean feels Castiel tighten their hold, and Dean brings his fingers to his mouth again, lets his lips press against his fingertips for a long minute. Castiel’s breath hitches, quiet. “I know it doesn’t mean much, and I know we’ve put you through the wringer, but you didn’t…” Dean stops. “Why did you do it? …Why’d you say yes?”
Castiel blinks. “…I didn’t see another way out,” he confides. “Lucifer had you both in a corner, and I… I thought I was being useful. If I could let Lucifer possess me, maybe he could defeat Amara.” He sighs and looks out to the sky. “…That was never his intention, all along.”
Dean swallows the growing knot in his throat and rests his head on Castiel’s shoulder, allowing Castiel to lean back, his thumb idly rubbing the side of Castiel’s hand. “You couldn't talk when we got you back,” he says, stilling. “We thought it was some Angel thing, but… You never said anything. It’s been a month, Cas. Why now?”
“Lucifer slashed my Grace.” Oh. Dean stops breathing long enough to catch Castiel’s attention, and he only starts again when Castiel nudges their knees together. “After I saved Sam, it was his punishment. …He ripped me apart, Dean. And I would’ve let him. If it meant saving you, I would’ve let him. But I heard something that changed my mind.”
Dean nods, quiet, and stares out at the sky, at the lights of Smith Center in the far-off distance. “You heard me.”
“Your prayers were the only thing that kept me from extinguishing myself,” Castiel admits. “I thought… If I survived. If I rid myself of him, I would tell you. But I couldn't speak—couldn't look you in the eye. I’ve been ill, while I’ve tried to recover what I lost. I didn’t understand why every time I left the room, my heart raced, why I had to sit in the dark just to stay in control. Why every time I looked at you or Sam, I had the urge to vomit. Why silence has been my only comfort. Crippling despair over my transgressions, hating myself for the thing I’ve become, for what I’ve done…” He closes his eyes; Dean feels tears drip into his hair, cold once they reach his scalp. “I have something not even my Grace can fix.”
“Your brother took you for a joyride, Cas,” Dean murmurs, quiet. “Neither of us expected you to be at your best. …We’ve been waiting for you to talk to us.” Castiel’s breath comes out in a hot rush, sounding almost pained. “We get it, you know. Between me in the pit and Sam in the cage, we get it. That shit changes people. And we never expected you to be fine with it.” Pulling away, he strokes his free hand through Castiel’s hair, lets his palm cup Castiel’s tear-soaked cheek. “And I’m pissed as hell that he did that to you. That never should’ve been an option, and you never… You should’ve told us, man. If you felt like that—.”
“I couldn't.” Castiel lowers his head, lets it rest against the hollow of Dean’s throat. “Amara has you in her sights, and Sam is doing everything he can to save you. I haven’t… I’m barely an Angel anymore. Even if I could—.”
“Don’t give me that,” Dean huffs. Arm around Castiel’s shoulders, he pulls him closer until Castiel’s nose is buried in his neck. “I don’t care if you’re not an Angel. I don’t care if you’re dying, or you think you’re worth less than the dirt you walk on. You’re family to us, Cas. And family don’t mean we’re gonna drop you the minute you lose your wings.” He stops to whisper, lips close to Castiel’s ear, “You’re everything, Cas. Please.”
Castiel remains silent on that couch for a few long minutes, simply breathing Dean in. And Dean lets him, carding his hand through Castiel’s hair in the interim, twirling the lengthened strands between his fingers. “I want to believe you,” Castiel finally says in nothing more than a whisper; Dean hears him all the same. “I want to trust you again. But I can’t…”
“You can,” Dean assures, soft. “And you can trust Sammy, too. And after what you’ve been through, I don’t expect you to, ‘least not right away.” He stops, breathes. “We can fix this, Cas. No matter what, we’ll make it right.”
“And what if we can’t?”
Castiel looks to him, his eyes wide despite fatigue. Despite his wariness, Dean presses a slow, gentle kiss to his forehead and lets him rest. “We will,” Dean says, an affirmation. “One way or another.”
Against him, he feels Castiel nod. It takes him a while, but slowly, Dean coaxes Castiel out of the observatory and down the spiral staircase, their fingers still linked along the way. Castiel follows him willingly, if not sluggishly, his bare feet dragging on the tile. “You gonna be awake enough for this?” Dean asks as they walk past Sam’s bedroom door, catching the soft look on Castiel’s face; from lethargy or gratitude, he doesn't know.
Either way, Castiel nods and lets Dean walk him to one of the private bathrooms, this one complete with claw footed tub and monogrammed towels, all hanging on racks along the wall. Castiel’s sanctuary, Dean muses—of course he would take nest here, out of every other bathroom the place had. Dean mostly sticks to the communal showers, but Castiel may have an idea here.
“I keep falling asleep,” Castiel admits after Dean closes the door, his shirt already off and sitting on the lip of the sink. Dean fights the urge to flush red—he’s seen Castiel shirtless before, but never like this. Never alone sharing the same space. Castiel ignores his predicament and goes for his own pants, tugging them down along with his boxers. “In here, especially. It’s warm here.”
Dean agrees with a nod and turns his attentions to the tub, adjusts the taps to where he wants by the time Castiel walks behind him, pressing his hand to Dean’s shoulder. He knows that touch—knows the intent behind it, what Castiel wants. And Dean gives it to him in the form of a kiss, his hands caressing Castiel’s neck, Castiel’s on the hem of his sleep shirt, helping to pull it above his head and discard it in the direction of the sink. Dean’s pants join in after, leaving them bare while the tub fills at their back, close to overflowing.
Dean ignores it in favor of capturing Castiel’s lips again, soft presses that leave him winded just from holding himself back. Another night—another night where Castiel hasn’t just bared his soul to him. Tomorrow, they’ll have to tell Sam, see if the both of them can help ease Castiel’s nightmares and get him to eat regularly again. “Water’s gonna spill over,” Dean chuckles and kisses Castiel again, a promise. “You coming?”
With a nod, Castiel takes Dean by the hand and leads him to the tub, the barest hint of a smile on his kiss-bitten lips. “Always.”