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"Question," Dean asked, drumming his fingers along the steering wheel.
Castiel looked over at him from where he was reading the insert of a cassette. Waited. Dean seemed to be struggling with the words. Castiel focused in on the firing synapses, the electric impulses that made Dean's eyelids flicker as he drew up his question.
"Why'd you get rid of my tattoos? When you brought me back?" He asked finally. He seemed angry, for a reason Castiel couldn't identify. That shifting second nature of humans that Castiel was only starting to get glimpses of under the surface. When asking a question was actually the asking of a different, deeper question.
"They weren't necessary for your role," Castiel told him. He could hear Dean's heart rate pick up, the muscle working harder to pump blood, raising the pressure of the circulatory system. That response made Dean angry, apparently.
"Man, I paid money for those," Dean fumed. They were 5 hours into a long drive, one that Castiel found ridiculous as he could fly them anywhere, with just a thought. "And fuck you for getting rid of my scars too."
"I would have thought that would be a blessing," Castiel squinted at him. "Are they not reminders of a… less than ideal life?"
"Right. Well. It wasn't," Dean grouched at him. "A blessing."
Castiel opened another cassette box and began reading the insert of that one, annoyed enough with his friend that he was willing to let the human stew in his unasked questions. If Dean ever got around to asking the real question, he'd pay more attention then. Which was never going to happen.
It was raining, the wipers of the impala sweeping great swathes of water off the windshield. Castiel watched it, marveled in the small drops of water gathering to be a force large enough that Dean, a very proficient driver, was white knuckling the wheel and leaning close to the glass as he could. Castiel could see the minute movement of the flexor digitorium in his right hand, tensing and squeezing against the leather wheel every time the impala splashed through a heavy puddle. He looked back to his own hands, flexing and releasing the muscles, curling his fingers into his palm. So similar, so beautiful in the way the muscles moved.
"There's a rest stop 10.7 miles ahead," Castiel told him, flickering in and out of the car to check the exact distance. He wiped rain off his forehead before it dripped into his vessel's eyes.
"Shit. Thank god," Dean looked relieved. "Can you tell if it's got a restaurant or a motel or anything?"
"A motel, yes. There seems to be food at the gas station."
"Alright, gas station burrito supper. Awesome," Dean said. "Is the rain gonna last all night? Should I get a room?"
"Yes. It should break by tomorrow morning," Castiel looked out the windows at the fields slipping by. He saw some cows, huddled together against the weather. His borrowed heart twinged for them. No, his heart. Jimmy was no longer in this body, not since his death at the hands of Raphael. Castiel stared at his hands, flexing them, watching the tendons under the skin. Very few angels could ever claim to have a human body entirely to themselves. Idly, he wondered what the long term effects of this would be. What philosophical implications this would have— could he truly be an agent of the divine if he was tied to the mortal realm in such a way? He wished he could consult Anna.
Castiel followed Dean into the gas station, watching his fingers tap over the plastic wrapped snacks. He settled on a microwave burrito and a slice of banana bread from a basket by the cash. Castiel stared, fascinated, by the easy way he smiled at the cashier— the slide of his zygomaticus muscles that moved his mouth in such a way to register him utterly disarming, if the reaction of the woman he was speaking to was any metric to go by. Castiel touched his fingers against his own mouth and found himself wondering if Dean would want to see him smile.
He followed Dean into the motel room, walking the perimeter while Dean pulled off his rain damp outer clothes and tossing himself on the bed.
"So nice that Sam isn't here hogging everything," Dean said loudly to the ceiling. Castiel didn't bother looking at him, he could tell Dean wasn't really speaking to him. Was just talking to fill the space where his brother was missing. "There was only one burrito left and sure as shit you know he'd be dib-sing it."
Dean leaned up on an elbow and looked at Castiel, who was checking the doorknobs of the room. "So, uh. You just gonna hang out? What are you doing?"
"I wasn't aware I had to do anything," Castiel said, finally looking over at Dean. "You said you didn't want to be flown to our next destination. I'm merely here waiting for you to catch up."
"God, you're a fuckin' dick sometimes," Dean said, but without heat in his voice. "Okay. Well. I'm gonna sleep. Go do whatever gets your rocks off."
Castiel left the motel room, happy to get away from Dean for a little while. Something had happened— maybe the result of having a human body— but he found himself to be less objective. It was troubling. He found himself hanging onto every word Dean spoke, he found himself getting annoyed easily, he found that he channeled his vision through his vessel's eyes more often.
Castiel left his body somewhere safe, shook out his true form and tried to center himself.
Threads of himself still felt attached to the vessel. Castiel rioted against them, pulled and pulled until some of them snapped, but he could still feel the way his grace had mapped so exactly to the fractals of nerves throughout the body— he could see that part of his true form reflected the branching veins and arteries and capillaries of Jimmy's hands. Castiel despaired as he flew, willing himself to unfold, unshape. If his brethren were to see him now, they'd know how far he'd fallen. How much of The Word he'd abandoned.
Dean tossed and turned in bed, rolling the sheets down one minute then getting cold the next and pulling them to his ears. Nobody had ever accused Dean of having good sense, but this— traveling around with a creature, an angel, well. John wouldn't be happy about that. The worst part of it was that he liked Cas. He thought the guy was a weird little— weirdo. And he liked driving around with him, watching Cas experience things on the human level. Like the obsessive reading of every word he could find in the impala. It was charming, watching him sort through the cassette tapes to see which ones had lyrics printed on the inserts.
But he was still pissed about the tattoos. He'd known, of course, that it was Cas who fixed him up and removed everything. But he hadn't really thought to ask why. But they were— friends now? At some point, the relationship had slipped from allies to friendship.
Under the covers, Dean ran his hand along his side, where he'd had a shitty tattoo of a knife that he'd paid $50 for in Michigan when he was 18. The first time his dad saw that one he'd gotten a slap over the back of his head and a lecture about hepatitis.
None of the tattoos had been good, per se. Sam had laughed with him as he griped about losing them, in the first week he'd been back.
"Which ones are you so upset about? The knuckle tats that said 'fuck' on both sides?" Sam had teased. Dean had felt hot in the face, shoved his shoulder into his brother's and tried to laugh with him.
Bobby had agreed. "Should make avoiding the cops a bit damn easier, not having identifying marks. A fugitive with tattoos isn't a fugitive for long."
But they'd been his and— it was his body, and it had been like all that got erased when he clawed his way above ground. Now he was just a pawn, clean and shiny and plastic. The knowledge that he was chosen by destiny to be a vessel— before he was ever born— was too fresh and sharp. It felt like his dad, pressing down on him until he couldn't breathe, telling him to be a good soldier.
It boiled under his skin until he sat up and used his laptop to search for a tattoo parlor nearby. The closest one was 50 miles away, in a medium sized town. Dean lay back down and looked through the flash on the website, looking for one that caught his eye. Might as well start the collection over again.
Oh, but the feeling didn't die down after he'd picked out the flash he was going to get tomorrow. His thumb rubbed obsessively over a spot on his arm where he'd gotten shallowly stabbed when he was 20. There used to be a tiny puckered white mark there, but now it was just smooth skin. Before he could even interpret what his goal was, he'd rolled out of bed and retrieved his knife from his kit. It was cloying, the feeling caught behind his teeth, the thought drumming in his head that Nothing belonged to him, none of this was his. However, as soon as the cold metal touched his skin, it jolted him out of it. He tossed the knife onto the floor. Trying to calm his racing heart, he lay down in bed shut his eyes, running his fingers through his hair.
Castiel found Dean the next day, 65 miles from where he'd left him. He sat on the hood of the impala and waited for Dean to come out of the dingy tattoo parlour. Teeth grittingly annoyed.
Dean didn't seem startled to see him when he emerged an hour later.
"Was this a necessary use of time?" Castiel asked, feeling obnoxious, getting into the passenger seat. Dean grimaced as he sat down, a hand over his ribs. A quick flash of concern blasted through Castiel.
"Are you hurt?" He asked, reaching for the edge of Dean's shirt to pull it up, see what the pain was. Dean slapped his hand away.
"No, just the guy was a heavy hand with the needle," Dean told him. He was grinning. "It's alright."
"Fine. Let's drive," Castiel turned in his seat to look out the window.
"Not curious to see what I got?" Dean asked after a minute.
It hadn't even occurred to Castiel to be curious. "No. What did you get?" He asked.
With one hand still on the wheel, Dean shifted and lifted the hem of his shirt up to his chest, so Castiel could see the thick black lines of a string of barbed wire. There was saranwap over top of it, masking tape around the edges.
"I don't understand it," Castiel said, looking between the tattoo and Dean's face. "It's ugly."
Dean laughed, a harsh sound. "I know, total dogshit, right? I picked it out while I was having a fuckin' crisis. Didn't occur to me that it was terrible until it was finished."
He was still grinning.
"Would you like me to— remove it?" Castiel asked, unsure of what his role was in this interaction.
"No, you keep your god damn mitts off it," Dean snapped, dropping his shirt. "It's my mistake. It's mine."
"Alright," Castiel sat back, feeling vaguely alarmed.
The remainder of the drive towards Raphael's abandoned vessel was silent.
"May I heal you?" Castiel asked as they rolled into the next city. Dean looked at him sharply and opened his mouth to respond but Castiel raised his hand. "I merely mean to heal the wound, not remove it."
"Oh," Dean looked cowed. "Ah. Sure. That would be— yeah. Can't be in pain if we're gearing up for a battle."
He didn't need to touch Dean to heal him, but Castiel felt his hand being drawn forward, a tap on the shoulder to bestow the healing. Dean smiled at him, a small expression. He pulled his shirt up again and peeled off the tape and the plastic. Castiel watched the skin stick and pull, aware of a strange feeling in his stomach. Castiel was cognizant that this was a complex dance of dopamine and norepinephrine, causing contractions in his abdomen— translating to a feeling of fluttering in his stomach. But he didn't know why this would happen to him. His stomach. A body that he owned. Castiel put a hand over it, where the feeling sat.
This may have been the worst thing Dean had ever done to him, inclusive of making him Fall. Castiel sat on the edge of the bed, Chastity looming over him. He had no idea what he was supposed to do here. She held his hands, placed them on her hipbones.
"What do you like?" She asked, flirty. Ran a finger down his cheek.
"Uh," Castiel drew his hands back, tucked them under his legs. She looked confused for a second, but recovered quickly. "Nothing."
"Oh. Your friend—," she pointed a thumb over her shoulder. "Said you wanted this."
"I am likely to die tomorrow," Castiel told her, nodding. "He wished to make it a 'night to remember.'"
"What the fuck?" Chastity laughed, sat next to him on the bed. She slipped a hand around his tie, began loosening it and the buttons underneath. "Why are you going to die tomorrow?"
"We—," he remembered then Dean told him not to go into details with humans, even though they would be powerless to stop them or help them. "It's a long story."
"Okay sweetie," She flicked open another button on his shirt, trying to meet his eyes. He focused instead on the dark hollow of her throat. Watched the pulse of her heartbeat there. "We all have long stories."
"Yes, I'm aware. Humans are very complex," Castiel told her. He brushed a hand over her shoulder, cupping it. He could try, for Dean's sake. He was aware of everything that had happened to her, unsure what to do with the information, the old hurts and annoyances he saw in her. When he opened his mouth the next time, he made a mistake.
Dean wouldn't stop laughing at him. Castiel felt a strange mixture of foreign emotions— shame, hot and wiggling in his belly, a sort of giddiness at Dean's joy. And annoyance, which of course was not foreign to him at this point.
"Stop laughing," Castiel snapped at him again. Dean was giggling, wiping tears from the corner of his eye.
"Sure thing buddy," Dean said breathlessly. He unlocked the impala and let Castiel in. Castiel sat down heavily, began straightening his tie.
"I don't believe that woman's misfortune is anything to laugh about Dean." Castiel grumbled.
"Oh, man, I'm not laughing at her. I'm laughing at you. Also, dude, I'm the poster child for daddy issues. And uh, you aren't doing too hot yourself on that front either, okay?" Dean told him, starting the car.
"I do not have—," Castiel's fingers fumbled with the buttons. "Daddy issues."
"Sure, Mr. Roboto," Dean watched him struggle for a moment before leaning over and doing them up for him while the car idled.
"Thank you," Castiel said. Dean nodded, avoiding eye contact. Castiel had the overwhelming urge to make Dean look at him. He didn't know what to do with that, turned to look outside instead.