Chapter Text
Fall…
His back hits the wall with astounding force that should send pain through his spine but doesn’t. Hitting the wall is surprisingly gentle, back touching harshly against the stone, but with no pain. There’s cold where the stone seeps through his jacket, and rough scraping when his shoulders shift on the brick, but no pain. Never pain, not when it’s Cas pushing him back. That must have been why the landing was so soft, he thinks. Castiel wouldn’t hurt him, even if his life depended on it.
And now, he’s staring at Cas, green eyes locked on Castiel’s blue ones, watching an ocean of emotion swimming in them. There’s sadness pooling at the center, waves of anger rippling outwards, soft care bubbling through with gentle ferocity. Dean watches as Castiel’s mouth moves, barely registering the words.
All he can think about is the softness of Castiel’s palm against his mouth, the tug of his fist in Dean’s jacket lapels. The way his eyebrows are furrowed, the sharpness of his jawline and the way his mouth forms the letters with purpose. He barely manages a faint nod when expected, and even that takes more energy than he has to offer.
And just as soon as it starts, its over. Castiel’s hands retract from his coat, the proximity disappearing like puddles in the sunshine. He can feel Cas’s warmth retreating like sun behind clouds, and when nothing but cold air separates them, his head finally clears. It’s like surfacing from the depths of the ocean; cold air striking his face and wind tousling his hair. He has to stop himself from wiping non-existent water from his face, and his hands hang uselessly at his sides.
This wasn’t supposed to happen, he thinks. Not this, not with him. He’s an angel for Christ’s sake. Because in Dean Winchester’s world, angels aren’t real. The man standing in front of him, slowly stealing his heart and breath, can’t be an angel. Right?
Falling…
Purgatory is cold as Dean walks through the trees. But the cold isn’t the most off-putting part about the place. It’s the complete lack of sound. Where there should be wind in the trees and birdsong in the woods, there’s nothing. A suffocating silence, so loud it’s deafening. It’s what he can’t hear that scares him the most, because there is nothing to remind him that he’s not already dead.
He steps over roots and ducks under branches as he continues his trek, moving both too fast and too slow for his own liking. Time stretches and compresses itself in the strangest ways here; he doesn’t think he could ever get used to it.
Up ahead, there’s a dilapidated building that sits lonely in a clearing. Rotting wooden beams and cracked windows, and laughter. It’s harsh compared to the complete silence of earlier, ringing clear like a church bell. The melodic notes trigger his memory, and he comes to recognize the laughter as Castiel’s. The one being he’d come here to find was in that house, and for some reason, he’s rooted to the spot.
His legs feel like they’re sinking, trying helplessly to tread through water too thick to move. He feels his head go under and instead of struggling for breath, it’s peacefully calm. There’s no shortage of air down here, and Dean finds himself able to move easily through the murky waters. It’s the same colour as Cas’s eyes, deep blues swirling with pale greys, and silver flecks dance through the depths. It feels like drowning, but somehow, he’s not dying.
A knock startles him, and he surfaces from his reverie. Cas is standing in front of him, hands on his hips and hair wild. Somehow, he’d made his way into the house, and now stands opposite the angel, room empty aside from the two of them. Castiel’s foot taps impatiently on the floor, hands on his hips and head cocked slightly. He stares up at Dean with those ocean eyes, and Dean can swear he sees himself reflected back in them.
Words fail him, unable to form a sentence to accurately describe what he’s here for. Saying he’s here to bring Cas back doesn’t quite cover all the bases, but he doesn’t know what he could say that will. There’s so much he wants to say, all the words failing to come to mind, tripping over themselves on his tongue and dripping into nothingness at his feet. He communicates something barely comprehensible, and somehow, Castiel understands him.
The next time Dean is properly aware of himself, they’re back on the surface, Sam standing awkwardly in the corner, eyes darting between the two men. Castiel is back in his trademark trench coat and tie, looking leaps more put together than Dean does. Dean clears his throat aggressively, mumbling something about needing a good rest, and hastily makes an escape from the suffocating room. He can feel Cas’s eyes on his back, following him, but the angel doesn’t follow. Somehow, it both comforts him and hurts him.
Fall in…
The bunker is peacefully quiet tonight, no hunts on the horizon and nothing trying to kill them (at least, not at the moment). The soft lamplight is easy on his tired eyes as he sits at the table, book open across his lap and paper scattered around him. One elbow rests on the tabletop, hand rubbing gently back and forth across his head. Sam is reading something on the couch, insisting he’s ‘not that tired Dean’, but Dean can see him fighting to keep his eyes open. He laughs softly to himself as his brother’s head finally falls back against the armrest, book sliding gently to the floor.
There’s a rustle of air as Dean turns back to his book, and he lifts his head to see that Castiel has materialized in the room. His heart jumps a little; whether from being startled or just from the angel himself, he doesn’t know. Cas gives him a small nod, coming to Dean’s side and looking at the pages with him.
“What are you looking for, Dean?” he says, voice low and rough.
“Not sure yet. Somethin’ ‘bout a case, but I can’t make heads or tails of the damn thing,” Dean replies, frustration creeping into his tone.
“Perhaps I can help?”
“Sure Cas, take a seat.” Dean pulls a chair out from the table, and the angel settles into it.
Several minutes pass in silence, both working away at the problem before them. Dean sneaks glances up at Castiel every now and again, tips of his ears going pink when he gets caught staring. There’s something enchanting about the way the angel looks when he’s thinking hard. The way his brows bunch together in the middle, his lips turned down into a perpetual pout as he thinks. His tongue poking the inside of his cheek, deep blue eyes moving back and forth across the page.
“I think I may have found something Dean,” the angel announces, a touch too loud.
“Quiet down Cas, please,” Dean says quickly, tossing a glance at Sam on the couch.
The angel follows his gaze, and Sam shifts gently in his sleep, but doesn’t wake. Castiel’s shoulders soften a little, turning back to Dean with an apologetic look in his eyes.
“My apologies. I did not realize Sam was asleep.”
“’S okay man. Tell me what you found.” Dean’s watching Cas’s eyes as he talks, the way the light plays across them drawing him deeper into their cold waters.
Dean could lose himself in those eyes and has many times. There’s something captivating about the way they look, under the glow of the lamp. Dean swears it looks like being underwater, the soft sunlight spreading gently over the surface of the waves, golden glow warming the water. The soft waves lap gently at his ankles, all warmth and comfort and love.
“Are you feeling alright Dean? You’re staring.” Cas’s voice brings him back. “Perhaps you need to rest too.”
“Nah, I’m alright. ‘S just you. You always do this.”
“Do what?” Cas says, tilting his head.
Dean gestures helplessly with his hands. “This. You. Everything. I don’t know, ignore me.”
Castiel is silent for a moment, standing and quietly moving his chair back so as not to wake Sam. He watches the man sleeping on the couch for a moment before disappearing and reappearing with a blanket in his arms. Slowly, he makes his way over, gently draping the material across Sam’s body. Sam hums gently in his sleep, the warmth obviously welcomed. Dean’s heart leaps at the sight, his brother so safe with another that wasn’t him. He feels warm and fuzzy all over, watching Castiel care for his brother as if he was nothing less than a friend, a brother in his own right. Caring for Sam was the greatest test in Dean’s arsenal, and Castiel never failed to pass with flying colours.
Dean shook his head softly at the sight, a smile gracing his face with gentle ease. To see Sam so loved and cared for by someone other than himself was a gift, and Dean would never tire of receiving it.
Fall in love…
The memories of their earlier conversation flood Dean’s brain as he drives, window cracked slightly and music drifting from the speakers. He’s not really paying attention to his tapes though; his mind is elsewhere. Castiel’s words bounce around in his skull – they’d just been talking about music not too long ago – and Dean can’t turn his brain off. Music was a language he knew well, and it would appear Cas wanted to speak it too.
“What is this, Dean?” Cas says, reaching a hand into the glovebox and pulling a cassette out. He turns it over in his hands, fingers gently tracing the writing on it. Dean’s eyes shoot to the tape and back to the road, feeling a slight blush creep across his face.
“It’s a mixtape, Cas. It’s music, like uh, the stuff on the radio. But better.”
“How so?”
Dean’s quiet while he thinks. “Well, for starters, I made it. It’s all the stuff I like the most, so I don’t have to listen to crap music in between the good ones. It, uh, makes me feel nice, I guess. Having somethin’ I made.”
Cas looks at him gently, listening with his full body. His hands are folded in his lap, eyes sharp and tracing Dean’s face.
“I mean, surely angels know about music, right?”
“We experience music in a different manner than humans do, Dean. To us, music is not the same. We can feel the individual sound waves.”
Dean snorts a laugh. “’Course you can. I’d expect nothing less from you.”
“I’m serious, Dean. Each soundwave is unique, carrying their own experiences and colours and emotions. For example, a violin sounds like falling petals, and a harp feels like sunlight after the rain.”
Dean’s mouth opens gently, understanding flooding through him. Angels didn’t just listen to the music; they experienced it like it was alive, real and full of memories. He had always assumed his relationship to music was deeper than most, but even that seemed shallow in comparison to what Cas was describing.
“It’s a window to one’s soul, hearing their music. You can learn a lot about a person by their taste in music,” Cas says.
“Oh yeah?” Dean says in a cocky voice. “And what about me, tarot reader? What does it tell you ‘bout me?”
“You? It tells me you’re brave. It tells me you feel deeper than even most angels, that everything cuts you deep even if you don’t let it show. It shows you’re fiercely protective of those you love, and you would go to the ends of the earth for them. It means you’re alive, Dean, and you love with everything you have.”
As the memory of Castiel’s words wash over him, Dean sits up straighter, hands drumming on the wheel as he thinks. He decides right then what he’s going to do when he gets back to the bunker; he’s going to make another mixtape. He’s going to make a mixtape that says everything he doesn’t have the words for, one that spills his soul out to Cas in hopes that maybe he can get the courage to say what he’s been burying for years. If Castiel could really tell everything about him through music, then maybe this would help him communicate what he wants to say.
Fall in love again and again…
The silence that follows is suffocating. Cas’s final breath echoes in his ears, his last words ringing like bells in his brain. He feels helpless, knees pushed to his chest on the cold stone floor. The sigils on the ground stand out too sharp, painted lines driving into his brain like stakes into the soil, or nails into a coffin. Cas’s eyes are seared into his memory, the love floating through them hauntingly beautiful as the Empty comes up to take him away.
Those eyes, ones that usually feel like a calm ocean, gentle waves and soft bubbles. The ones that held him like a watery hug, cold but soothing. The ones that told him what words could not describe. The ones he’d found himself drowning in multiple times now became a ghostly reminder of what he could never have.
What was once soft waves now became harsh ocean spray, crashing roughly against rocks and dragging Dean down by the ankles. He pumps his arms against the pull, trying to grab a final breath before he’s dragged into the depths, but he can’t. The air is heavy, like rocks in his lungs, and he feels himself losing his grip, limbs flailing with no strength left to help him swim. The whirlpool is everything he fears, a tidal wave of emotions that threatens to drown him whole. All the things he wasn’t able to say, all the grief that soaks his bones.
It feels like hours later when he surfaces again, breath ragged and eyes sore from crying. There are tears on his face and his hair is sticking up from where his hands ran through it over and over again. There are marks on his palms from his nails, futile attempts to bring himself out of his misery. His limbs feel like jelly, and his mind is exhausted.
And in this moment, when Dean is at his absolute lowest, it hits him with the force of a semi-truck. He’s loved Cas since that encounter in the alleyway, since he first felt those strong hands pinning him against the wall. All those stolen glances and fluttered heartbeats, all the softened words and even softer touches. The ocean of his angel’s eyes was the first sign that he was in deeper than he believed, and now, with his love taken away, it hits him.
“Oh God Cas. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry. I love-.” He’s cut off by a lump rising in his throat, and the words die on his tongue as fresh tears reach his eyes. With a hitching sob, he buries his head in his hands again, shoulders shaking as he cries. He doesn’t care if Sam walks in and sees him; he doesn’t care if anyone walks in. There’s nothing left of him to save anyways, because it walked into the Empty before him without a second thought.
Everything is…
“Dean?” A voice startles him awake, and he swings a fist in front of him in reaction. “Woah, relax. It’s just me, Sam.”
“Sam?” Dean cracks an eye open, taking a minute to focus on his brother standing in front of him, arms raised in surrender and an apologetic smile on his lips.
“Yeah. That’s me. Look, uh, I know it’s a touchy subject…” he trails off with a questioning look. When Dean gestures to continue, he speaks. “Jack thinks he’s found a way to bring him back.”
“Bring who back?” Dean says warily, not daring to get his hopes up.
“Cas.” Sam’s eyebrows rise in slight surprise. “Are you feelin’ alright man? You’ve been searching nonstop for months for a way to bring him back, and now you don’t even remember that?”
“I-” Dean scrubs a hand down his face, chasing sleep from his eyes. “I’m good. Don’t worry ‘bout me. What do we gotta do?”
Hours later, in the bunker’s basement, Sam, Dean and Jack stand, pacing restlessly as they work. Sam is setting up an elaborate ritual, painstakingly drawing symbols on the floor in his shaky script. Dean is rehearsing the incantation, each word sour on his tongue with hope he’s afraid to show. Jack is sitting quietly, gathering his power, though his worried eyes betray him. Sam notices this, finishing up the last sigil and going to stand by the Nephilim’s side.
“What’s on your mind, Jack?” Sam’s voice is gentle as he speaks, afraid to strike a wrong nerve.
“Just…this. It’s a lot bigger than anything I’ve ever done before. I think I can do it, but I’m afraid to mess up.”
“Why’s that?”
Jack clears his throat with a glance at Dean, who’s stopped his rehearsal to listen in. “Honestly? It’s Dean. Cas meant something to all of us, but I think he meant more to Dean than we realize. And I want Dean to be happy again.”
“Oh Jack,” Sam says sympathetically. “I want him to be happy too, I really do. I believe in you man, if anybody can do it, it’s you. Just…trust yourself, okay?”
Dean’s voice is thin with nerves as he speaks up. “I trust you, Jack. More than you can possibly know. Even if- Even if we had some issues in the past. Cas trusted you, and I trust his judgement. Do your thing kid.”
Tears shine briefly in Jack’s eyes at the words, and he moves into the center of the room, arms outstretched, and head tilted skywards.
“Okay Dean. Whenever you’re ready.”
The light around Jack begins to glow as Dean starts the prayer, his voice mixing with the energy in the room like a celestial vibration that carries the weight of the universe. Sam stands to the side in shock, eyes fixed on the ceiling where Jack is looking. The room starts to shake, cracks spreading thinly across the ceiling like a spiderweb.
Dust begins to fall from the roof, coating the three in a fine layer of powder. But they don’t stop. The room glows bright, a surge of heat and light that throws Dean and Sam back a touch, hands covering their eyes. Dean’s chanting never lets up, voice growing stronger with each word. And out of the light steps a figure, all broad shoulders and proud posture, rumpled trench coat hanging loosely from his shoulders.
“Jack!” Sam rushes to catch the boy as his eyes roll back and he crumples to the floor. He shakes the kid’s shoulder, getting a slight groan in response. “C’mon Jack, wake up.”
“Get him outta here Sam, he needs your attention. I’ll handle clean-up,” Dean says, trying to reassure his brother and also give himself and Cas the space they need.
“Alright.” Sam scoops Jack up in his arms, shooting a look back at Cas. “Welcome home buddy,” he says to the angel, who gives him a smile and nod in reply. The two exit the room, leaving Castiel and Dean alone.
“Hello Dean.”
“Cas, man. I can’t believe it,” Dean says with a shaky laugh, tears springing to his eyes as he steps towards the angel. He looks exactly as he did when he left; hair slightly mussed, tie hanging off center. His blue eyes are staring at Dean with the same intensity he gives anything worth his time, love floating to the surface the longer he looks.
Dean clears his throat, arm resting on Castiel’s shoulder. “We…man. We gotta talk. I have so much I need to tell you.”
“Perhaps it can wait? You look like you need rest, Dean. When’s the last time you slept?”
“Please, Cas? Now? I just-.” Dean’s eyes are pleading, and Cas dips his head in acknowledgement. Before he can stop himself, the words tumble off his tongue. “I love you Cas.”
“You what?” Castiel says in surprise.
“I love you. I always have, I think. Since that damn alleyway. And I’m sorry it took me losing you for me to realize it. You didn’t deserve that.” Dean is rambling now, words falling from him loosely.
“Dean. It’s okay,” Cas tries to say, but he can’t be heard over what Dean is saying. “Dean. Stop talking for a second, would you?”
When that doesn’t work, Cas leans forward, grabbing the lapels of Dean’s coat in his hands. He draws him closer, tugging Dean’s mouth towards his. Dean’s rambling is cut off by the steady press of Castiel’s lips on his, years of yearning flooding though the kiss. When they break apart, Dean’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, drawing ragged breaths in. The angel’s eyes show concern, regret flickering through them.
“I’m sorry Dean, I should not have done that. I overstepped,” Cas says, fumbling slightly on the words.
“No, Cas. You were perfect,” Dean replies breathlessly, tugging the angel close again and crashing his mouth onto Cas’s.
The world may have stopped when Castiel died, but that was a long time ago. With his angel back, he can confidently say; Dean Winchester is saved.