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Dean woke up to blood in his mouth. He had chewed the inside of cheek to shreds, the same spot he always did when he dreamt like this. The dregs of his dream filtered down his cheeks, and he tried to ignore it. There was nothing to cry about. It had been a year, almost two, the anger and hurt was old hat at this point. Castiel was gone.
(I had a dream last night that we were married in that house you always talked about. You were rushing to get the kids to school, packing their lunches, reviewing their spelling words.)
And yet, as he closed his eyes against the dim light of his room in the bunker, the dream remained. A house, in the suburbs, a morning full of bustle. Children. Packing lunches. Cas - alive, beautiful, smiling - checking over the eldest’s homework. It was a list of spelling, if Dean strained against the pillow, he could almost hear them arguing over the correct spelling of the word. H-U-M-M-I-N-G-B-I-R-D-S.
(It was always hummingbirds.)
Before the dream could hold him down any longer, Dean forced himself to shove up out of the bed. His t-shirt clung to his back with a thin sheen of sweat. He blinked a few times, forcing the blur in his vision to disappear - he wasn’t sure if it was from the dream, the traitor tears, or from standing up too fast in his abused body. Thankfully, blinking did the trick, and he didn’t slam back down onto the bed.
Dean trudged to the shower, half-waving to Sam in the kitchen, who was nose-deep in a book and half-down a pot of coffee already. There was less hunting these days, both of them more focused on guiding others, Dean’s joints protesting over the years of abuse and Sam intent on becoming the next Bobby Singer. But there were mornings like these, after the dreams, where Dean wished that there was a vamp nest down the street to take … something out on.
As the shower steamed, the hot water coming in waves, Dean’s mind flashed back to the dream. Castiel’s bright blue eyes, shining over the kitchen island at him, peanut butter and strawberry jam on a knife in his hands. The giggle of children. The warmth of the kitchen, of the bright morning sun, the feeling of his son’s hair as he ruffled it. Cas’s exasperated expression as the boy continued to spell the word just a little bit wrong. H-U-M-I-N-G-B-I-R-D-S. The safety of home, and not the bunker home they were so used to, but a real home - one where there were no monsters.
(Only hummingbirds.)
Sam didn’t really look up from his research when Dean entered the kitchen, just half-nodded his head as Dean filled up a cup of coffee. Maybe there would be a case that needed backup called in. Usually, it was Sam who knew, who directed the brothers to any assist that a hunter called for, but his quietness implied that there was nothing. Dean joined him, sipping his coffee, the dream finally quieting in his mind.
“Sleep okay?” Sam finally broke the silence.
“Yeah,” Dean said. It came out a little gruffer than intended - hopefully Sam would just chalk it up to it being the first thing Dean said in the morning. His voice was always a little rougher when it hadn’t been used in a while. And without Cas, the bunker was certainly a quieter place - less angelic drama, less ins-and-outs. Jack had moved out a while ago, heading up to remodel Heaven, which left the Winchesters back to their own quiet devices. “You?”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “Doin’ some research for a nachzehrer a state over.” That perked Dean’s ears up - nachzehrers were rare, quiet, and often didn’t pop up on hunter radar unless one of them had fucked up. And it was close, only a state over, whichever direction that meant probably less of a day’s drive in Baby.
“Do they need a hand?” Dean asked, trying to make it sound like instinct more than restlessness. He wasn’t sure it worked, but Sam shrugged anyway.
“Fifty-fifty. The penny thing should work, but they’ve never dealt with them before.” Sam looked up from his book, looking at Dean for the first time that morning. “Why, you bored?”
“A bit,” Dean admitted, trying to sound non-committal. He shrugged, trying to sell it. His feet felt restless, absentmindedly tapping against the kitchen tile.
“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind the help,” Sam offered. After Cas had…gone, Sam had tried his best to tiptoe around Dean. It was obvious, painfully so sometimes, but the quiet give that had always been one of Sam’s strong suits was still appreciated. There was space if Dean needed it, cases if he wanted them, a comfortable silence that only sharpened late at night. Only stung in early mornings, when the dreams settled over him like sand.
“Alright,” Dean said. “I’ll head out in a bit, help ‘em out.”
“Want backup?”
“I am the backup, Sammy,” Dean said with a grin that didn’t quite match how he felt. The dream still hummed in the back of his mind. Cas’s bright eyes, crinkling in the corners. The feel of his hand in Dean’s. The empty feeling the bed had held when Dean awoke, alone as always. The empty bed, reflecting what held Cas now. The dream chittered, whispered, fluttered around his mind, not quite letting Dean’s attention leave it.
(Like hummingbirds.)
On the road, there was nothing to keep Dean’s mind off of the dream save for music and the various road signs. Sam had given Dean more details about the case, but they were shuffled back with the Kansas lyrics, automatic like the speed limits.
Instead, Dean’s mind was on the last time they had dealt with a nachzehrer, when Cas had still been with them. When it was Cas doing the research, Cas telling them that there was a cure - one of the few creatures that could be fully cured of their condition. Dean felt his hands tighten on the wheel.
Things were always worse this time of year, when it was coming up on the anniversary of Cas leaving. Some nights, it pinned Dean to his mattress, thinking of how he had just stared at Castiel as he had cried.
I love you, Dean.
The first time he had said it out loud. The only time. And then… it was over. The Empty had come up, slick around Castiel like an oil spill, and he was gone. And Dean was, well, empty with him. The shock of the words, of it all spilled out between them, every glance and touch he had ignored for years, all coming to a confession, and all Dean could do was stare. By the time he had found the words, Cas was gone, and Sam was walking into the bunker asking for the both of them. It’d taken hours for Dean to shake out of it, to explain that Cas was gone. For good.
He hadn’t told Sam what Cas had said.
I love you, Dean.
The first time Castiel had used the words “I love”, it had been about hummingbirds. Dean remembered it - sitting in a park on a case, waiting for Sam to finish puppy-dog-eyeing a witness, a small bird had flitted past. It was iridescent, its wings beating so quickly that Dean couldn’t see any more than just a blur. Cas had stilled, quieted, and something about his body language had told Dean to follow suit, if only to observe. For what felt like hours, they sat there, Dean holding his breath, and the bird flitted forward, dancing in Castiel’s face for a few moments before zipping off towards a small patch of flowers behind them.
Cas had let out a breath that Dean didn’t know he was capable of holding. His body relaxed, just a bit, and Dean took it as his cue to breathe as well.
“That was beautiful,” Cas breathed. “A hummingbird. Calypte anna, to be precise. One of the three hundred and seventy five species of hummingbirds in existence. That one, Anna’s hummingbird, is my favorite.”
Castiel had paused, and Dean had watched him. Something must have made Cas feel that there was further explanation necessary, because he continued. “I was created to be a soldier. While some of my siblings were there during the creation of creatures great and small, I was not. I was not meant to wonder at the creatures of the Earth, only to protect them, but I’ve always felt that there was no point in protecting something that was unloved. And now, seeing them in person, right in front of me, I realize I was wrong. They are not unloved. I love them.”
Dean had marveled at this, marveled at it even now, that a being as expansive and infinite as Castiel could love something so small and delicate as a hummingbird. He was right, they were beautiful, and that was the closest Dean had ever seen one. Dean remembered Cas smiling at him, and then turning to watch as the hummingbird flew around the flowers behind them. They had been in California, one of the rare times that they were near a coast, and he’d only been in a t-shirt. Cas had even taken off his trenchcoat.
In the Impala, now, Dean shook his head. He wasn’t in California, but Missouri, it was mid-October, there were layers of clothing and the sound of rumbling tires and music surrounding him, and he was alone. Honestly, he should be happy he was alone - a hunt that was easy to take care of, no Sam worrying over him, the open road ahead of him and behind him.
(There were no hummingbirds.)
The hunt had been hard on Dean’s body. Every movement ached, and when he caught his breath in the Impala after the last nachzehrer was dead, it was his mouth that tasted like pennies. He probably could have driven home like this, certainly had before, but that was …before. When there was someone to go home to, even if it was unspoken. Even if it was careful touches and hands pulled back and beers passed silently between them. Even if it was an empty promise - there was someone to look forward to. But, without that… Dean wasn’t sure that he could manage the pain and the drive all at once.
He sent a quick text to Sam and sought out a motel. He didn’t bother explaining the pain that haunted him - laced through his muscles and bones like old stitches - because Sam knew it all too well. It was something they shared, something all hunters shared to varying degrees. Dean had never told Sam that his pain had started long before he was hunting full-time, that it wasn’t just old injuries and incorrectly healed bones, that it was just…him. Sam didn’t know that once, in a fit of pain, Dean had prayed to Castiel to heal this too.
Cas had appeared next to Dean, standing over him, bright blue eyes shining with something that almost looked like tears. When Dean had looked up at him, biting his cheek in pain, sheets pulled tight in his fists, Cas had sighed and put a gentle hand on Dean’s arm.
“I can’t,” Cas had said gently. “There are things beyond angelic healing, Dean. This is one of them.” Dean had nearly whined, but stopped himself, instead keeping silent as the pain shot through his spine. “It’s built into you, into your molecules,” Cas had continued. “I am not … experienced enough to remove it without the danger of permanently changing something.”
“Then change it,” Dean had said, quick and sharp like a dagger.
“I can’t,” Cas had reiterated, sounding unusually sad. “It wouldn’t be like changing your hair color or your height. It might be death, or worse. I will not risk it.”
At the time, Dean had sent him away, angry and in pain. But he knew now, after it all, that Cas was trying to tell him that he … loved him. That Dean, like a hummingbird, was something to be loved and unchanged, protected. Even in pain, broken and alone, Dean Winchester was loved by the angel Castiel. Quiet and unspoken until the end, but loved.
It pissed him off.
If Cas had loved him so much, refused to heal him of the pain that had been ingrained in his cells since before he could remember… if Castiel had fallen for him, for Dean Winchester, then why did he let the Empty take him?
Dean didn’t even realize he was throwing things until his jacket was on the floor and one of his boots was across the motel room, landing with a thunk in the tiled bathroom. The anger, old and familiar, flared alongside the pain.
“Why did you leave me?” he shouted, not caring if the other guests heard him. “If you loved me so much, if you fucking cared, why did you let it take you?”
Dean’s voice echoed in the small motel room.
“Fuck you!” he shouted, louder. “Fuck you for loving me! Fuck you for saving me! I didn’t want to be saved! I didn’t deserve to be brought back! And for what? For this?” His arms swept around the empty room. “For this fucking emptiness? This shell of a life? Fuck you, Castiel! I loved you, and you left me, and for what?”
There was no response.
(Not even the sound of wings, like hummingbirds.)
Dean awoke face-down in the motel mattress. It smelled like stale cigarettes and something that he was certain he didn’t want to know about. He didn’t remember laying down, didn’t remember sleep overtaking his exhausted, aching frame. He certainly didn’t remember the blanket over him…
For a moment, hope overtook him.
“Cas?” Dean asked, pulling himself up much too quickly. He tucked his knees under him, whipping his head around the room. The blanket, still warm with sleep, fell around his legs.
The room was empty.
Dean’s heart fell through his stomach. He was nearly certain it hit the mattress, bruising again. Of course. There were days, not often, that he forgot that Cas was gone. That he woke up like this, in a position he didn’t remember getting in, thinking that maybe, just maybe, there was someone waiting for him. It always left his mouth dry, full of cotton, and his stomach turned when he realized that that would never come.
(There’s a shadow on my shoulder, always whispers in my ear, that I’m so angry all of the time I should be alone another year.)
Collapsing to sit on his heels, Dean let the pain of the hunt take over. His body ached, more than it usually did, but not as much as the night before. Nothing he couldn’t drive through, nothing he couldn’t handle. He rubbed his face, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, before hauling himself out of the bed and throwing his things together.
He picked up the boot from the bathroom floor, tied it. He shrugged on his leather jacket, dusting it off from where it had been thrown the night before. Before he left, he washed the taste of blood out of his mouth. Damn chewed up cheeks, he thought. As he loaded the Impala with his gear, checking that everything was set so it wouldn’t clank around as he drove, he thought about all the times that he had chewed his cheeks to meat. How after Dad, no, John, he corrected, had told Sam to never return, Dean had spat blood for months. How after Sammy had died, that first time, that worst time, in the hours between his death and the decision to sell his soul, Dean had chewed so hard he had spat chunks of himself onto the dusty floor. How after Charlie had died, he had woken up with blood staining his pillow. It wasn’t the only form of self-harm he had ever engaged in, but it was certainly the subtlest. The easiest.
Dean slammed the trunk of the Impala closed, tapping it lightly as if to apologize. When he raised his eyes, he almost did a double take.
Flitting in front of him, in mid-October in Missouri, was a hummingbird. An iridescent, brilliant hummingbird, turning its head as if to question Dean’s shock. Dean’s gasp was a shock to his own system, and as if reading the feeling, the hummingbird flew away, its small body a blur in the morning light.
Dean rubbed his eyes. He had to be hallucinating. The pain had gotten to him, or he was drugged, or he was still asleep… something.
(It grows old real fast how much you can love and not get it back. Oh, were we too attached? It’s a shame how often goodbyes last. I thought we were better than that, I thought I was stronger at last.)
When Dean opened his eyes, his hands raking through his hair, there was something else. A figure, next to the Impala, a beige trenchcoat and dark hair and Dean felt his heart catch in his throat.
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean’s feet were carrying him before the words really even reached his ears. His hands, aching from the hunt, were on Castiel’s face before the angel could say anything else. And then, Dean was pressing his lips into Cas’s. There was a moment of shock from the angel, a tensing of muscles under Dean’s hands, and then relaxation, and Cas was kissing him back.
Dean’s cheeks heated, his hands did, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized Castiel was healing what he could of the pain. Dean felt Cas’s hands on his arms, and then, Cas was pulling away. Something panged inside Dean, no, not again, please don’t leave, he thought before he could stop himself.
“Cas,” he breathed. Dean opened his eyes, looking into the piercing blue eyes of the man he loved, the eyes that had haunted his dreams, that hummed and sang and flitted through his memories for the past two years.
(Eyes like hummingbirds.)
“Dean,” Cas said. “I--”
“I love you,” Dean said, before Cas could say anything else. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it, before… before you left. I love you. I love you.”
Cas stared at Dean, eyes just as bright, mouth slightly open. Dean could feel his eyes stinging, just a bit. Had it changed? Had he misremembered that night, that terrible night? His heart drummed in his chest, faster than he had maybe ever felt it, as painful as when he had been dying of heart failure.
(Beating like hummingbird wings.)
“Cas, please,” Dean started, feeling a single tear track out of his eye, silently begging the angel to say something, anything, but then Cas’s hand was on his face, quietly brushing the tear away. And then, Cas was kissing him, pulling him closer, and the drumming in Dean’s chest quieted as they melted together.
When Cas pulled away, eventually, Dean could feel him breathing against him. Breathing? Had the angel breathed before? Dean couldn’t remember. But…he had just healed him. His mouth didn’t taste like blood any more. His body ached, but only the usual ache, not from the hunt the day before.
Dean looked at Cas, meeting the angel’s eyes. Cas smiled.
“I love you, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean felt like he could nearly collapse with relief. Thank fuck.
“I love you, Castiel,” Dean said, and although his body still ached and the world was still a mess, something clicked into place in his soul, and Dean smiled back.