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"And he said, let me go, for the day breaketh. And he said, I will not let thee go, except thou bless me." Genesis 32:26 (ASV)
Dean's knuckles knocked against the vinyl of the Impala’s dashboard as he reached for the shifter. He yanked it down, slamming the car into reverse. Rear-wheel-drive made backing up at speed easier. Not that Dean needed help, he had managed this maneuver pursued by vengeful spirits. Tonight there were no ghosts in his rearview mirror as he spun his car around and headed onto the highway. Driving to put distance between him and the gentle looks, tacitly asking if he was about to fall apart.
Pavement appeared and disappeared in the Impala’s headlights. Desolate scrubland raced past in the dark. Only the well-tuned murmur of the engine filled Dean’s mind. Slowly, highway hypnosis unknotted Dean’s shoulders inch by inch as the highway stretched on, mile after mile.
What felt like ten minutes or maybe an hour later, a “detour ahead” sign blocked the road ahead. Dean pulled over and cut the motor. In the sudden silence, things he’d pushed outside of awareness began to stir. He gripped the wheel tighter until his knuckles were white. The gnawing, desperate thoughts he didn’t want to recognize continued to coalesce. Gritting his teeth, Dean reached desperately for anything else to focus on. Anger was always easy. It simply needed a target.
Suddenly the stillness in the car shifted on an invisible axis. The hairs on Dean’s arms and neck itched; a soft rustling sound unsettling the aim of his indignant thoughts. Dean stared straight ahead, his body taut with the weight of anger. He could feel Castiel’s presence without turning his head. Something about the way the angel sat in Dean’s space deflected his upset energy like water around a boulder in a river. Dean stared out into the dark stars dotting the sky until they disappeared behind a mountain range until his simmering frustration boiled. He turned just his head towards Castiel, and stared with focused animosity at the crumpled trench coat, the uneven collar, the set jaw, the searching face not looking back at him. He dared the angel to speak to him, to smite him. He pushed his anger into his eyes as he confronted this powerful, unmoving being. With his gaze he was daring him—until Castiel met his gaze. The line of the angel’s mouth was inscrutable. After a moment, Dean realized he was staring at the angel’s lips.
In that moment the pressure of his anger no longer felt simple and solid, it felt brittle. He needed space. Dean flung open the door and strode away from the Impala, making it two steps out into the cold night before the air shifted around him. Cas was suddenly inches from his chest. Dean startled back a step before regaining his belligerent stance.
Dean didn’t even realize he’d started swinging a vicious right hook until Castiel's hand clamped around his arm mid-air, arresting his forward movement. His blood was rushing in his ears and Castiel just held his wrist in a vice grip like it was nothing. The angel’s impassivity made Dean feel small, at least this asshole could have the decency to hit him back.
Arm pinned midair Dean used his limited motion and crashed his forehead into the bridge of Castiel’s vessel’s nose. In the back of his mind, Dean knew he was fighting dirty but he didn’t care. Right now he could handle pain more than he could handle his thoughts and the feelings that came with them. The header—finally—got a rise out of the angel. In a series of movements too quick to process, Castiel took two steps forward into Dean’s space, knocking him backwards until he slammed against the Impala, pinning Dean between the chilling metal and the angel’s solid chest. All in the same movement Castiel had twisted Deans’ arm backwards until it was tacked behind the small of his back, still immobilized in his inhuman grip.
Dean eyed the trickle of dark blood along the side of the Angel’s nose with satisfaction. It was just inches in front of his face, and he could see a grimace in the set of Castiel’s jaw. Finally, something, anything—a reaction from Castiel. The angel was watching him back, he realized, when their eyes met. He saw Castiel peer into his face, trying to read something there. Then a smirk played at the corner of the angel’s mouth and the cut on his nose began to knit itself back together.
Castiel watched Dean’s eyes as they narrowed, then closed as the hunter sunk back defeated against the car. Castiel could feel the wave of recriminations hit Dean and ripple off him bitter and acrid. Castiel had felt the anger swirling as soon as he’d appeared in the Impala, but that had been aimed at him. Within a heartbeat, the object of the Dean’s hatred was transmuted, one moment it was Castiel, the next it suddenly it turned inwards towards the hunter himself. The shift was nearly instantaneous and it jarred Castiel. His grace recoiled and he observed, with mild surprise, that watching this human hate himself was worse than being the target of Dean's attack. He didn’t understand the change and shook Dean once in confusion, perhaps harder than he meant to. Dean’s eyes snapped open and just as suddenly the vitriol stopped bleeding off his soul. Dean’s face was, for just a second, open and searching Castiel’s. Then Dean’s eyes dropped and the angel felt the man’s energy shift back into spiteful self-recriminations. “No.” Castiel responded, his voice a low command. He bent Dean’s arm upwards in an unnatural angle. Watching this man’s soul, Castiel saw his self-conflict still and seem to calm.
Dean's arm was bent behind his back and it was going numb, Dean stared up at Castiel. Castiel seemed to be looking through him, completely disinterested. Suddenly Dean’s awareness focused to a singular point as the angel wrenched his arm unnaturally high and pain spread through his shoulder. Dean felt his mind empty again, except for the urge to fight. That Dean could do. He kicked his leg out, sweeping one of Castiel’s legs. At the same time he exploded forward with all his strength. Putting weight into knocking the angel off balance. As Castiel fell backwards, Dean swung with his non-dominant arm landing a blow into the angel's ribcage with a satisfying crunch. His momentum sent him crashing forward as well; his wrist falling free from Castiel’s grip. Dean had the advantage now, kneeling above the angel. Dean planted his knee and drove his freed elbow down into Castiel’s jaw. There was blood in the vessel’s teeth. Dean jabbed down a second time and searing pain radiated up his arm as his elbow connected with the rocky ground. There was nothing but ground beneath him.
Dean breathed in a ragged breath and looked up, Castiel stood a car length away, blood dripping from his lip onto his white dress shirt. Moving with instincts alone, Dean rushed at him with feral, self-destructive force. He wanted to stand on the train tracks and dare the locomotive to hit him. Dean wanted to be smashed into unthinking bits. Castiel stopped his attack by simply raising his arm. As if Dean were a falling leaf that he could pluck from the air. Castiel grabbed Dean around his neck and lifted him in the air. Dean had no choice but to grasp at Castiel’s forearm and hold on with both hands. Castiel held Dean there. Their faces close, without any contact other than Castiel's fingers digging into Dean’s neck, surrounding his windpipe. Dean’s vision swam, black creeping in at the edges as his brain starved for oxygen. His body went lax. Then abruptly he was on his knees. Castiel had dropped him in a heap, but hadn't let go. With the slight change in pressure, Dean could scrape in a breath. His vision swam. Still, Castiel did not let go. Dean sagged against the arm anchoring him. This is what he deserved, to be kicked like a dog. Before he could finish the thought, Castiel’s other hand grabbed a handful of hair at the back of his scalp and yanked his head back painfully. Dean was forced to stare upwards into Castiel’s face, now a few feet above him.
Staring down, Castiel watched Dean’s self hatred get replaced by pain as he pulled the man's head backwards. Castiel wanted to make him stop hurting, but he couldn’t keep interrupting the internal loop he saw coiling in Dean's soul by punishing Dean’s body. Castiel could of course continue, but Dean’s body had limits. Castiel stared at Dean’s face by his knees, in it at that moment he saw empty supplication. The waves of self flagellation stilled for the moment. Dean's lips parted and the tip of his tongue touched his bottom lip. Castiel was uncertain about many human expressions, but this one resembled hunger. For several breaths they remained like that there in the moonlight, neither moving. Suddenly, Castiel noticed Dean's eyes going unfocused, and he released his chokehold, letting up his grasp on Dean’s neck and back of his head at the same time. But it was too late. Dean slumped over onto the ground unconscious, breathing in gasps as he refilled his lungs. Humans are so breakable, Castiel thought with a pang of guilt. He hadn’t meant to deprive Dean of breathing so long but he’d gotten a bit lost.
Castiel reached down and gathered Dean up as easily as he could a child and carried him to the car. He laid the bloodied hunter on the seat. Staring down, he paused a moment before pressing one hand to the skin over Dean's collar bone where the hunter’s t-shirt was ripped open. Then Castiel sent his grace into Dean, searching for anything broken. He reknit the crack in Dean’s rib, unbruised Dean’s left cheekbone, and unpinched the nerve in Dean’s right forearm. As Castiel withdrew his grace, it brushed along several reaching tendrils of Dean’s soul and something caught in Castiel’s throat. He shivered and let his grace linger, pushing warmth into the fragments of spirit that reached out desperately to his presence. His palm was still pressed against Dean’s chest, even though it didn’t need to be for this incorporeal contact. Only when the body beneath him stirred, did he open his eyes and glance down. Dean was staring up at him.
Dean opened his eyes expecting to ache, but all he felt was warm. His head was still fuzzy. Beneath him, his fingers touched, not gravel like he expected, but the neat stitching of the Impala’s upholstery. Dean opened his eyes and saw, for a moment, Castiel leaning over him with a gentle smile on his face. When the angel opened his eyes, they glowed dimly with celestial power for an instant before they disappeared. Replaced by a rustling of wings. Dean let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
He laid there for a minute or an hour, drifting in a comfortable liminal place with no thoughts.
Eventually Dean pulled himself up, still expecting to wince in pain, except the soreness didn’t come. He turned the key in the Impala's ignition, flicked on the radio, and drove back the way he’d come. Taillights disappearing in the shadowed landscape.