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Castiel keeps thinking about Dean Winchester.
He finds he often thinks about Dean, these days; even when he’s supposed to be doing something else. Anything else. Dean does not matter to heaven, other than the role he can play in delaying Lucifer’s rising, but still Castiel finds that he is often thinking about him. He wonders what the human is doing, whether he can be of any assistance.
And finally, he’s able to do just that. They are able to save a seal; Dean and Sam, that is. The demons know the sigils to put over the door to the warehouse, so Castiel cannot enter. He tries; and watches as, against his expectations, Sam and Dean are able to stop Alastair from breaking the seal. One of the few victories they’ve had lately, but he will take it.
The timing is too perfect; especially when Dean leaves the warehouse, pursued by Alastair, and the angels can capture the demon. But this is where Castiel lets himself take creative liberties; he is finally able to help Dean, and he can see for himself how terrified Dean is. So he can’t help revealing himself. He tells himself he doesn’t want Dean to be afraid of them, afraid of what could have kidnapped the demon in this way.
“Think again,” he says, and can’t help reveling in the look of pure relief on Dean’s face. See, he wants to say, everything’s all right, because I’m here.
He doesn’t say that. He doesn’t know why he wants to say that.
He can’t help but impart to Dean just how special he is, what an exception he is to the rule. He can tell that the idea unsettles Dean. Castiel knows, and doesn’t understand the reason, that Dean does not believe heaven would value him so, that Dean does not believe in angels or God’s goodness. Castiel wants to make him believe, but he doesn’t want to frighten him into doing so.
Of course, Uriel’s attitude toward this whole situation isn’t exactly helping.
“So they finally did their job for once,” he huffs. He and Castiel walk side by side through the warehouse where they’ve imprisoned Alastair. “It’s not that impressive. Do you know how many seals have been broken, Castiel?”
They both know. The answer is forty-two. There aren’t many left.
“Let’s take this as the gift it is,” Castiel says, stopping in front of the doors. “Five angels have been killed this week. We’ll have to turn attention from the seals for now; these are our brothers and sisters, Uriel.”
“Very well.” Uriel peers through the window. “So do you want to go in this time?”
Castiel really doesn’t want to, which he knows is hypocritical. He doesn’t want to look at any demon at all, especially not this one; Alastair, with the exception of Lilith, is Lucifer’s earliest success, if it can be called that. He wants to go back to Dean.
But that’s selfish, and selfishness is not allowed.
“I wish we could just kill him,” he mutters.
Uriel laughs. Castiel disagrees with a lot of Uriel’s ideas these days, so it’s nice to feel that sense of camaraderie again.
“I’ll go in with you,” his brother says. “But I’ll remind you, this was your plan.”
It was. But maybe Castiel doesn’t want to have any plans, anymore; maybe he doesn’t want to make these calls and these decisions.
He wants to go back to Dean. He can sense where he is; he’s in a motel a hundred miles away.
Selfishness is not allowed.
~
Torturing hell’s torturer in chief is nothing more than an exercise in futility; Uriel said he didn’t think it was possible. Castiel doesn’t like to think of anything as impossible, but he’s beginning to think Uriel may be right.
And yet -
Deborah was in his garrison. She had been found dead behind a local law firm the night before, and it’s not supposed to be possible to kill an angel. The way that works…Castiel knows he will never see her again. They have to try.
“You know,” Alastair says as Uriel cuts through his internal organs, “you angels are…I mean, you’re trying so hard, it’s almost cute. But you’re so…limited.”
Castiel hates him. He hates all demons. But he particularly hates this one.
“If you aren’t going to tell us who is killing my brothers,” Castiel says evenly, “don’t talk.”
Uriel tries a different angle. He foregoes his angel blade entirely in favor of sinking his hand into the wound he’s just made. Alastair makes a short grunt, but is otherwise silent.
What is his problem? Castiel knows what the demon does in hell, but still; it’s not as if angels are strangers to causing pain -
As if he’s sensed Castiel’s anger, somehow, Alastair turns his unnerving gaze on him.
“Tell me,” he says, “have you ever seen a person without - hmm, without his skin? Maybe it’s flapping off of him, I don’t know. Maybe gone entirely. Muscle and bone, all this - ugh,” he groans as Uriel makes another cut, “all this pure, perfect flesh stripped away.”
“Yes,” Uriel says in a low voice. “I was there in Hiroshima.”
“Good one,” Alastair says, as blood spatters onto his chest and Uriel’s arm. “Didn’t see it personally, but oh, I heard about it. We had something, mm, something special waiting for Harry Truman. But I wasn’t talking to you,” and then he turns to look at Cas again. “What are you called again? Castiel? You see anyone walking around without their skinsuit?”
Castiel wasn’t in Hiroshima. He knows, technically, what Uriel is talking about - a bomb dropped that ate through people’s blood vessels like a poison - but he has not been on earth for -
He doesn’t know.
It’s not important, he knows. It wasn’t God’s will for him to be here. But -
“No,” he’s forced to admit. Then he adds, for good measure, “but we are no stranger to causing pain when need be.”
Even with Uriel cutting through his internal organs, Alastair doesn’t seem distracted; he tilts his head, as if Castiel is something interesting. It’s deeply uncomfortable, but fortunately, Castiel doesn’t have the skill to show human emotion.
“Wouldn’t you be fun,” Alastair says eventually. Castiel can guess what he means: torture. Because the demon already finds the death of angels funny. He laughed about it through the blood in his mouth. “Anyway. There’s a lot of souls walking around without skins in hell. Naturally.”
“What’s your obsession with skin?” Uriel mutters. “Not incredibly creative, for you.”
“Well -” Alastair coughs a little, blood and sulfur spattering on Castiel’s coat. “Maybe I’m a little sentimental. We’re all - the three of us, really, are all walking around - in it. Doesn’t belong to us. But everyone has their…shall I say favorite torture, in hell.” Alastair grins, blood staining his teeth. “Skinning was Dean’s, if you can believe it.”
The blood in Castiel’s veins - that isn’t his - runs cold.
He should have known there was a point to this awful, violent tangent. He knows what Dean did in hell, of course; he was doing it when the angels arrived. Castiel remembers it like it happened yesterday - it seems to be the splitting point in his long existence. There was life as an angel before rescuing the righteous man, and life after. He remembers fighting Alastair, and Lilith, and other demons. He remembers the stink of hell: the green, putrid atmosphere, the screaming, blood and flesh and bodily fluids and fire. Everything that hell is and more.
And through it all, Dean’s soul shining like a beacon; impossible to miss.
He had been near the center of the rack, cutting through someone’s jaw. Piece by piece. Castiel supposes, if he thinks about it, that there had been a lot of dead skin discarded nearby, but that wasn’t what had stood out to him. He remembers how Dean had looked, with his dead, expressionless eyes; the demon corruption had crawled up his right arm, but otherwise he was spotless. It would have taken a long time to transform him into one of those dark creatures; centuries, perhaps.
He had looked up slowly, like he was being pulled out of a trance; then something close to a human expression, to a form of relief, dawned in his eyes.
“Are you here to kill me?” he had asked, his voice a hoarse whisper, gravel in a desert.
And Castiel remembered being shocked, thinking no, how could you think that, I’m here to save you, and so he said as much.
“No,” he had said.
“Just kill me,” Dean had said again, his shoulders slumped; blood and other viscera covered his hands, his soul’s form, but all Castiel could think was how pure he looked all the same. Dean was truly the righteous man; how terrible that they had convinced him to get off the rack. He knows what Dean had done. They all do. He remembers despising him for it before he arrived, but now? Dean needs to be returned to life. To safety.
“You’re safe,” Castiel remembers saying as he laid one hand on Dean’s arm, the one laced with sulfur and corruption, and he pulled Dean’s soul into himself, holding him safe. He could feel Dean’s shock at being removed from the rack; and then he could feel the peace Dean felt. Like a child safe enough to go to sleep.
Dean had thought Castiel was there to kill him; that he deserved to die. Even after that - he could never see it -
He remembers that with anger, in the present, forced to hear from Alastair how Dean liked torturing.
Because he never did. Castiel knows that, he saw him in the moment.
“He was forced to torture others,” he finds himself saying, before he can stop himself. “You forced him to. You know very well how hell works.”
“Oh, I didn’t -” Alastair hacks this time, breaking off for several seconds. “I never forced Dean to do anything. I just asked him. It’s a pity he was raised to show obedience through violence, came too easy for him. And oh…” He lifts his eyes to the heavens, as if he’s reminiscing. Taking glory in it. “The things he did, he needed no encouragement from me. He was so inventive.” He looks back at them. “You’re so ineffective. You just don’t understand, and how could you? You haven’t been down there in the filth of human souls. He has, and he - he was a work of art when he was screaming himself, so...responsive when I set him on fire; but when he did it to others? When he lit the flame himself, knowing exactly where to put it?” Alastair licks the blood off his lips. “You know, with all the trouble you’re having, why don’t you bring him in here? At least he’d be better than that worthless knife.”
Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry in his entire existence.
Bring Dean? To try to do their job? It’s insulting, particularly because Alastair seems to think it would work; or, if it wouldn’t work, that it would be better. Because he believes Dean was a natural, that he was meant for torture -
Uriel snorts, like he finds it funny.
That, for whatever reason, is the ultimate insult. For Alastair to say these things, like he’s proud of Dean; it’s horrible, but expected. He’s a demon. All demons are uniquely evil. It’s in their nature. But for Uriel to laugh, as though he’s agreeing in some way, is the final betrayal.
“I…need to go,” is what Castiel says, instead of snapping at his brother like he wants to.
He knows it sounds cowardly, but he’s furious, and in his anger what he really wants is to obliterate the demon right now. Which would destroy every chance they have of finding the culprit. It doesn’t matter to him; he’s trying to remember why it matters, but the only thing that matters right now is Dean. He needs to see him. All he can see are these visions the demon is putting in his head; Dean screaming in hell, on fire, torturing others, he needs to see him.
He knows, abjectly, that Alastair is torturing him right now. Psychologically, in some form. He doesn’t care. Selfishness is forbidden, but he can’t wait any longer.
“You need to go?” Uriel says, sounding skeptical.
“We’re not getting anywhere,” Castiel clarifies, hoping his brother will see through the excuse. “I need to seek revelation.”
Uriel just nods, like he understands; Castiel can’t see doubt anywhere in his vessel’s features, or sense it in his grace. But as he turns to go, Alastair laughs at him.
The sound follows him all the way to Oregon, to the motel he can sense Dean.
Sam isn’t there. Castiel doesn’t know where Sam is. He doesn’t care. He just follows the pull of Dean’s soul, follows it like he followed it through hell, although this time all he can feel is his own fury and desperation.
Dean is sitting on the rumpled motel bed. He is dressed down, wearing standard human male undergarments that hug the tops of his thighs, and a shirt that looks soft. His legs are stretched out in front of him, bare and soft and vulnerable. His expression is soft too, soft and open; his eyes are just a little rimmed in red, like he’s been awake too long. His hair is wet as if he just went out into the rain, and it looks like a mess. Castiel wants to touch it. He wants to touch the shirt and see if it is actually soft. He wants to touch the fine hair on Dean’s legs. He -
Selfishness is not allowed.
Dean looks up as Castiel arrives; there’s something almost startled in his eyes, although this quickly dissolves into happy surprise.
“Cas,” he says with a beatific smile, and Castiel is frozen in place. Not Castiel. Cas. Dean gives everyone a shorter name. He’s heard them - Sammy, Bobby, but this is the first time one has been directed at Castiel. He is worthy of one of these names that Dean gives to his family. “Hey, Cas. Whatcha doin’ here?”
Castiel doesn’t know how to describe what he feels. After those disgusting remarks Alastair had given about Dean in hell, after Uriel’s derision, to see him now - content and soft and human - is like a breath of fresh air. Castiel does not need to breathe, but he does need this. This is worth stepping away from their mission to torture Alastair, this is worth lying to Uriel -
“Uh,” and now Dean looks uncertain again. Doubt creeps into his expression. “Everything okay? Do you need something from me?”
He looks so tired at the thought of it, so weary, and the guilt is a knife to the heart that isn’t Castiel’s. He needs to disabuse Dean of that notion immediately.
“No,” he says quickly, taking a few steps toward the bed. “No. I -”
But now what does he say? He’s at a loss.
“Well, you didn’t come all this way just to see me,” Dean laughs lightly, and it is like the first time Castiel saw rain on earth, millions of years ago. Castiel thinks of a waterfall in Brazil, the way it dropped clear, crystal water into the rivers; he remembers springs of water in the Cascades, in the American West, dripping down from the volcanoes.
The way Dean sounds when he laughs is more beautiful than any of that.
And he is also wrong. Castiel did come there to see him, but that would be admitting selfishness. But maybe he can admit that to Dean. He admitted as much on that bench in the park, all those months ago.
“The fight with the seals is…complicated,” is what he settles on, coming to sit on the chair beside the bed. “I needed to think.”
Dean frowns. “So. Again. You came here?”
He’s confused as to why Castiel would want to spend time with him. Because, prior to this, every time Castiel has seen him has involved something dangerous, something the angels are demanding of him. Of course he doesn’t understand.
Castiel can’t explain that, so he doesn’t.
In any case, Dean doesn’t seem to care; there’s something tired behind his expression. That’s right, humans need to sleep.
“Eh, whatever,” he says. “Forgot you’re not a talkative guy. That’s fine, I get it. Sometimes I’m not either. But, uh, if you’re gonna be here for a while -” He pats the bed next to him. “Come on. You ever seen the Maltese Falcon?”
Castiel frowns. Dean seems to be insinuating he join him on the bed, which would be - bizarre, wonderful, forbidden - and he doesn’t know what Dean’s talking about. “What’s a maltese falcon?”
Dean laughs again; just a short sound, but still so beautiful. “So you haven’t - oh, yeah, you probably haven’t seen any of that. Well, just - you’ll see it better if you get up here.”
His tone is casual, but he almost sounds nervous. For what, Castiel doesn’t understand, but he follows Dean’s instructions all the same. He gets out of the chair and sits on the bed next to him; it’s everything he has wanted, and Dean is giving him permission to do it.
For a while, they just sit there, which is more than enough. Castiel can sense how exhausted Dean is, ready for sleep, but he doesn’t say anything. The movie plays, and Castiel ignores the impulse to put his human fingers to the edge of Dean’s shirt. He is already sitting next to him, which is more than enough.
“Oh,” Dean says, perking up. “You gotta watch this, this is hilarious.”
“I am watching it,” Castiel says, although he hasn’t been. He has been thinking about Dean. If Dean wants him to, though, he will pay attention; he does. The film plays in black and white, which is strange. A very short man is invited into the taller man’s office, and proceeds to threaten him.
“Five thousand dollars,” he says in a very strange accent that makes Dean smile. “You will clasp your hands together at the back of your neck. I intend to search your offices.”
“Peter Lorre’s always hilarious,” Dean explains. Castiel is confused. He thought the character’s name was Cairo. “Good at those kind of - wimpy, creepy characters.”
Characters. Actors. Castiel doesn’t understand, but he loves to watch Dean talk about it. Dean’s eyes light up, his hands move frequently as he talks. What’s most striking, though, is how different he is from this mental image that Alastair painted of him. He’s so human, at his core; so strangely happy about things that make no sense, so animated. His soul was not destroyed in hell. Far from it.
Dean notices Castiel staring at him, and looks uncomfortable. “Everything okay?”
“Yes,” Castiel says quickly, and turns his attention back to the movie.
For a while, they just sit there. Castiel can’t think of anything to say, so he doesn’t; Dean doesn’t seem interested in talking, either. That’s more than okay. The movie just plays on. A variety of characters, still in black and white, pass through scenes; Castiel can’t comprehend most of it, but he doesn’t mind. He’s not here for the movie, in any case. It’s incredibly intoxicating, to be so close to Dean’s soul with no - with no mission in mind. Just because he wants to.
That’s what’s so terrifying about it. The wanting.
I should return to Uriel, Castiel thinks once, except that will also mean returning to Alastair and all the terrible things he says about this soft, messy-haired man next to him. It will mean returning to the horrible truth of all his siblings being killed and the fact that they are getting no answer, and Uriel’s doubt in him -
No. Castiel doesn’t like thinking about that. It puts him at rest, to sit next to Dean and listen to his litany of comments about the movie and what scenes Castiel should pay attention to. It puts a curious feeling in Castiel’s chest, below his grace, every time Dean waves his hands or starts on another ramble; a feeling soft and golden like butter settles over him. He’s content, to watch Dean be himself, content not to understand.
Eventually, Dean’s comments start to die off; the space between gets longer. Castiel can tell how tired he is; it was a little noticeable at first, but now it’s very apparent. The redness of his eyes is more pronounced. His voice sounds tired, and he’s starting to relax more against the pillows.
Castiel is loath to leave him, but he wonders if Dean is staying awake only for his benefit.
He has seen Sam and Dean do this, to each other, casual touches; surely he can. Feeling like it’s forbidden all the same, he reaches up to touch Dean lightly on the shoulder. Dean turns to look at him, something close to a smile on his face.
“I should go,” Castiel says. “You need to sleep.”
The smile fades; Castiel has no idea what he did to cause this, but Dean starts to withdraw into himself. He looks away.
“Nah,” he says, and even though he’s trying to sound casual, Castiel can hear his voice waver. “I don’t need to sleep, man.”
Castiel starts to become frustrated. What does he mean? Why isn’t he sleeping? His body needs it.
“Yes, you do,” he argues, turning sideways on the bed to look at Dean. “I can tell you’re exhausted. You have been since I arrived.”
“No, I -”
“When was the last time you slept?” Castiel demands.
“Uh…” Dean has to think for too long. “Yesterday?” Yesterday is good. Humans are supposed to sleep once a day. “Two hours, maybe?”
Two hours…of sleep? Total? Castiel wishes he knew more about humans and their limitations; he doesn’t know what the correct amount of time asleep is, but he knows it’s certainly not two hours. And Dean says it like it’s normal. Is he consistently driving, hunting monsters, doing things for heaven on insufficient sleep?
“But I’m fine,” Dean says, too brightly, turning back to look at Castiel. “Let’s, uh -” He blinks a few times. He really is exhausted. “Look, I know the credits are rolling, if you’re alright hanging out let’s find another -”
He goes for the TV remote, and Castiel grabs his wrist.
Despite his exhaustion, Dean shoots him a glare. “Man, what the hell?”
“I can make you sleep,” Castiel threatens.
He expects Dean to keep fighting him, but instead the opposite happens; Dean looks afraid. The fingers of the hand in Castiel’s wrist twitch uselessly, almost frenetic.
“No,” he says, pulling like he’s trying to break free of Castiel’s grip on him. “Don’t - don’t make me sleep, Cas -“ Dean’s voice breaks. “Please.”
That gives Castiel pause, just seconds from reaching out his other hand to put Dean to sleep. Dean isn’t just resisting it out of stubbornness; he seems genuinely terrified of falling asleep.
He wants Castiel to let him go, so he does. Castiel releases Dean’s wrist. Then, freed, Dean curls up on the bed with his knees to the chest, and doesn’t look at him.
Castiel doesn’t know what to do. Everything was just fine until he mentioned Dean’s exhaustion. Now Dean isn’t soft and happy anymore; he’s afraid, and he’s upset. How is he supposed to rectify this? He doesn’t know anything about humans.
“Why?” is what he asks, because it’s what he wants to know. “Why don’t you want to sleep? You need it.”
“You know.” Dean wraps his arms around his knees, tips his chin forward, like he’s trying to huddle into himself. “Hell.”
Yes, Castiel knows what hell is like. But Dean’s out of hell. Castiel got him out. He doesn’t understand what the problem is.
“Dean,” he says, and dares to put a hand on his shoulder again. “Everything will be okay. You are not returning to hell. We captured Alastair. None of the demons can harm you again.”
“I know,” Dean mumbles into his knees. Then he straightens up, and finally looks at Castiel. “You don’t get it. Just…you said you had to go, you probably have shit to do.”
Castiel said he had to go because he wanted Dean to sleep. If Dean won’t sleep, leaving is useless.. Technically he has things to do, but he finds he doesn’t want to do them. He doesn’t want any responsibility right now except for helping Dean feel better.
“I just want to understand,” Castiel tells him. “You need to sleep. What does that have to do with hell?”
“Well, I -” Dean frowns, like he’s suddenly realized something. “Oh, you really don’t get it, do you? I, uh. I don’t know, I see it. In my sleep.”
“You see hell,” Castiel clarifies.
Dean nods. “Stuff that happened. Stuff that didn’t. It’s just, it feels real, and it feels so real I don’t -” He breaks off. His mouth moves; nothing comes out, but Castiel can read his lips. I don’t know what’s real.
Castiel has to think about that. It is, objectively, horrifying; he doesn’t know how he didn’t know this. Dean has clearly been dreaming about hell ever since he was returned to life. Is that something common, with humans? Castiel hasn’t witnessed any humans struggling to sleep; well, that’s not entirely true, now that he thinks about it. He once passed an old man on a street with an odd pin on his chest, shaped like a flag; the old man had been mumbling in his sleep, flashed awake with a shout, and scrambled away. Some humans dream like that.
And Dean is one of them, apparently.
Castiel thinks back to what he saw of Dean in hell, to Alastair’s poisoned words in the warehouse; that short as they were, painted a rather vivid picture of what Dean’s entire time in hell was like. That must be what he sees, every time he falls asleep. He’s out of hell; but every time he sleeps, he returns to it.
That is no way to live. No wonder he doesn’t want to sleep.
Castiel doesn’t know what to say. He can tell that there isn’t anything he can say that will make Dean feel better.
“Dean, it’s not real,” he says at last.
“I know,” Dean snaps at him. Then his shoulders slump. “Sorry.”
Castiel doesn’t know what Dean is apologizing for. He presses on. “It’s not real -” He tightens his hand on Dean’s shoulder, trying to find some way to remind Dean that he’s here, that everything will be fine. “You are never returning to hell. Do you understand?”
Dean’s eyes meet his. They’re still so tired, rimmed with red, and fearful; but there’s a spark of hope in there. The same look he had on his face when Castiel revealed himself as the one who had captured Alastair. Some leftover fear, maybe, but a hint of relief.
“Yeah, I guess,” he says at last. “I dunno. Just hard when I go to sleep.”
“I understand,” Castiel says. Because now, he does. He doesn’t like the understanding, because he can’t do anything about it. “I won’t make you go to sleep.”
The breath whooshes out of Dean in a huge rush. He turns away, but not too far this time; he just puts his head on the pillow, his eyes toward the TV but his head still turned in Castiel’s direction.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
Time passes again; just several minutes, this time. Castiel can sense Dean’s exhaustion, but also his resistance to it; his discomfort. He wishes he could do anything to fix this.
Then it occurs to him; maybe he can. He has started to learn a few things Dean likes, one just recently.
“I have to admit I’m confused,” he says, because he truly is. “All those people at the end, I’m not sure I was following.”
“What people?” Dean murmurs, staring at nothing in particular.
“The movie,” Castiel reminds him. “Was it a gem they wanted? They were talking about a lot of money, and the woman was arrested -”
“Oh, the Maltese Falcon,” Dean says, his tone perking up just a little. It’s enough for now. “Yeah, so -” He really is tired. He yawns, blinks a few times, but sits up nonetheless. “It wasn’t a gem, it was this…figurine. It’s a black bird that’s worth like, I don’t know what it’d be today, but a ton of money, and so everyone wants it for the money. That’s the movie title. The Maltese Falcon.”
“The Maltese Falcon is the figurine,” Castiel echoes.
“Uh-huh. So -” Dean yawns again. “Whoa. Sorry. All those people wanted it, but Sam Spade doesn’t give a shit. He’s just a private detective. Brigid O’Shaughnessy wanted it for herself, and Cairo and Gutman -”
“But she’s the one who hired him,” Castiel points out. “To find her sister.” He does remember that much.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut for a while, then blinks rapidly. Maybe it’s a method of staying awake. “Uh…uh, right. That was just - just so she could get it for herself. A ploy like that. She never…had a sister, she lied about that and - she killed his partner. To get the falcon from Thursby, who had it.” He snickers. “I know, it’s -” He yawns again. “Confusing.”
Maybe Dean’s not going to fall asleep, but he does look more relaxed again. Softer. Castiel feels proud of himself.
That is also forbidden.
“It’s alright,” Castiel says. “It was interesting.” He frowns. “I didn’t like most of the characters, though.”
Dean wakes up just a little at that. “Not even Sam Spade? I mean, it’s Humphrey Bogart. He’s a classic, right?”
Castiel wouldn’t know. He doesn’t dignify that with an answer.
“He was cold,” Castiel says. “Intelligent, but cold. I didn’t like what he said to that woman at the end. How he would remember her forever if they hanged her. He didn't sound like he cared.”
“Well -” Dean snorts. His head lolls back on the pillow, turning ever so slowly over to look at Castiel. “She killed his partner. She deserves it. I thought you guys were all about righteous justice, yeah?”
“Yes, but -” Castiel can’t explain why he doesn’t like it. “Maybe Sam Spade should give Brigid O’Shaughnessy another chance.”
“I think he gave her a lotta chances,” Dean murmurs, looking away from him now.
“Maybe just one more,” Castiel argues. He doesn’t know why he’s arguing. “I don’t think we learned anything about her life, did we?”
“I dunno,” Dean’s voice is very quiet now. More tired. “She’s like. Classic femme fatale character. You…” He pushes himself up on his elbows with a grunt until he’s sitting up. “Probably don’t know what that is. Like a woman who uses sex to man…ipulate men, or something. Kind of sexist, I guess.”
“Maybe she’s lonely,” Castiel theorizes. “Maybe she doesn’t have anyone who truly loves her.”
“Spade tried to love her, but she was manipulating him, so that was her last chance, maybe.” Dean chuckles to himself. “Man, why do you care so much about that? She’s the villain of the movie.”
“I just didn’t like his joke about her death,” Castiel says. “He seems so cold.” He doesn’t know why it’s bothering him.
“Yeah,” Dean laughs, and kind of pokes Castiel’s arm. This is maybe not the kind of thing he would do if he were better rested. “You’re uh, you’re all kind of cold. And unfeeling, you know, cause you don’t know what it’s like. Down…down here.”
That’s why it’s bothering him. Castiel doesn’t want to be cold. He wants to be here in the hotel room, learning what movies Dean likes. He has wants, and it frightens him, but he can’t stop it, and he doesn’t want to stop it.
“Maybe not you, though,” Dean continues, like an afterthought. He’s slurring some of his words, skipping over the consonants. “You kind of wanna be human. You’re like Spock.”
“I don’t know who Spock is,” Castiel sees fit to inform him.
“Yeah. Heh. I know. Listen, you - you decide to pop in and Star Trek’s on, I’ll…show you who Spock is.”
“I just don’t know much about humans,” Castiel says, and he needs to make himself stop talking. He can. He can stop whenever he wants. “I wish I knew more. You know, I learned today that Uriel was here during the second World War.”
“Hmm,” Dean says, barely a sound.
“I wasn’t,” he goes on. “That…is unpleasant knowledge. I don’t know why. I wish I had been here. Wasn’t this film from that time?”
“Hmm?” Dean blinks. “Oh. Uh. ‘41. Yeah.”
“Maybe I would have seen it,” Castiel muses.
“Mmm. Huh. You wouldn’t have…you wouldn’t have cared, c’mon.”
“I do,” Castiel says, and he dares to even say it; it feels like rebellion. He really should return to Uriel. “I want to care, at least. I don’t think I know enough. But you care, so much, about all of this, and it makes me curious. I want to know why. There are so many things you say that I don’t understand. This movie. Spock. Robert Plant. I have heard so many things -”
Thump. Dean’s head has landed on his arm.
“Dean?” Castiel ventures quietly.
Dean makes no sound. He’s fallen asleep. Maybe this conversation distracted him; Castiel hoped so. He’s disappointed, not to hear Dean’s voice any more, or to see his eyes, but another part of him is glad. He knows Dean has needed sleep.
This can’t be comfortable for him, though. Castiel waits a few minutes, making sure Dean is really, truly asleep, before he moves Dean bodily off of him by the shoulders. His head flops a little as it’s lifted; he makes a small sound, but otherwise doesn’t awaken. When Castiel lays him back against the pillow, another sound escapes him, just a short, contented sigh.
His legs look cold, too, so Castiel pulls the blankets over him.
Then he watches. He can’t stop; he can’t look away. He looks at Dean with his soft shirt, stripped down to his boxers; his head is turned sideways, and he seems very comfortable.
CASTIEL.
He freezes. It’s Zachariah, which means he needs to go immediately. But as he starts to stand up, Dean makes another noise; this one pained, fearful.
Castiel turns back, torn. He needs to go now, but Dean hadn’t wanted to fall asleep for this very reason. He’s dreaming of hell.
CASTIEL, WHERE ARE YOU?
Dean’s eyebrows draw together. Castiel knows very well what he’s dreaming about.
“No,” comes out, almost unintelligible; quiet and desperate. “Help me.”
He can’t resist. Just this once, he can do something for Dean; he gets back on the bed, crawling close enough to Dean that he can lay a hand to his forehead. Dean will sleep peacefully, if only for tonight.
Then Castiel watches, anxious.
It doesn’t take long, in any case. Dean’s tight eyebrows ease; his fists, clenched around the blankets, loosen. He lets out a long sigh, and then a small smile drifts across his face.
Castiel likes to imagine that it’s like the other night, when he captured Alastair and literally banished Dean’s fears; that Dean was in hell again, maybe, but with a snap of his fingers, Castiel made it all disappear.
He watches Dean sigh again. He is happy, peaceful, and content; Castiel made it so.
CASTIEL.
Now, he does truly need to go. But Castiel can’t resist one last temptation, something he has never done; he goes into the dream, into Dean’s mind.
He could never have prepared himself for what he sees.
Dean’s dream is bathed in a peaceful golden glow. He lies on some old couch in an old house, with peeling wallpaper. Something is under his head, though. Someone’s lap, and then Castiel realizes - it’s himself. In the dream, he has Dean’s head in his lap, and Dream-Castiel is stroking his fingers through Dean’s hair. He wears more of an expression than any angel could be capable of, something…happy.
“Dean,” calls a woman’s voice, and Mary Winchester drifts out from the kitchen. This is most certainly something that would never happen, in any universe, but it’s what Dean dreams about when he’s happy.
She smiles in Dream-Castiel’s direction.
“Pie’s ready,” she says. “The two of you should hurry up before it gets cold.”
Castiel leaves the dream, not wanting to intrude any further. He stares, in shock, down at Dean’s sleeping face. What does it mean, that Dean wants that? That Dean wants a version of Castiel that is more human than he could ever be?
There’s one thing he can still do. Like his dream-self, Castiel reaches down and moves some hair out of Dean’s face. The motion is robotic; he doesn’t know how to move his fingers in that way, to seem so human. He’s only imitating something he can never have.
Dean still sighs, all the same; still tilts his head, unconscious, into Castiel’s touch.
He would never, ever do this if he were awake. Castiel knows this.
The moment is broken by violent anger across his grace; Castiel can sense it, and it hurts. Zachariah is furious. All he can think is that somehow, Uriel went looking and discovered that Castiel hadn’t actually gone to seek revelation.
He vanishes in an instant, leaving Dean, the hotel, and Turner Classic Movies far behind.