Chapter Text
In the dream Dean is in bed with Megan Dunham, a blonde girl he dated in high school—or maybe the one he slept with while in Philadelphia in ’03? The memories run together—kissing and nipping and occasionally sucking every bit of flesh he encounters, hands roaming freely under the sheet on the twin bed (twin? It must be high school), occupied with her angles and curves. Megan smells, even in this dream-cum-memory, like perfume and sweat, and Dean’s ears full of her encouraging whispers and gasps when, suddenly, there’s a familiar whoosh of wings, and from his vantage point on top of Megan, the toes of two dress shoes come into view on the floor to the his right. Dean looks up to see Castiel squinting down at him.
“Dean,” Cas says in the infuriating monotone, “do you have a moment?”
Dean shouts “Jesus Crist!” and flies off Megan In half of a second he’s crabwalked his way to the foot of the bed and has covered himself with the gingham (gingham? Did Megan have gingham sheets? That might have been Nicole, in Albuquerque) sheets, and when he glances back to the place where Megan’s naked body should have been lying, it is gone.
“Are you freakin’ kidding me?!” Dean demands, partly to the now-empty bed and partly to the angel standing adjacent the now-empty bed. His subconscious has betrayed him, has let Megan, with her big dewy eyes and pouting mouth and wonderfully kissable neck pull a disappearing act; but more importantly Castiel, in this interruption, has betrayed him. Not, Dean considers coldly, that there is much there to betray.
“I should come back,” Cas says after a moment.
“Too late now,” Dean barks back, gesturing to the tousled sheets. “Do you ever knock?”
Dean can tell Castiel is trying to desperately to process Dean’s question; he says, “I—don’t—” and then, unsure of himself, moves over to the small table beside the bed and raps on it lightly with his knuckles.
Dean would think Cas is trying to be funny, but, unfortunately, he knows the angel too well.
Dean sighs wearily and realizes that even in his unconscious he can never get away from this shit. He’s sitting on his haunches with the sheets about his waist, his arms hanging somewhat limply with his hands coming to rest in front of his groin. He’s weirdly aware of the tattoo on his chest moving up and down with his breathing. Even after all this time, he can’t help but consider his anti-possession symbol as something other than his body; something affixed to it, not part of it. As for the angel handprint on his shoulder…well, he prefers not to think about it.
“All right, Roma Downey,” Dean says after a few calming breaths. “You’ve invaded my dream. Something’s obviously up.”
Dean raises his face to meet Castiel’s eyes and, if he didn’t know better, Dean would say Castiel had been examining the curvature of his shoulders, and it freaks him out a bit. He’s well aware of Cas’s loose grip on human etiquette, but checking him out when he’s not looking, even in the most scientific, non-sexual ways (as Cas does) makes Dean’s skin crawl a little bit.
(Or, it should, anyway, but it doesn’t, and Dean can’t figure out why, except that this is a dream and everything feels a bit fuzzy, like they’re both swimming in tapioca, and so this time, he writes it off.)
Dean only says, “Hey, buddy, there’s a time and a place,” very crossly, and then proceeds to drape the bed’s remaining sheets over his shoulders. “Now are you gonna tell me why you’re here or not?”
Castiel is perpetually indecipherable to Dean Winchester, and here, in Dean’s own dream, it is no different. Cas’s face, even in its total openness, its complete lack of pretension, is unreadable, and Dean, who prides himself on his ability to read people, finds his unendingly infuriating. Castiel refuses to be read.
Dean watches the angel gather his thoughts.
“I was wondering,” Cas says finally, and sits down on the bed an acceptable but not entirely comfortable distance away from Dean. “Considering your situation with Sam, have you considered turning to the Bible? With this being a time of trouble, I mean.” Castiel turns to Dean with imploring eyes. “The Good Book helps, often times, to quell that which is uncertain in one’s heart.”
Dean is so gobsmacked at this that he cannot fathom an answer, nor can he construct a sentence for several seconds.
“Have you tried, for example, the Book of Psalms? Twenty-three is my personal favorite. I know it’s a popular one, it’s almost cliché, but I love the extended metaphor, and the juxtaposition in the verses: the green valleys that God leads us to, and leading us through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, only to come dwell in the House of the L—”
Dean is unable to keep his voice down when he says, “Cas!” so it comes out much more like a shout.
“You’re a trench coat-wearing bastard if you really tore me away from a second one-night stand with Megan Dunham to talk to me about the goddamn Bible,” says Dean.
Castiel falters. “It’s probably best not to take the Lord’s name in vain when speaking about—”
“You really don’t get it, do you?” says Dean, shifting around uncomfortably. If he were clothed, he would stand up and pace, gesticulating wildly. But from the foot of the bed, swaddled in sheets, he can only glower. “You really don’t get how you screwed me over here, or why I have absolutely no interest in reading the Bible to, what did you say, quell that—”
“That which is uncertain in one’s heart,” finishes Castiel, sounding very sheepish.
“…Do you?!” spouts Dean. He wishes he could wake up, tries to will himself to wake up, but feels the tapioca pulling him down and trapping him inside his own head, on the twin bed, with Cas. The room, which must be Megan Dunham’s room, is starting to fray at the edges; the blue walls are starting to warp like he’s taken a mild amount of hallucinogen.
“I’m sorry, Dean, I wanted to…” Cas says, “I wanted to offer assistance, I truly did.”
He stands up, eyes downcast, and Dean realizes Cas has arranged his facial features to resemble what penitence looks like on the face of a normal human being.
“It’s just, Cas,” Dean says, backpedaling just a bit, simply because this look is something new, “You don’t really believe in all of that? After everything so far? The Lord being a Shepherd, leading his…lambs or whatever, his goats beside the still waters? That’s such crap and you know it.”
Castiel’s eyes brighten considerably. “You are familiar with Psalm 23?”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes, ok? All we do is stay in hotels, dude. I’ve read the Bible once or twice. Plus I’ve been brushing up,” he says, pulling the sheet more securely around his body, “you know, in light of this whole apocalypse thing.”
“And the Book hasn’t offered you any solace?” asks Castiel, genuinely, but still only mildly, surprised.
“None whatsoever,” replies Dean. “It’s a book, just like any other book. Or newspaper. Or porn magazine. The Bible doesn’t even have pictures, though, so…”
There’s that sarcasm this conversation was missing, thinks Dean, and is proud of himself. Plus, from the look on Cas’s face, it appears he’s successfully derailed the conversation.
Castiel’s shoulders slump and to Dean it looks like he’s accepted defeat. He says, “Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you, in that case.”
Dean’s just glad he doesn’t have to talk about God, that fucking asshat. “Just…knock, next time,” he says, and then clarifies, “before entering.”
Castiel leans towards Dean, outstretching his hand, “I’ll return you to your normally scheduled sleep pattern,” he says, and before Dean can protest he’s shuddering awake like a freight train hitting the end of its track.
Dean bolts upright. He’s still dressed, lying in a small bed in a hotel room that smells like canned peas. Moonlight is pouring in between the blinds in the window overlooking the hotel parking lot. He remembers he’s in Bowling Green, Missouri. A small snore wafts through the darkness to let him know that Sam is across the room, safe, and asleep.
Dean doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about, but when he lays his head back down, the pillow smells faintly of perfume, and he before he blacks out he thinks he hears, somewhere, the rush of wings.