Suddenly appearing at the computer desk would be just like waking unexpectedly from sleep, if Castiel had any idea what it was like to wake up.
He closed his eyes instinctively against the bright lights in the office, chatter roaring in his ears, the sharp, artificial tang of air-freshener and plastic in his nose. All that immediately came into focus was a small, pink piece of paper, stuck by one edge to the computer monitor in front of him. As it got slowly clearer it was evident that someone had written on it in sharp, blocky script. English, not enochian.
"See if you can knock some sense into Patrick Bateman over there.
Love,
Zach"
Zachariah had, ostensibly, then drawn a small heart next to his words. Castiel squinted at it, confused, and then looked down at himself and grew even more perplexed than before.
Gone were Jimmy's clothes, the same ones he'd been wearing for months, now, and replacing them was a shirt very similar to Jimmy's, and over it a thick, cable-knitted, blue sweatervest; on his legs, black pants, smartly creased. He wrinkled his nose, finally growing used to the halogen lights, and held his arms out in front of him, strange to see them unclothed, the thick, dark hairs coating him from elbow to wrist, and his vessel's various moles, imperfections, a scar from when he was young and he'd fallen from his bike. He flexed his hands; he was all accounted for. Moreso, even. He scratched absently at his collar, where his clothes itched his skin, and then realized what he was doing.
Where was he?
An office. Midday, by the looks of things, though there was hardly any natural light. People milled around in front of him; every surface seemed to be oak or vinyl, black and brown, every plant (and there were several dotted around, in pots) was a plastic fern or a monstera deliciosa, (Cheese Plant, in layman's terms, though Castiel would never understand the need for English when there was Latin). He was sitting at a desk, planted firmly in a leather chair that swiveled when he moved his legs. He did, experimentally, and almost made a full turn, stomach lurching (that, too, was odd) until he brought his feet down again and forced it to stop.
"You're the temp?" He heard a voice behind him and turned the chair, again, to face the desk. Zachariah's note was gone from the screen, but that realisation fell by the wayside when he looked up and saw, at last, something familiar. Dean raised his eyebrows. He breathed relief.
"Dean. Good. I'm looking for a –" he almost forgot the name, "Patrick Bateman?" He enunciated carefully, just in case he was pronouncing it wrong. Dean, to his dismay, laughed.
"You guys are always so weird." He frowned. "And it's Mr. Smith to you, dude. I'm your boss now, right?" He looked a little lost, apparently thrown off-guard by the question, though Castiel could hardly see anything wrong with it. Dean stuck his hands in his pockets – black pants, too, creased as well, as if they were in uniform. He looked neater than usual, cleaner, maybe even slightly thinner. How long had Castiel been away? Sometimes human timeframes eluded him. He hoped it hadn't been so long that Dean had actually forgotten who he was.
"Dean." He said again, more vehemently, trying to pull the conversation back to a place he recognized; Dean looked even more affronted. "I don't-"
Dean cut him off, shaking his head, and pulled his hands out of his pockets. "Mr. Smith, alright? Jesus." He eyed Castiel strangely, green eyes showing no recognition whatsoever. "I left you some reports. Give Tech Support a call, they'll help you get logged in, since you're new." before Castiel could reply, he started to walk away. "Mr Smith, okay? Remember." And that was all – he made his exit, using a door to the left of Castiel, and when he closed it Castiel saw that in the center of it sat, fat and shiny, a plaque reading Dean Smith.
He realized suddenly what he should have worked out a while ago - especially when Zachariah came in. He stood, hands in his pockets much like Dean had before, leaning back on his heels, head turned towards the ceiling, clearly very proud of himself. Then he turned his eyes on Castiel, who felt incredibly small in his chair, looking up at Zachariah, haloed by the strip lighting above them. It was blinding, and Zachariah was terrifying on a usual basis, let alone in such a clearly advantageous position. He was slightly less intimidating in human skin, at least, though Castiel thought he could hardly have chosen a more appropriate vessel.
"I forget you're not up on your literature, Castiel. My sense of humor is completely lost on you." He looked faux-disappointed, mocking, and then grinned again. "But, then, so is everyone else's."
"Zachariah. Why am I here? Why is Dean here?"
The archangel looked irritated to be asked, and leaned over the desk, the huge hands of his vessel laid out on its surface as he brought his face close. "There is work for you, Castiel." He said snidely, echoing the words of other superiors long ago, and Castiel's own, to Dean, not so long ago at all. "Listen, I was hoping these stupid mud-monkeys would work it out on their own, but it seems like their learning curves aren't as steep as I hoped." He grimaced. "There's a lesson to learn here, Castiel – and I want you to help me teach it." He paused, drew breath, and then lifted a hand, bringing it down on the desk with the flat of his hand to punctuate each subsequent point. "Don't fracture the illusion. Don't tell him the lesson outright. Don't fuck this up, Castiel." He looked down his nose at Castiel derisively. "I know tact isn't exactly your strong suit, so I've amped up the human factor a little, okay? For all intents and purposes, you're one of them now. Basic mojo only. For the time being, at least. The faster you help Dean realize he is what he is destined to be, through and through, the sooner you get your wings back. Capiche?"
That explained the itching, and the sensitivity to light. Castiel stared at him, at a loss, feeling, all at once, emotions he had felt only vaguely before – doubt. Terror. Confusion. Anxiety. All he recognized, but none had he experienced so acutely as this, and as Zachariah continued to stare him down, they only intensified. "What would you have me do?" He asked tentatively, the panic rising in his gut distracting him; knowing, as he did, that Zachariah could (and possibly would) kill him without a second thought, made speaking to him even more inherently difficult than usual.
"What you do best, kid. Turn those big cobalt blues on him. Make him your buddy. You can do that, right?"
"Of course." Castiel answered, trying to sound confident, though he couldn't have been further from it. Zachariah, clearly aware of his lack of conviction, only grinned, wide, catlike, at him, his crowded teeth whiter, almost blue, under the artificial lights.
"Don't disappoint me, Castiel." He said, straightening, finally drawing away, his voice light with dangerous, false joviality. Castiel swallowed despite himself, a terrifyingly human gesture, and one he wasn't sure came from himself or from Zachariah's tweaking his emotions. Zachariah held his shoulder briefly, squeezing gently but with the kind of held-back tension that said clearly, I could crush you if I wanted to, and by God, if you force me, I shall.
Castiel watched him leave the room and enter Dean's office, trying to breathe over the new sensations that were swirling, lurching inside him, and sat straight in his computer chair, rigid, for at least an hour after Zachariah left.
Xxx
Castiel peered at the phone after a long, long while. Out of all the specifically human feelings he'd experienced so far, boredom was his least favorite. He drummed his fingers on the desk, aware that it was a habit of his vessel's, a muscle memory, almost a tic. On the phone on his desk – a queer, slim thing, littered with buttons – was a label reading 'tech support', with a button beside it. Dean had told him to call, and at a loss for other orders (how, exactly did a person become Dean Winchester's buddy? As far he was aware, Dean had never had a friend in his life), there seemed nothing else to do. He pressed the button and picked up the receiver experimentally, holding it to his ear. Almost immediately, a voice came through on the other end.
"Sam Wesson, tech support. Can I help?"
Sam's voice. The boy with the demon blood. Castiel should have guessed before now that Sam would be there, too – there was seldom one Winchester without the other, after all – but his tone was different; light, genuine. It was a facet of him that Castiel had never experienced first-hand before.
He'd taken too long to reply; Sam's voice came again, slightly more unsure, still amused. "Hey, are you there? Do you need some help?" Castiel heard laughter on the other end, not Sam's, and put the phone down. He wondered how long it would be before he could escape this profound strangeness.
xxx
"Patrick Bateman, huh? You an Ellis fan?"
Castiel looked up at him from where he'd been trying to get the computer working – he knew how it worked, how its circuits fit together, but still had no idea what he was supposed to be doing with it – and met Dean's eyes there, softer than they'd been in the morning.
"What?" he asked bluntly, and reprimanded himself silently for it. Dean just tilted a smile at him, one of the few that Castiel had ever seen him produce, and lifted a brow.
"Ellis. Bret Easton Ellis. Or did you just see the movie?"
"Oh. Yes." Castiel lied, thinking it would get him off the hook. Humans really did focus on the most inane things, sometimes. Dean, especially.
Dean shrugged in response, apparently disappointed. "You gotta read the book, man. It's better."
"I'll do that." He said neutrally, and again Dean looked disappointed. He leaned on the desk with one hand and eyed Castiel carefully, gaze sweeping up and down him. Castiel sat with his hands paused over the keyboard, hesitantly meeting Dean's gaze, for he knew no other way to react. Dean hummed softly.
"So how long're you around for? You're a temp, right?"
Castiel nodded, meeting his gaze still, and for once Dean did not look away. It was strange. Castiel wasn't exactly sure what convention he was engaging in. "I don't know. As long as it takes."
Dean snorted, eyebrows still drawn together. "Good attitude to have, I guess." He quietened briefly, then drew breath. "So, uh, might as well get to know eachother. What's your name, anyway? You don't –" he gestured generally at Castiel's chest, and the angel looked down, seeing nothing of import. "You don't have a tag."
"Castiel." He said quickly, without thinking, and Dean drew back.
"Wow. Funny name for a little guy."
Castiel was about to mention that actually, in terms of average human height he – his vessel, that is - was really not so little at all, but thought better of it. "It's Russian." He said, picking a country he knew Dean had next to no knowledge of, and as he'd expected, Dean took it easily.
"Huh." Dean said, making no further comment on it, and he looked down at his own hand and then back at Castiel. "You wanna get a drink after work, Castiel?" he said the name slowly, rolling it in his mouth, and Castiel was struck by the ease of him, the slope in his shoulders, the difference in the way he held himself. This was a Dean unhurried, in his element, though the office was hardly a setting Castiel would have picked to accommodate him. For a moment he was so surprised by the difference a lack of responsibility and worry made in Dean that he missed the question entirely.
"A drink." He said, not asking a question, though Dean took it as one.
"Yeah, you know, glug glug. You put it in your mouth. A drink."
He met Dean's eyes again and saw that despite his easy gait he looked slightly nervous, anxious, his eyes flickering to Castiel's and then down to the desk, again. Castiel smiled at him faintly, amused by this change in him. "Alright." He said slowly, reveling in the intensely pleased expression that crossed Dean's face after he said it, though it was quickly reigned in.
"Good. Okay." Dean lifted himself from where he'd been leaning on the desk, and nodded at him. "See you then, then. I guess." He left, but looked back, briefly, and seemed taken aback to see Castiel sitting there, smirking at him. He was, admittedly, enjoying this exchange – this gentler, tentative Dean, such a striking contrast to Dean Winchester, torturer, hunter, righteous man – far too much. Dean looked embarrassed and coughed gently before he pushed the door to his office open, and disappeared for almost the rest of the day.
Xxx
Castiel supposed he should really have called 'tech support' again – without a password he had no way of getting onto the computer, and even though, once on it, he would still have had absolutely no idea what he was expected to do, it might have been a good start. The thought, however, of Sam's voice on the other end of the line made his heart seem to seize in his chest.
If this was only being partly human, it was still like gripping with just his toes and the tips of his fingers to a cliff-face; terrifying, fragile, so easily unbalanced. He was ruminating on it, still, when Dean came out of his office, looking exhausted, his shirt rumpled. He seemed pleased to see Castiel still sitting there.
"You coming?" He asked as he made to leave, and Castiel stood immediately.
"Yes." He said confidently, and Dean shot that strange, unfamiliar smile at him again, even as Castiel followed him out of the door.
Xxx
"So," Dean began, mouth full of what looked suspiciously like salad, though Castiel could hardly accept that as the truth. "First day, right? How did you like it?"
The bar wasn't one Castiel would have expected, either; the office building that Dean worked in was right in the middle of the city, humming in the center of a metropolis, a place Dean would usually find shallow or even frightening; but he had picked a bar like he knew it well, a smooth, chrome-lined, liquid place, filled to the brim with young, attractive, well-dressed people, though it was a Monday night. Castiel was seated beside him at the bar but could hardly take his eyes off the setting; it was just not Dean, not the one he knew. "I found it slightly boring." He said honestly, earning himself another laugh from Dean.
"Yeah, well, get used to it." He was leaning on the bar with both his elbows on it, slightly hunched over, turned towards Castiel as if rapt, holding his eyes, his attention, though Castiel was doing little more than sitting, stiff, in his chair. Dean jumped, suddenly, and Castiel panicked for a second until Dean reached inside his pants pocket and pulled out a cellphone. He lifted a finger to Castiel, smiling apologetically, and then spoke into the receiver. "Hey, Dad." Castiel tried to stem the second jolt of terror that went through him. "No, the job's okay. S'why you paid for college, right?" Dean smiled indulgently when the voice on the other end of the phone turned sharp. "Yeah, alright, shut up, old man. How's Mom? And Jo? Haven't spoken to her for a while."
Castiel realized that the man on the other end, the man Dean was calling Dad was not, in fact, his biological father but Robert Singer, and judging by his tone, Joanna Harvelle had taken the role of his sister. He couldn't decide if this was a kindness from Zachariah; to supplant the fantasy with family, yet to rob him of his brother; or if it was a cruelty, giving Dean the life he had never (and could never) manage; an education, a job to be proud of, a father who adored him, a mother and sister to protect, to lavish his own adoration on. Judging by how Dean was smiling – the voice on the phone was feminine now, not loud enough for Castiel to hear the words but clearly much lighter than Robert's gravelly, alcohol-thickened tones – he did adore them, desperately, to the point of embarrassment. Castiel felt a sharp stab of pity for him – it was so much worse to give this to him and then inevitably take it away, to replace their true, twisted, grief-ruined selves with these happy, glowing loved ones. Dean put the phone down quickly.
"My little sister. Just went off to college." He looked thrilled to say it, proud, his smile barely contained, and the sorrow that Castiel felt for him came in waves. "You got any family? At home, I mean?"
"I have-" he could never get used to lying, but he had to try. Perhaps it would be good practice. Depending on how long he was going to be here, he expected having to lie quite often. "I have- a big family. Hundreds."
"Must seem like it, huh? There's only four of us at home." Dean looked down at his drink, the faint smile still playing over his features. "That was enough for Mom; me and Jo were a handful when we were kids. Always wanted a brother, I guess, but Jo is almost good enough – that's my sister."
Castiel nodded. "If it's any consolation," he tried, testing an extension of the lie on his tongue, not for the first time - but it was still something he was unused to. "Brothers aren't that much fun." He thought of Zachariah, of Uriel, of Gabriel, lost to them; of his other countless brothers and sisters, the ones whose names he didn't know, who didn't know his name. No, fun was not the word.
Dean nodded, taking a sip from his drink (scotch, something Castiel had been relieved to hear when he'd ordered it, to have at least one toehold of familiarity). "Good to know."
Xxx
"So, uh."
They were standing outside the bar; Castiel's nerves were buzzing, and Dean was obviously a little drunk now, not swaying but loose-tongued, smiling even more easily than before, his shirt mussed, his tie coming undone where he'd pulled at it. It was dark; probably about midnight, now, or even a little bit later.
Castiel had mostly let Dean talk, fascinated by this world that Zachariah had constructed for him; he had an apartment, a dog; Ellen Harvelle was his mother, Robert Singer his father, Joanna his beloved younger sister, unruly and smart, his best friend in the world. Dean had (to his memory, anyway) arrived at this new job just a week ago, transferred from another company. He had no friends to speak of, in this city; it was new to him, though he was becoming a regular at the bar. He'd been on a few dates, but – he was hasty to assure him – 'nothing serious', a phrase stuttered out, and one that Castiel had to fight to interpret (to little avail). Here, outside, it was cold, and Castiel felt it distantly, an odd sensation, throbbing low in his fingertips, ending at his sleeves. Dean looked him up and down and finished his sentence.
"So where are you going back to?"
"I-" he honestly didn't know. He dug in his pockets and pulled out a keyring, which had been digging into his thigh all night. Hanging off it, alongside the key, was a small, wing-shaped tag (an artists' interpretation, cartoonish, an insult to his own. Zachariah's sense of humor, again.), and written on that was an address. "Elysian Fields." He read, slowly, and was positively beaten over the head with the reference. Zachariah had mocked him for his difficulty with tact, but apparently it was a universal 'angel thing' to lack subtlety. Dean nodded in response.
"Just moved in, right? Same here. I have trouble remembering, too."
Castiel nodded, choosing to accept the explanation (it was far better than anything he could come up with) and Dean touched his shoulder briefly, then withdrew his hand almost as quickly as he had offered it. "It's not far from my place. I could drop you off. I mean, if you don't have a ride."
"No, I don't drive." He said honestly, and then, "Thank you." Dean looked inordinately thrilled by his acceptance, and Castiel thought little of it until they were inside the car (a silver Prius; Castiel was amused by how little it suited his Dean's taste), and Dean started talking, hands at the wheel. He was obviously over the limit, but Castiel was confident that Zachariah wouldn't let him hurt anyone (much less himself), so he allowed it. Perhaps he'd have to be more careful in the future, though. Dean's eyes were on the road as he talked.
"So this was fun, right?" he said, babbling. Castiel looked at him, and said nothing. "Yeah." Dean answered his own question, then shot him a sidelong glance. "Have I been talking too much?"
"No. It's fine."
"Good. Good." He paused, then started again. "Can I call you Cas? Castiel's a little - no offense, but it just doesn't feel right, you know?"
"Cas is fine."
Dean nodded, still driving -perhaps a little too fast- and Castiel wasn't sure how to feel about that, exactly – Dean Winchester hadn't asked, had just renamed him as if he had the right, not knowing that the naming of angels was sacred, divine; that each angel was named upon his or her birth, by their father Himself. That Castiel – one of the youngest, because there were no new angels, any more – had had his name burned into him, was branded with it, that he was his name, not like humans were named – on whims, or after relatives. Castiel was the angel of Thursday, protector, warrior of God. And for this man to rename him so casually – for Castiel to let him do it – was an act of such gravity that Dean could never know its true weight. "This is it." He said conclusively, after a few more minutes of them driving in silence, and Castiel nodded, and moved to leave the car until Dean touched his arm. "You're a weird little guy, you know that?"
Rhetorical question, Castiel assumed. He stopped, the car door open, and looked back at Dean, whose hand was still on his bare forearm, fingers warm. He smiled, trying it out, the gesture slightly alien to him, even now. "Is that supposed to be flattering?" it was a joke, but then, Castiel had never been very good at joking. Dean didn't smile back. Instead, he pressed his fingers tighter against Castiel's wrist, and leaned in close, and it was nothing like Dean, nothing like the impala – too clean, too new, and confusing – and then Dean's face – Dean Smith's – was very, very close to his own.
Oh.
He realized, thoughts generally crashing to a halt, that Dean wasn't trying to be his buddy. No, not quite. Castiel floundered against it for a moment – he was still in a male vessel, still, for all intents and purposes, male, and Dean Winchester had shown himself to be, even in the time that Castiel had known him, not exactly predisposed to homosexual contact. Castiel knew him deeply – knew that, like most humans, Dean existed on a complex and difficult to quantify continuum that transcended the sillier labels that human beings tended to bestow upon eachother – but knew, also, that his years with John Winchester, with the pressures of being a man, had shaped him into a creature that, once confronted with what he perceived to be 'unmasculine' made him run for cover. Dean Winchester, the one he knew, could take on monsters and demons, could deal with death and grieving, war, with being a soldier from a young, young age; but when it came to emotion he was as a child. Terrified.
It worked for him, it was a coping mechanism, and Castiel understood; but to think that just having Robert Singer and Ellen Harvelle, adults who had no need for Dean to care for them – adults who let him lean on them, who did not emphasize the importance of being a man – only the importance of being good- as his role models could render him so much freer, so much simpler, was a crushing, hurtful realisation. Still, Dean's eyes darted in the dark; scanned for potential onlookers, hesitant, nervous of judgment – perhaps not so free. But not so repressed as the Winchester version, either.
Yet another thing Castiel had no idea how to interpret, for good or ill. This Dean could not have coped with the responsibility that was to come; with the pain that followed so close behind - and his Dean, the true Dean, could not – would never - have done this.
Dean was close enough to kiss, close enough that his breath was warm on Castiel's face. He stopped. "I dunno if this is –" he chuckled, nervous, the noise quiet, even between them, so close. "I'm not taking advantage, right? Me being your boss?"
Castiel laughed. "I'll see you tomorrow." He said, drawing away, and Dean shrugged.
"Okay. Cool. Nine o'clock." He tipped Castiel a smirk as he left the car. "Bright and early!"
Castiel stood on the sidewalk outside for moments until the Prius was out of sight, astounded and worried and, somewhere else, happy. This Dean was his friend – in this world, they weren't an angel and a hunter, one destined (most likely) to die saving the world, the other to live forever, alone, and strange. In this world they were equals, just two men, and Castiel, for a brief, terrifying moment, wanted it to be reality so badly that it hurt.
XxX
They lived strangely for the next couple of days; Dean would drop into his office far earlier than Castiel, would leave him some work on his desk which Castiel would try not to ignore; the Tech Support button on Castiel's desk would glare at him threateningly, accusatory, and Dean had a smile for him always, brought him coffee in the morning, joking that it was supposed to be the other way around. He asked, on a fairly regular basis, how much longer Castiel would be working there, but at the end of the day they went their separate ways – Dean staying late, Castiel going home on the bus, and it felt –
It felt like a life.
It was terrifying.
Zachariah 'dropped by' on the third day, all pleasantries; Dean, not recognizing him, looked pleased to see him, thrilled, even – like a little boy trying to impress his father, and Castiel recoiled from the expression of satisfaction on Zachariah's face when he left the office. And then he turned to Castiel's own desk.
"Did you get the memo?" he asked, nice enough, but Castiel met it with barely-contained apprehension; Zachariah read it in him, and smiled indulgently. "Oh, Castiel. Cas, is it? Cute."
Castiel met his eyes reluctantly, heart pounding in his chest. "I don't know what a memo is." He said, and Zachariah, as expected, laughed.
"What I meant, Castiel, is what the fuck are you doing?" He stood upright, over the desk, reminding Castiel emphatically that were they in their true forms, Zachariah would still tower over him, transcendent, huge. "I went those boys out of here by the end of next week, alright? And since you're actually not a fucking teenage girl, call the tall one. Look, there's a hunt here, but none of you idiots have even noticed the death rate, since you've all decided you're in Dawson's Creek." He grimaced at the thought. Castiel, as usual, had no idea what he was talking about. "People are dying, Castiel, so either get that boy hunting – both, preferably – or I'll give your position to a better soldier. One with more balls. I'm thinking Anael."
Castiel realized this was a dig at his masculinity, but chose to ignore it, because it made little sense. "I apologize."
Zachariah, looking dubious, just nodded and left.
Castiel picked up the phone, and dialed for Tech Support, half-hoping Sam wouldn't pick up and, as was his lot, having no such luck. "Hello? This is Tech Support. How can I help?" Sam sounded tired, but still enthusiastic. Castiel stammered for a lie.
"I'm new." He said, and then realized he would need more than that. "I need help setting up my computer. I think."
Sam laughed, on the other end. "Alright. I'll be right up. Which floor are you on?"
He looked at the label on the outer hallway. "Twenty-two."
"Cool. Okay. I'll be up in a sec."
"Thank you." He put the phone down immediately after, and sat in his chair, swinging slightly from side to side, trying to calm his nerves and having no idea how, hands threaded together over his chest. Dean emerged from his office for a second. "Gonna get a coffee. You want anything?"
"No. I'm fine."
Dean nodded, smiling faintly, and left for the break room.
Anael had said It gets worse, and he was more surprised than he should have been to find that she was right. It was worse. Much worse. Worse than unease, than doubt; worse than tiredness and anger and questioning his existence. Doubt was the least of these things; sharper, realer, was pain, worry, sympathy,wanting. He liked Dean, and Uriel had accused him of it before, but he'd never realized before how right his brother was; he liked him, and he was starting to like Sam, too – or to at least see in him something of what Dean saw; not the boy with the demon blood, not a creature, but a boy, raised by incompetent fathers, built for a purpose he never knew; a freak, perhaps (if any definition of the word was to be trusted)but not evil. Not wrong. Good. Just – different. Castiel thought for the first time that perhaps he knew the feeling rather well.
Castiel wished he could hate him, though; even as he walked into the office, in a yellow polo-shirt, grinning, tall, hands in pockets (a gesture he and his brother shared). He went over to Castiel's desk.
"It's you that's new, right?"
Castiel nodded. Sam smiled at him sympathetically. "I'm new, too. Only been here the last two weeks. People are nice, though, I guess."
Castiel smiled hesitantly at him and let Sam show him how the computer worked – how to log in, how to get his user account set up, and so on – Dean came in later on, giving Sam a slow, questioning look but otherwise not reacting in the least. By the time Sam had finished showing him the basics, Castiel realized what he had to do, and loathed himself for it.
Xxx
Entering the dreams of another person is, in terms of moral quandary, a difficult thing to consider.
There are a number of factors; consent, privacy, potential mental ramifications (trauma, mental illness, and so on).
Luckily, Castiel wasn't going to enter Sam's dreams for long; it was like putting a disc into someone's head, in a way; Castiel was just going to change what was scheduled to be playing.
He thought of what would resonate most; he didn't want to hurt Sam, didn't want to warp his mind (or worse, make him remember completely) – but he needed him to know the connection, to feel something between him and Dean beyond an inkling, so he chose what was recent; the reapers, his own entrance into Sam's life, their first, wary handshake where Castiel had no idea what to expect from him, both terrified and in awe of him. Memories of him and his brother, mostly; together, embracing when Dean returned from the dead, together in the car in earlier years, images of their childhood (though these were few and far between; the less mention of their mother, the better). With what he was allowed to use of his grace - his wings had been pinned by Zachariah, were still a warm weight at his back but unusable – he edited Sam's brain, implanted the images; Sam as a hunter, Sam as a brother, a friend, a hero. He hoped it wouldn't bring him pain.
Sam's mind was an uneasy hellscape; darkened by trauma, by pain and terror. Dean's was not much different – was probably worse - but Castiel wouldn't be visiting there, tonight. He couldn't bear to.
Xxx
"So, Monday, that was fun, right?"
Castiel blinked at him. He'd only come into the office to ask a question, hoping Dean would mention something about Sam – or at least, maybe, that he could surreptitiously break Dean's computer and have them meet. With only a week and three days to go, he was getting desperate. "Sorry?"
"Monday." Dean repeated, looking at him as if he was being incredibly dense – which, for all Castiel knew, he could be. "Drinks. I took you home. It hasn't been that long."
"It was fun." He said, truthfully, and Dean, sitting at his desk, alternating between typing and looking at him, smiled. Thinking the conversation was over, Castiel turned to go, but Dean called him back.
"Hey! Hey. Do you not get –" he made a noise of frustration. "You are really making me look like an idiot, man. I mean – you wanna do it again?"
He did. And he was surprised to find it; whether it was 'heightened emotion', or Zachariah's doing, he couldn't tell; but he wanted to spend time with Dean, had enjoyed this week more than he would care to mention. He met Dean's eyes and imitated the gesture he'd seen both Winchesters do; hands in pockets, body tilted slightly back, leaning on his heels. "Yes. Yes, I'd like that."
Dean grinned. "Good. Tonight?"
"Tonight." Castiel agreed, and left, something stirring in his gut; Earlier in the week he might have characterized it as worry or anxiety, but now he knew it as a strange combination of joy and terror, and he revelled in it, felt it make a home, and resolved to enjoy it while it lasted.
Xxx
"So did you hear about the dude in Tech? Paul?"
"What?" he replied, distracted. They weren't in a bar this time – Dean had been nervous, hesitant, touching his arm and then drawing back, again – checking for an audience almost constantly, until he'd had a couple of drinks. They'd gone to a restaurant; Castiel thinking nothing of it before he'd noticed the way Dean was shuffling awkwardly, rushing them to be seated and cringing a little when Castiel looked at him. He'd apologized for himself, said 'it's Friday. I'm hungry. Is this – okay?', and though Castiel had assured him that it was alright, and Dean seemed to be relaxing, he'd been clearly very nervous about the whole thing. It was strange to be catered to like this, to be valued so obviously, because Dean really was incredibly bad at hiding it. He realized he'd been asked a question. "What happened?"
Dean shrugged, picking at his salad with a fork – Castiel had learned that salad was almost all he ate, though judging by his expression this was some kind of self-inflicted torture, rather than for pleasure. He knew better than to question it. "Some guy in Tech went crazy and microwaved his own head. Crazy, right? It's the-" he thought, chewing, "Fourth suicide this month."
Castiel frowned. "That's very strange."
"Right?" Dean agreed, eyebrows raised. He eyed Castiel's burger – something he'd bought purely on the basis that Dean (his Dean, he reminded himself) always ate them, and the salads, by the looks of things, were a significantly less satisfying option – with barely disguised lust. "Some dude in the elevator was asking me about ghosts, too." He scoffed, shrugging. "I swear to god, the whole friggin' building is full of nutjobs."
"You don't think there's any chance something odd is happening?"
Dean looked at him blankly for a moment, then laughed. "Yeah. I think it's ghosts. I think some freakin' goliath from down in tech has ESP and he chose to tell me about it."
So he'd met Sam. Castiel tried to let the knowledge comfort him – if they'd met, and Sam kept having the dreams, then eventually they'd rise to the challenge. It was in their blood; it was just a matter of time. But instead the sensation in his gut grew stronger, no longer pleasant but painful, aching, and worsening when he thought of how little time they had left, how this would probably be one of the last times he could have Dean like this – easy, unburdened, behaving, for once, as if he was a young man instead of a seventy-year old.
It was the strangest thing, to stare at this soul, to remember carrying him from hell and yet also to connect with him as an equal, to be his friend. Castiel's brothers and sisters were his friends, his garrison was full of friends, but they were not there by choice; their brotherhood was forged deeper, in blood and grace and faith – but this soul here had been claimed by him, it bore his mark, and yet it was still his choice to stay or go. And he had chosen, for the time being, to stay.
The gnawing sensation in his gut rose to a crescendo of panic. Nine days, at the most. Dean would have two hundred and sixteen hours to live this blessed, charmed existence, and then he would have the whole world thrust upon him again. Castiel thought, too, selfishly, that in so little time he, too, would have to return, and be a soldier again.
Dean looked at him carefully, hesitant. "Why? Do you believe in that stuff?"
Castiel rolled his shoulders. "I just think we should always consider the possibility."
Dean just laughed at him again.
Xxx
By the time they'd pulled up outside Castiel's apartment again, Dean was touching him repeatedly – finding any excuse to brush his hands over Castiel's arm, his shoulder, his side. It was getting ridiculous, and they both knew it, but Dean seemed to be enjoying himself; smiling, laughing, making fun of him. It was – for lack of a better word – nice.
"Alright. This is you." He stopped, and looked at Castiel, and Castiel got out of the car.
He leaned down into it for a second before leaving, and said, "Thank you, Dean." perhaps too earnestly, for there was nothing to thank him for except himself, except to say thankyou for what he was, what he had given, what he would, in accordance with his destiny, soon give.
Dean clearly had no idea what he was talking about, because he smiled a little and nodded confusedly, and said, just, "See you on Monday."
He shut the door to the Prius, walked over to the apartment building, fumbled in his pockets for his keys, and turned around. Dean was sitting in the car, still, behind him, and Castiel took a deep breath.
It wasn't fair.
He felt it; so profoundly, so strong that it had to be the truth. It wasn't fair, none of this was; not Dean's fate, not Sam's, not his own. This whole diabolical fantasy was an exercise in cruelty, a reminder of what none of them could ever have and Castiel felt anger rise in him, righteous, threatening to take him over. He could have smashed something, could have lashed out, could have killed a bystander in his ire; but, instead, he went over to the door on Dean's side and wrenched it open, and leant down, and kissed him on the mouth.
Dean, so desperately mortal, the most human being Castiel had ever come across, raised his hand to hold Castiel's neck and made a noise, a delighted huff, which Castiel couldn't decipher as a snort of laughter or of surprise; but whichever it was, he didn't care. He pushed his fury, his rage, into Dean's mouth and let him take it into his own, saying, Here. It won't solve anything, it won't help, and I don't understand why you're cursed, why we all are; but take this. It's all I can give.
He opened his mouth and let it slide, wet, against Dean's own, and took his lip between his own, between his teeth for a moment, even, and consumed him, or tried to, and in doing, tried also to bury himself between them- to give Dean his grace, to take Dean's fate from him - and it made no logical sense, but Dean's hand clutched at his elbow and then lifted, grabbing further and further up until it gripped his shoulder, placed itself over where Castiel had taken hold of his soul. A mirror-image, almost the same but now, full of wanting. Not divinity, but desire.
No one had commanded him to do it; no celestial army was behind him whispering sinuously in his ear, no phantom order came to make him do it. This was Dean's choice, made in freedom, and it hurtmore than anything to know it couldn't last.
He pulled back slightly, parted them, and Dean breathed heavily underneath him, still clutching at his arm through his shirt, staring at him. "You're –you are something else." He said, in one breath, and Castiel couldn't help it; he kissed him again.
Xxx
Weekends were a puzzle. Having never actually had time off – ever – Castiel had little inspiration as to what a person was supposed to do with themselves during a holiday. He would read, but there were no books in his apartment to speak of; it was small, bare, and white. Incredibly clean, but little else about it was worth mentioning.
He chose, instead, to sit watching the day change through one of the windows; if there was anything he could do, it was wait – or, at least, that used to be the case. After an hour or so his skin crawled with boredom; he got fidgety, felt tired and useless.
He wrapped his arms around his knees at the window, drawing his legs close to his chest, and watched birds wheeling in the air, turning circles. There was a pattern to life that Castiel could usually easily see; but it was getting further from him each day, and at this point he could hardly make out the patterns even in these small creatures; their motivations were just as distant to him as that of God; things seemed intransient, pointless, at this hour, on this morning. He suspected it had something to do with how he'd kissed Dean, and how Dean had, without hesitation, kissed him back.
He was acutely aware that he was wasting time.
He blamed Zachariah when, at around midday, Sam knocked on his door. It was too serendipitous; too easy. He opened the door and there Sam was, moving back in surprise when he saw that it was Castiel who had answered.
"Oh! Hey! You're – Castiel, right? From the twenty-second floor?" Castiel nodded mutely, wondering what the purpose of this exercise was. "Listen, man, do you have a wifi connection? I wouldn't ask, but mine's been cut off, and I sorta need it."
Castiel looked around the room and saw the router in the corner, unused, probably there expressly so that this meeting could take place. "Yes, I do. You can use it, if you like."
Sam looked thrilled, clutching his laptop to his chest, and he followed Castiel into the apartment, looking around in interest. "It's, uh, minimalist in here." Castiel looked at him questioningly and Sam backpedaled quickly. "I mean, I like it! It's just pretty bare, that's all. Is your password on the back of the router?"
"Possibly." Castiel replied, earning himself another confused look from a Winchester, his hundredth that week. He seated himself, cross-legged on the couch, and eventually Sam came to sit across from him, laptop balanced on his long legs.
"Thanks so much for this, man. I owe you."
"It's fine." He said, distracted by just looking at Sam when he wasn't paying attention enough to realize. He was long, tall, well-built; he was different to when Castiel had first met him, was changing, and fast, though Castiel couldn't detect exactly how he was different – only that he was. Castiel had always been of the opinion that of God's creations, Dean was one that stood out as particularly well-made; his broad shoulders, his freckles, his imperfections, the long, sloping planes of his body – but both Winchesters were exquisite in their own way, their experience written across them in the secret language of flesh and bone – two boys whose bodies both told and belied their stories, depending on where you looked. Sam looked up, and caught him staring, and smiled faintly.
"Sorry. I'm trying to get in touch with my ex-fiance, Madison, I-" he stopped, and shook his head. "Whatever, it's complicated, but it's like she dropped off the face of the planet, you know? Like, I know I'm not supposed to call her 'cause we're broken up, but…" he trailed off, distracted by the computer. "She doesn't even have a facebook anymore. It's weird." He muttered, and Castiel had no idea what facebook was, but he knew who Madison was, and his chest constricted uncomfortably.
"I don't know what to say."
Sam looked up as if he'd forgotten he was there. "Don't worry about it, Cas." The nickname tripped easily off his tongue, natural, and Sam didn't even ask; Castiel was struck again by how different the Winchesters were; by how different they made him. He looked at Sam, musing.
"Sam, do you like it here?"
Sam looked up at him again, blank. "What, you mean the job, or the city? I don't know." He paused. "I've never really thought about it."
"Think about it." Castiel urged him, honestly needing to know. "Do you like it? I mean, really like it?"
Sam faltered, no longer paying attention to the laptop. "No." he said, with a tone of slight surprise. "No, I don't."
"Then why are you doing it?"
"I suppose because I have to." Sam said, more to himself than to Castiel. "I don't really …have a choice."
"You always have a choice, Sam." He said it before he could consider it; it was hypocritical, really; painfully so. How dare he suggest that Sam has freedom to act, to disobey, when he, himself, had never accepted the same thing for himself? How were any of them free?
Sam looked at him and laughed, soft, sad – they weren't talking about the job anymore. Not really. Castiel didn't think Sam even knew what they were really discussing. Castiel wished (hoped) that he would remember this later on, at least. "Yeah. I guess." He didn't sound as if he believed it. He sighed heavily and laughed on the end of it, trying to dispel the tension, and failing. He took a deep breath. "Cas, do you – this is going to sound pretty weird, but do you ever have, like, weird dreams?"
"Dreams?" He feigned innocence. Sam bit his lip.
"You know, like…visions? I guess? Dreams that seem really…real?" He grinned sheepishly, shaking his head. "Sorry. I must sound crazy, I just-"
"Yes. Sometimes." Castiel assured him, for he was not allowed to comfort him with the truth; that what Sam saw, what he felt, was real.
"Do you – do you see me?" Sam asked tentatively, voice quieter, and Castiel nodded.
"Occasionally."
"Really?" Sam said, excited, and Castiel nodded. "Dude, you have to help me, okay? Something weird is going on, and if you have these dreams too, then maybe- I don't know, maybe we can stop it. Maybe we can help people."
Castiel shook his head. "They're just dreams, Sam." Sam's face abruptly fell.
"But you- you see me, right? Hunting things? With that other guy, that guy you work for? It's – It's too much of a coincidence not to mean something, Cas! I just feel like –" he paused, frantic, "I feel like this is me, like I've been dreaming or something and that is what's real, and all I have to do is rise to it, you know? Take it on. Be that guy." He moved his hands, gesturing, "Be – something better."
Castiel wanted to tell him to enjoy it; that he might hate his job, might hate his life, but it was better – far better – than hating himself, than taking on the burden that lay in his future. But this was Zachariah's plan coming to fruition, the slow burn of realisation, the move towards the point that Sam needed to reach, so he said nothing; sat there, mute, as Sam stared at him.
"Cas, please." He begged, eyes wide open and honest, and Castiel shook his head.
"I - I can't. I'm sorry."
Sam closed his laptop and pulled it to his chest again, unfolding himself from the couch, and seemed to struggle with himself, face drawn in anger and frustration. "I don't understand why you won't help. People are dying, Cas, Paul was my friend, I knew him, and Ian's been called up to HR and I haven't seen him since, and-" he breathed, "It feels so familiar, like, scary familiar for all the people in my life to die, and it doesn't make any sense because I've – I've got a mom, you know? A mom back home, and a little brother, two little brothers, and they're alive, I remember them, but I can't-" he pressed his lips together briefly, "I can't get them to pick up the phone. It's like – it's like they don't even exist."
"Sam." Castiel said, and his voice came out broken, halting, and Sam looked at him. "I'm – I'm so sorry."
"Yeah." Sam scoffed, and went to leave. "Yeah, you know what? Me too." He slammed stayed on the couch.
It would be over soon; but anger boiled in his gut, too, like the rage he had seen in Sam's eyes. Zachariah had given Dean phonecalls, family, a job, friends; and yet he had killed Sam's friends, given him memories of a mother and younger brothers, something Sam had probably wanted all his life – to care for a younger sibling, to be like Dean, his hero even if he, himself, hardly acknowledged it - and he had torn those away in the same instant. A sick joke, like making Castiel the secretary, he supposed; everything was a power play, a pissing contest, as Dean would say. All a competition, a way to keep the 'mud men' in their places, to assert their dominance.
Zachariah talked about how petty the humans were, how small, how much stock they put in size, in strength - the irony, for once, was not lost on Castiel.
Xxx
Sunday passed with little to comment on, and by the time he was back into 'work' on Monday Castiel was feeling even more lost than before. His anger had subsided to thought, instead; he wondered what the real purpose of this exercise was. To teach Dean and Sam Winchester that they were hunters, through and through, or to teach them their place? And why was he here? There were already whispers in heaven that he was doubting, that he was not to be trusted; why would Zachariah have chosen him to help, unless it was to teach him something, too?
He sat at his desk and stared listlessly at the computer screen, eyes unfocused, tired for the first time in his life. He suspected that, in addition to 'enhancing' his capacity to feel, Zachariah had made him simply more human; the night before he had fallen asleep without realizing, and had woken this morning bleary, still dressed, realizing only too late that he had absolutely no idea how to do laundry, so he was in his clothes from the night before, creased, probably smelling stale. Dean found him in the break room, grimacing over a cup of coffee (he hated the taste, and had never had the heart to tell him). Dean looked harried, rushed, and pressed close to Castiel when he found him.
"You have to get out of here." He said, conspiratorial and low, and Castiel lifted his head to squint at him.
"Why?"
Dean looked at him strangely. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." He gritted out, but Dean didn't look convinced. He closed his eyes, relishing in the brief relief it brought him, then opened them again. "Dean, do you like it here?"
Dean blinked. "Yeah. Of course."
"You like it? You enjoy it?"
Dean frowned, confused. "Cas, I have no idea what you're talking about - of course I like it. I mean, I don't love it, no one loves their job, but – it's what I have to do, right? Helping my dad put Jo through college, keeping my apartment in the city. It's not perfect, I guess, but it could be worse." He peered at Castiel's face. "Are you sure you're okay?"
Castiel frowned and looked away, down at the floor. "That's what I thought." He sighed. "No, Dean. I'm not okay. Neither are you." And he could have hit him for it, for giving himself responsibilities when this was his chance to live without them – even in fantasy, Dean had invented a family that needed him. It was almost funny.
"Are you drunk?"
"I'm tired. I don't usually-" he stopped himself. "I'm not drunk." He clarified, and drew himself up straight again, trying to neaten his clothes. He looked at Dean. "Why do I have to get out of here?"
"Something weird's happening, Cas. People are killing themselves – it's crazy, I –" he pitched his voice quieter. "I think you might've been right. That crazy dude from tech? Not so crazy."
"I know." He closed his eyes again; pain was gathering at his temple, acute, driving, razor-sharp into the backs of his eyes. "Dean." He paused, again, because he'd lost track of what he was going to say. "You don't like this. This life." The lights in the room were hurting his eyes; he felt as if his brain was going to burst out of his skull.
"What're you talking about? I just told you-"
"I like it." Castiel interrupted him, and raised his head to look him in the eye. "This is my dream, not yours. Human. Normal. Loved." He felt his face fall, the space between his eyes crinkling, his mouth dropping into a grimace. "This is what I could never have, not you. This is tedium to you, this is you without your brother, away from your family instead of traveling beside them, I-" He shook his head. "I've been selfish."
"Cas."
Castiel looked at him to reply, to explain, and Dean was motionless before him. As was everyone else. He turned, expecting to see Zachariah, and was not disappointed.
"Lucky, wasn't it, that I could kill two birds with one stone, here, Castiel? Cas?" He hissed the nickname, mocking, and Castiel winced. The whirring, jarring, screeching pain in his head rose an octave, blinding him. He lifted a hand to cover his face.
"Why are you hurting me?" he said, pitiably, and could not even summon shame for it.
Zachariah laughed, his small teeth white, sharklike, in his mouth. "That's not me, dumbass, that's humanity. Humanity hurts. You want to know why mortals are always trying to become the opposite? Because if there are three pillars of mortality they're toil, instability and pain. Honey, I'm just giving you the buffet; you choose what you eat. It's not my fault you chose to fill your fucking face."
"I don't understand."
"This is what you're buying into, Castiel." He said, and he walked around Dean's still form, his eyes open, lips slightly parted, just about to ask a question, or to tell him something; Castiel would never know, now. Zachariah rested his elbow on Dean's shoulder, grinning snidely. "You think they're all honesty and bravery and truth? You think you can just slip in somewhere, live a normal life, love and laugh and play and not get the rest of it? The pain, the worry, the lack of direction? These people spend their lives wondering why they're here, what they're doing, what the next step is. Does that sound preferable to you? Does it sound like fun?"
"I'm not doubting, Zachariah. I was foolish. But it's over. I know now."
"You know what?"
"I know that I'm lucky."
Zachariah smirked. "No, Castiel. You know now that these people are your charges. They are not your friends, they are not whatever you were trying to cultivate with Dean, rutting in his car. They are flesh and you are an angel, and they have destinies to fulfill." He pulled away from Dean and folded his hands behind his back, and stepped close to Castiel, close enough that his nose almost touched Castiel's, his blue eyes bearing down, cold and frightening. "And if you get in the way of those destinies, Castiel, pain will be the least of your concerns."
Castiel nodded. Zachariah stepped away and snapped his fingers, though it wasn't necessary; it was for show, like everything else he was doing here; steeped in artifice. Castiel felt his grace flood back in a sudden, terrible tide; lightness and power filled him from his root, washed him of tiredness, impurity and filth. Realigned his mind, set him right back on track. A soldier again, after his brief 'holiday'. Zachariah seemed satisfied.
"Good. Now fuck off." He said dismissively, and let the world around them resume.
Castiel, now invisible, saw Dean stand up straight, go to make himself a coffee, ignoring Castiel's absence like he had never been there in the first place. Like when he rescued him from hell; he was easily forgotten, wiped out of Dean's mind, replaced with urgency, with a plan, with a hunt. Dean would start his hunt, would stay with his brother, would realize his calling - again. Would escape this terrible, circular, mundanity which Castiel had so perversely enjoyed.
He spread his wings, invisible, and left. There was work to do, a world still to rescue, and that world was not here. Not any more.
Xxx
Dean called him down a little over a week later, standing alone at a gas station in Texas, on a minor hunt. Werewolves, or Wendigos – Castiel wasn't sure. It was of no consequence. Dean looked surprised to see him, even though he had called, and Castiel was taken by the difference in the way he held himself, his suspicion, his darkness.
"You needed me?"
"Haven't seen you for awhile." Dean countered, ignoring the question, and Castiel frowned apologetically.
"I've been busy."
"I met your pal, Zachariah." He said coldly, and Castiel could hardly believe he had touched that face with human hands, had kissed his mouth, had watched him laugh.
"I know."
"You know? Where were you? I was in some fucked up Better Homes fantasy for three fucking weeks. You think I could have done with your help, maybe?" Dean said, accusatory, and Castiel shook his head slightly, tired, but not in the physical sense.
"I doubt I could really have made any difference."
For a moment, Dean looked at him strangely; brows drawn together, eyes narrowed, his mouth a thin, pressed line as his gaze raked Castiel's vessel's features. Castiel felt so profoundly lost that he could hardly express it; his superiors watched him, breathed down his neck; the loss of Uriel was still sharp, still recent. Anael had disappeared, her parting words – It gets worse – ringing loud in his ears on constant repeat. His grace was intact but his heart still wanted, still doubted, still ached to be in the presence of Dean and not be able to apologize, to rage against whoever had decided that this poor boy should have to be responsible for so much. And he wanted, too, to take revenge for himself. For his lack of freedom, for the fact that he had tasted humanity – pain and blood and tears, and all – and found that he wanted it no less, and yet also found it no less terrifying.
After a pregnant pause, Dean released a breath, and stood up. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so."
Castiel nodded, but did not leave; he watched Dean get into his car, watched him drive away in silence, and something inside him – something had changed.