The Simplest Truth is that of Flight

by overlord-of-the-bees

Destiel Peter Pan Castiel is four when the boy first appears at his A work written in contemplation of life's greatest disappointments and Rated M for trigger content, including mentions of depression

AN: I cannot emphasise this enough – trigger warnings for depression and contemplation of suicide. If you have contemplated harming yourself, please seek assistance immediately. This website provides an international directory for suicide helplines: There are also numerous national helplines that can provide you with assistance– you can access their contact details through an easy google search or in your local phonebook. Please, if you need help, seek it. Don't delay.

Do not believe for a moment that self-harm is the best course of action – I, for one (and I can assure you, even without knowing you, that there are a multitude of others who feel the same), promise that you are infinitely valuable to me. Please, please seek help.

Disclaimer: this author claims no intellectual property in this story or its characters. Dean Winchester and Castiel are the property of their creators and the CW network. Peter Pan, as a character and a concept, is the property of J.M. Barrie. This is a fan-work, intended for entertainment of the television show "Supernatural's" fanbase and is not intended to be taken as part of the official storyline. I am deriving no profit from the creation of publication of this work. I am indebted to the creators for their remarkable stories and worlds, to which this work is intended to pay homage.

...

Castiel is four when the boy first appears at his window. The boy is big and almost grown up, but still a boy. Even though he's a stranger, Castiel wants to talk to him. So he stays quiet, to make sure his mother won't hear him leave his bed after dark

The boy hovers at the edge of the balcony, feet pointed and not quite in contact with the iron fence beneath them. When Castiel realises that the boy is suspended in the empty air, he gasps, and the boy giggles and wiggles his toes.

"Neat, huh?"

His mother locks the doors to the balcony at night, so Castiel can't go outside. She says that playtime is over, and it's time for bed. Castiel doesn't want to sleep – he wants to look at the stars and watch the hands of Big Ben tick past nine and play more with his toy soldiers. But she says he must not. Still, she leaves the window ever so slightly open so that Castiel can smell the fresh air and hear the noise of the city. He doesn't like being left in the darkness alone.

He can't push the window open too far, but it's far enough that he can stick his nose through and stare at the boy, who giggles again and twirls in place. His feet never touch the ground.

"How do you do that?"

The boy grins at him and jumps down from the air. He lands on the balcony and stands, almost as though he is a normal person that is bound to the ground.

"A pinch of fairy dust and some happy thoughts. It's easy!"

The boy laughs and jumps. Castiel gasps when he doesn't land again, but stays floating in mid air. The boy laughs more.

"Could I do that?" Castiel asks.

The boy winks at him and grins wider than Castiel has ever seen a person grin.

"One day."

He waves at Castiel through the window and then he bounces away across the night sky, letting the tips of his toes dance across the stars.

...

The boy returns on the night of Castiel's seventh birthday. Castiel is still awake, as he has always been since the boy first visited. Every night, he stays awake as late as he can, until sleep muddles his thoughts and his eyelids drop shut after he forgets to keep them open.

His mother still locks the door to the balcony, but Castiel sticks his face through the gap in the window to watch the boy leap across the chimney tops and somersault in mid-air.

"Happy Birthday".

Castiel is agape: "How did you know it was my birthday?"

The boy grins at him: "you're taller."

Castiel is indignant: "that doesn't answer the question!"

The boy doesn't mind Castiel's indignance. He laughs and rolls through the air and out of sight of the window, before darting back and balancing on tip toe on the railing of the balcony.

"What's your name?" Castiel asks.

"Dean," the boy replies, "what's yours?"

"Castiel. Castiel Novak." Castiel holds out his hand, through the window, like his father taught him to. The boy looks at it and snickers.

Castiel lets his hand drop and feels nervous. He hopes he hasn't offended the boy. He wants him to stay. He wants to learn how to fly.

Dean isn't offended. He laughs when Castiel's face drops.

"I'm going to call you Cas."

"Ok." Castiel responds nervously.

"So Cas, do you want to learn how to fly?"

Castiel's jaw drops at the question he has spent years dreaming he would hear. "Yes, but-"

Castiel's eyes widen as he watches Dean step off the railing and into the air. He hangs there, expectant.

"-I can't, my mother locked the door."

Dean frowns, "why would she do that?"

Castiel thinks. He thinks it's because she's scared he'll get carried away while playing, and fall. That seems like a silly thing to say to a boy who can fly though, so instead Castiel just shrugs and says: "She says it has to stay closed."

Dean trots through the air and presses his face against the glass of the window. He breathes on the glass so that it fogs up with the warmth of his breath. Then he traces out the name "Dean" with his index finger. He catches Castiel watching him and winks:

"Guess we'll have to fly another time then."

Dean dives off the balcony before Castiel can ask him to wait. He watches Dean fly to Big Ben, and dance on the minute hand of the clock, which points to the 9. He hopes Dean will come back soon.

...

Dean comes back when Castiel is 10. Castiel has a little sister now. Her name is Anna. She sleeps in a nursery next to Castiel's. His mother says he is a big boy now, and she lets him have a key to the door to the balcony. But she still comes in every night before bed to check the door is locked. She says he has to be responsible.

He keeps the key safe under his pillow, in case Dean ever comes back.

When Dean arrives, Castiel opens the door as quietly as he can and steps out onto the tiles of the balcony. They're cold underneath his feet, but he barely notices – he's so excited that Dean has returned.

"So you're ready to come flying, Cas?"

Castiel struggles to contain the high-pitched excitement that rises in his voice – it's not polite to get too excited. Still, when he speaks it's an exclamation: "Yes please, Dean!"

Dean doesn't mind that Castiel is rude. He grins so wide that Castiel can see his gums above his teeth. He watches Castiel until Castiel smiles too, then he winks.

He flips over to his right and hangs his head over the balcony. He yells and Castiel knows he should shush him. But he doesn't. He's too excited.

"Balthie, c'mere! Cas wants to fly!"

A little ball of light rises from the world below and shoots into Dean so fast that it knocks him out of the sky for a minute. Castiel stifles a cry and rushes to the edge of the balcony, worried that Dean has fallen and injured himself. But laughs in relief when he sees Dean lying horizontally in mid-air, cross-eyed, while the ball of light dances across his nose.

"Alright, alright, I'll say please next time."

The light jumps up, and flies back across Dean's face so fast that he is forced to roll over mid air to avoid it. He giggles and chases after the light, calling out loudly:

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll say it now. Balthie, please please pretty please come help Cas fly."

The ball of light stops abruptly, and drops a little in the air, as though giving a small huff of disapproval. Then it turns and barrels at Castiel. He yelps and ducks, but the light mercifully stops just short of his face. He looks up and squints at it. Inside, he can see a little golden man, looking most displeased, rustling in a little pouch at his waist. It's the only thing he's wearing. Castiel doesn't have a chance to giggle at the rudeness of that, for the next moment the man pulls a handful of something dazzling from the pouch. He throws it at Castiel, as though he were angry at him, and it makes Castiel cough and splutter.

"Balthie, that wasn't very nice! Sorry Cas, He a grumpy old man."

The light makes a kind of high-pitched ring. Castiel thinks it's anger at the jibe, because the next second the light races at Dean and knocks him over again.

Castiel doesn't care that the man in the light is angry at him. Underneath the starlight, he can see that his skin is sparkling with little golden orbs of light. They race across his skin, as fast as the little man in the light, and make it tickle. He looks up and sees Dean watching him, a huge smile written across his face and his eyes twinkling with the orb's illumination.

He drifts slowly and carefully towards Castiel, watching the way, as Castiel moves, the orbs of light hang in the air for a moment before following his movements that makes the air around him glow.

"Now just think of something happy. Go on."

Castiel thinks. He thinks the puppy that his parents bought him for his birthday that year. He's a pug. Castiel named him Bobby. Then his feet are off the ground. He flies.

Dean laughs and balances on an imaginary tightrope in front of him, laughing as he imitates wobbling from side to side, as though terrified of falling. At one point he does, and Castiel giggles as he catches himself just before he hits the ground.

Castiel stumbles over to him mid air, tripping a little despite the absence of anything to fall over.

"That's good, Cas," Dean says, "don't think about it too much".

He flies backwards and curves his back so that he turns in a circle and comes face to face with Castiel, much closer than before.

"Stop thinking about it," he whispers, "just fly."

Castiel does. He stops thinking about being afraid, or what his mother would say if she caught him behaving in such an unsightly way on the balcony, or waking up his baby sister in the next room. He lifts his feet off the air he has been balancing on, and lets himself be buoyed by the dust.

"Try this." Dean cartwheels in mid air, his hands flattening, but not coming in contact with anything aside from empty air.

Castiel imitates, but he falls halfway and tumbles, spinning through the air so fast that he can't tell which way is up. Dean dashes after him and catches him to stop the spin.

"Woah there," he laughs, "good try. You'll get better, just need some practice."

Castiel is wheezing with exhilaration when Dean rights him. Dean keeps his hands on Castiel's arms even after he is steadied.

"How long have you been able to fly, Dean?"

"As long as I've believed I could."

"Yes, but when-"

"Come with me, Cas."

Castiel starts and drops out the sky a little. Dean drops with him and keeps his hand on his arm.

"Where to?"

"To a special place."

"Called what?"

Dean is a little more serious all of a sudden: "I can't tell you that."

"Why?"

Dean doesn't answer.

Castiel is nervous because Dean is serious now. He likes it better when Dean laughs and dances.

"How long would we be away for?"

"As long as you want. Just tonight, or longer."

"I'd like to go." Castiel wants to see Dean smile again. He is happy when does.

"Really?" Dean rises a little in the air and Castiel is forced to follow.

"Yes, but..." Castiel saddens as Dean's face drops a little, "not tonight. I must ask my mother. I don't want her to be worried."

"Don't worry about her." Dean tugs on Castiel's arm and points towards the night sky. "We can go right now."

"No I mustn't. Later." Castiel attempts to jerk his arm back, but without too much force. He really does want to go.

Dean smiles, and lets go of Castiel's arm softly. "Yeah, Cas. See you then."

He and the ball of light escort Castiel back to the balcony. Castiel walks down through the air as though walking down steps. Dean watches him until he lands and by the time Castiel turns around, he is far off again amongst the clouds.

When Castiel asks his mother permission to go on a trip with Dean to the special place, she frowns and tells him it is time to stop playing such silly games. There will be no more toys in the nursery.

...

Dean visits again when Castiel is thirteen. When he sees Dean approaching, Castiel waits for him on the balcony. Dean smiles wide to see him there.

"You're even taller this time."

Castiel quirks a smile. "You're not."

Dean laughs, "No. But I'm still taller than you." He rises up in the air above Castiel, until his feet are dangling just above Castiel's head. He playfully wiggles them at Castiel and moves to mess Castiel's hair with his toes. Castiel protests, laughing, and turns away from them. Dean pursues him around the balcony. Eventually, Dean backs him into a corner, and Castiel curls in on himself, giggling furiously. Dean reaches out with his feet, until Castiel is squealing in protest and then stops. "I win," he pronounces proudly, and motions to the ball of light that appraises them from the edge of the balcony.

The little golden man rustles around in his pouch again, and this time, Castiel is grown up enough to know to avert his eyes from his nakedness. He splutters when the dust hits him in the face, but overcomes it quickly and once again marvels at the way his skin comes alight beneath it, and glows so beautifully so as to put the starlight to shame.

Dean reaches for his hand, and Castiel takes it. With one light tug, he launches Castiel into the air with him, and Castiel rolls clumsily through it again until Dean catches him just as he did the last time they flew.

"You haven't been practising."

Castiel frowns, "it doesn't work without the fairy dust."

Dean's face drops and he looks to Balthazar. Then he laughs: "Oh yeah, right." He hits himself in the face with his own palm and lets the momentum send him twisting through the sky.

Castiel watches him. When Dean realises, he stops and stares back: "what?"

"How old are you, Dean?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Old enough."

"Yes, but, how old is that?"

Dean ignores him.

"I'm thirteen."

Dean wrinkles his nose. "That's old enough."

"How old are you, Dean?"

Dean doesn't bother answering and dashes through the open doors of the balcony to Castiel's room. He races around it, until he comes to rest, on the top of Castiel's dresser, crouching like a frog.

"What happened to all of your toys?"

Castiel clumsily pulls himself through the air towards Dean, as though he were swimming through sludge.

"My mother took them away. She said it was time to grow up."

Dean grimaces: "there's never any time for that."

Castiel watches him for a moment and sees sadness cross his eyes. He wants to ask what makes Dean so sad, but he doesn't know how to. What could be sad about growing up? He'd get to drive a car, and stay up as late as he wanted. He'd get to go out to restaurants and see plays and shows, and attend parties. He'd be able to buy all the sweets he wanted!

Dean starts smiling again though, and turns to Castiel: "are you ready to come with me then, Cas?"

"Come with you to where, Dean?"

"I told you I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Don't you trust me?"

"I'm not supposed to trust strangers."

Dean's face drops. "Am I a stranger?"

Castiel doesn't like it when Dean isn't smiling, so he corrects himself. "No... but you are strange."

Dean jumps down from the dresser and lands properly on his feet. He starts looking through Castiel's bookcase in the corner. "Not where I'm from."

Castiel lands beside him. He's grateful to be walking again. Now he and Dean are on equal footing.

"What's it like, where you're from?"

"It's wonderful. It's the best place there is."

"What do you do there?"

Dean grins. "Play, mostly. Climb trees, play war, paint and dance and sing. We build forts too. And fight pirates and mermaids."

"You play all day?"

"Yes." Dean looks quizzical. "Don't you?"

"But you're older than me."

"So?"

Castiel stops. He isn't sure what Dean means. But Dean e is older than him. He must know more, so he must be right.

"Where are your parents?"

"We don't have 'em. Don't need 'em."

Castiel pauses.

"I shouldn't like to be without my mother."

Dean raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything. He runs his fingers along the spines of Castiel's books. Castiel looks at him proudly. They're grown up books – he's the most advanced reader in his class. Dean doesn't seem impressed though and he drops his finger after tracing a few of the titles.

He looks directly and Castiel, and Castiel can see the reflection of the moon in his eyes. "Will you come with me, Cas?" He asks the question very quietly, and slowly.

Castiel waits. He thinks. He wants to, but...

"In a little while." He says. "I want to come Dean, but... I have some things to do."

"Like what?"

"Well, I have to finish this book for class on Monday," he says and points to the book on his bedside table, "and I have to help my mother organise my sister's birthday party this week. And my football team needs me to play at the game next week. It's the final – we might win the championship. But after that?"

Dean smiles, but it's small. Smaller than Castiel has ever seen before. "Sure Cas. After that."

Dean makes towards the door, and is just ready to launch himself when Castiel stops him, catching him by the hand.

"You will come back, won't you?"

Dean squints at him, as though confused: "Of course, I will Cas."

"Soon?"

"Very soon." He grins again, this time wide and genuine, and winks once more before slowly taking off into the night. Castiel holds his hand for a few moments after take-off, and Dean pulls him a little out the window and into the air. He stays there, watching Dean glide across the clouds until he loses the buoyancy of the fairy dust and lands lightly on his feet upon the cold tiles of the balcony once again.

...

The last time Dean comes, Castiel is sixteen years old. He has an exam the next day. It's very important. These exams will determine whether he gets to go to University. He knows he must do well. He is intelligent and his parents have worked very hard to send him to a good school. He must live up to his potential. He mustn't disappoint them.

But he looks up from his books when Dean touches down at the window.

Dean still hasn't aged. Castiel is now just as tall as him, but he's more muscular and thicker built. And his face is changing – it's harder. The girls say it's prettier. The boys in his class have started chasing the girls. Castiel doesn't – he has other things to do and he doesn't see the fascination.

Dean is smiling when he sees Castiel awaiting him.

"Hey Cas, you ready to fly?"

Castiel is angry that Dean is so flippant though. It's been three years. He knows, because he marked the date on his calendar when he was thirteen and he's been counting the days since then.

"You said you'd come back soon!" he hisses.

Dean falters and lands carefully on the tiles. "It is soon. I've barely been away."

"It's been three years!"

Dean's eyes widen, and he takes in Castiel's new clothes, and his glasses, and the pile of books at the desk in what was formerly his nursery.

"You're sixteen?"

"Yes," Castiel huffs, "last Thursday."

"Oh."

Dean scuffs his foot lightly against the terrace. He eyes rake Castiel's face as he takes in the bags under his eyes, the pimples that dot his chin and forehead, and the soft lines of muscle that are now emerging across his shoulders and down his arms.

He seems sad as he watches Castiel. Even though Castiel is angry, he regrets that expression. Even though he's older now, he stills feels the same about seeing sadness on Dean's face.

"Sorry, sorry," he says, "I'm just really tired." He runs his hand along his forehead, and pinches the bridge of his nose, scrunching his eyes shut for a second and breathing out slowly to alleviate the frustration. It's unproductive to feel that way.

Dean appraises him cautiously. Castiel smiles nervously and runs his hands through his hair. Dean's mouth quirks a little at the edge at Castiel's smile and he tiptoes across the balcony towards the doorway where Castiel stands.

Castiel freezes as Dean reaches forward, and places his hands on the sides of Castiel's face. He feels the fingers run across his cheekbones and above his ears, into his hair. Dean watches him warily, but fascinated as he marks the changes that have occurred in Castiel's face since their last meeting.

Then, a moment later, he pulls his hands away, taking with him Castiel's glasses with them.

"Hey, I need those!" Castiel darts forward to grab them, but Dean whips them away from Castiel's outstretched hands, laughing. He prances up across the sky, waving them about obnoxiously.

"Come and get 'em then!" he calls.

Castiel looks around in vain for Balthie, but he can't see the irritating little light anywhere.

"Where's your fairy?"

Dean pirouettes in the air and laughs. "You don't need him! Come on!"

Castiel splutters. "I can't! I need the dust! You said-"

"Come on, Cas!"

Dean swoops low across the balcony and dangles Castiel's glasses in front of him tantalisingly. Castiel snatches, but he can't quite reach them – Dean is too fast.

"Dean! Give them back!"

Dean just grins playfully at him.

"You can have them when you get out here."

Dean rises slowly, tossing them between his hands, higher and higher with each throw.

"Don't drop them! They were expensive!"

Dean stops mid-toss attempt and his smile falters. When he calls again to Castiel, it's softer and less joyful somehow.

"Come on, Cas."

Castiel sighs and runs his hand through his hair again in exasperation. He doesn't understand why Dean has to be this way. Glowering up at Dean to display his distaste, Castiel approaches the balcony and clambers atop the iron filigree, reaching for a potted tree plant to support his weight as he stands entirely unbalanced on the edge.

"I don't think this is a good idea, Dean," he calls, "where's Balthie?"

"You don't need him, Cas. Just think happy thoughts. Come on!"

Castiel reaches a toe out into tentatively the air and feels for certainty that he remembered from the last time, but he can't find it. His foot merely falls through the empty air.

"Dean, this is dangerous. I could fall."

Dean rolls his eyes.

"But you won't. Come on."

Castiel leans out a bit further and tries to settle his hanging foot on the air. As he goes to put his weight on it, it drops through the air quickly, and the tree he is holding onto cracks with the exertion of holding him there. He stumbles backwards and clatters off the railing and onto the tiles.

Dean laughs. "You're getting a bit slow in your old age."

Castiel huffs and brushes himself off, pushing himself up off the tiles and reaching for Dean. "Please, Dean. Help me."

Dean glides forward slowly, glasses hanging at his side. He waits on the other edge of the railing, as though lying on his stomach in the air, watching Castiel.

"You can do it, Cas. I promise."

"I can't. I'm... scared. Of falling."

Dean cocks his head. "You've never fallen before."

"Yes, but-"

Castiel stops. He doesn't know why he can't. But he can't. He needs Balthie to reassure him things will be alright.

"I don't have time for this, Dean. I have to keep studying. Can you get Balthie, please?"

Dean bites his lip.

"No."

Castiel glares at him.

"Then I'm not doing it. I've got to study."

He moves back to the door, but Dean catches him on the shoulder.

"Please Cas."

Castiel turns slowly and finds himself nose to nose with Dean, who is staring at him pleadingly.

"Please come with me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I've got exams. I'm going to University. To Cambridge. If I can make it."

"Why?"

"It's very important."

Dean presses his lips together in a thin line.

"Come with me."

"It's not the right time, Dean. You should have asked me earlier. You said you'd come back soon, and you didn't. I'm busy now."

Dean's eyes drop away from Castiel's to the tiles below them. His face has dropped again, but this time Castiel cares less.

When Dean looks up, he's stonier, but his eyes are still faintly alight, like Castiel remembers.

"Please come with me."

Castiel sighs. "I can't."

"Please."

Dean reaches one palm and places it on the side of Castiel's face.

Castiel lets him, but he doesn't answer, and shakes his head gently into Dean's touch.

Dean puts his other palm on the other side of Castiel's face and repeats the plea: "Please."

Castiel doesn't answer, but just stares at Dean. Dean blinks at him, and his mouth drops open. His face softens a little, and behind his eyes the light dies a little.

He floats forward slightly until their noses are just touching, in soft, ghostly little bumps as Dean hovers unsteadily.

"Please, Cas."

Castiel can't answer, and he holds his breath until he feels Dean's sigh soft and warm across his face.

A "no" forms in his throat, but it is stopped from eventuating by Dean's proximity. Dean seems to understand it though, because his lips twitch in a small frown.

He clutches at Castiel's face tighter ad slowly nudges forward. Castiel lets out a soft little gasp when Dean brushes his lips against his. Dean's lips are soft and smooth, and a little sticky, like he needs to lick them.

Castiel has never kissed anyone before. He puckers his lips a little, hoping that's right and nervously places one of his hands against Dean's cheek. Since he doesn't know what to do with it, he leaves it there unmoving, cupping the edge of Dean's jaw.

Dean stops and pulls away a little, and lets his fingers run along the bags underneath Castiel's eyes, and along the acne scars across his cheeks. He dips his forehead against Castiel's and rests it there, breathing out against Castiel's lips. When he exhales it's a little unsteady, like he wants to cry.

While Dean is distracted, Castiel snatches the opportunity and snatches at Dean's hands. He manages to close his fingers around the glasses, which Dean holds loosely in the hand he has on Castiel's left cheek. He pulls them away easily and holds them high in the air, in a gesture of triumph and crows: "I win!"

Dean floats backwards slowly. His eyes are wide, and they shimmer now with a kind of dull glassiness.

Castiel stops and lets his hands drop. He stares at Dean, and the single tear running down his cheek.

"Dean, I'm sorry, I thought we were playing a game."

Dean smiles, but it's not warm like it used to be.

"We were, Cas. It's ok."

Castiel reaches forward again for Dean's face. He liked what just happened. He wants to do it again. He thinks he can do better this time. Perhaps it will make Dean feel happier.

Dean turns his cheek away from the touch.

Castiel drops his hand, his fingers rubbing their pads against one another nervously. He doesn't know what to do.

"Will you... will you come back soon?"

Dean grimaces and doesn't meet Castiel's eyes.

"Sure. I will."

"Good." Castiel grins. "I'll have more free time then. If you bring Balthie, we can go flying again. You can show me where you're from. We can bring my little sister. She'd love to fly too."

"Yes." Dean smiles at him. "I'd like that, Cas."

Castiel looks to the calendar on his wall. "Maybe we can book a time. That way I can expect you."

Dean just looks at him, and smiles small and sad.

Castiel turns to the calendar and counts down the days. "My exams finish on the 12th of December. It's my mother's birthday on the 16th. But we could go visiting in between. Is that ok?"

Dean smiles and nods and sits quietly cross legged in the air.

Castiel grins. "Good. Good. I'm looking forward to it."

Dean nods and stretches his legs out as he drifts slowly backwards through the open doors and onto the balcony. He pushes himself up so he is standing upright in the air, above Castiel, who has to look up into the night to see him.

Castiel waves. "See you on the evening of the 12th Dean."

Dean nods and rises slowly. He turns and starts to drift slowly across the rooftops. Castiel waits and watches him go, wondering at how gracefully he moves. Halfway across the roofs across the street, Dean turns abruptly and darts back to Castiel with incredible speed.

He stops just short of Castiel's face once again, and Castiel forgets to breathe.

Dean's eyes drop to his open lips and he seems to stop breathing too. They wait like that for a few moments, entirely silent while the streets of London bustle below them and the sounds of the city preparing to wake at dawn filter through the night. Then Dean breathes out and whispers against Castiel's skin: "Bye Cas."

He reaches forward again, and places a soft kiss against the side of Castiel's mouth. Castiel tries to follow the touch of his lips as he withdraws, but he pulls back quickly and abruptly, and he's gone before Castiel can remind him: "the 12th, Dean."

...

Castiel's exams go well. He studies hard, and he prepares his University applications. On the night of the 12th he excuses himself from celebrations with his friends early, and heads home to pack a small overnight bag. Pajamas, toothbrush, spare underwear. Only the necessities. He packs one for his sister too and prepares a small note for his mother to leave, assuring her that he and Anna will return on the 16th in time for her birthday.

He leaves the doors to the balcony open and rests on his bed, reading a novel while he waits for Dean. At midnight, Dean still hasn't arrived, so Castiel takes his bags and waits on the balcony. He tells his sister to go to sleep and promises he'll wake her when Dean arrives. He waits until the dawn mist rises over the roofs of London. He's fast asleep when the sun's rays touch his face and he wakes with the rustle of birds in the trees announcing the dawning of the day.

Dean never comes.

...

Twenty years later, Castiel is a journalist for a community newspaper. He's held the same position for ten years now – it didn't work out like he'd hoped. The field is competitive, and unlike what he expected. Those who hit the big time seem to catch lucky and undeserved breaks, while Castiel slogs through the drudgery of the day to day grind.

The real world is different from the exams and tests and assignments that he'd excelled at in University. He never feels like he excels here. People say he should be proud of his job, and grateful for his opportunities. They say they admire what he does, so he supposes what he does is worthwhile. He doesn't give it much thought. It seems like the best idea.

His editor assigns him to a local news story. He doesn't get a long brief. His editor is busy with important things – her face is puffy and wrinkled, even though she's barely older than him. It's as if her body doesn't know what to do with the weight she carries with her. There's a sports bag at her desk, but Castiel has never seen her unzip it. She always sits at her desk through lunch.

Even though the story is a small one, she assures him its urgent. He'll have to stay as late as necessary to get it done. Disaster will befall him if it isn't.

Castiel drives to a primary school through light morning traffic. It's a relief to drive at a normal pace – a small luxury compared to the usual hours he spends in gridlock daily.

The man he is to interview is a young new teacher who has apparently revolutionised primary school education in his own small way. "He's controversial," his editor assured him, "but this school loves him. The Board of his last school despised him. Get a good interview – make it juicy."

Castiel is directed towards a noisy classroom – by far the noisiest in the small building. When he enters the room, it is decorated entirely with fantastical pictures drawn by the classroom's inhabitants. They are sitting at their desks now, scribbling furiously at more images, dressed in a bizarre assortment of costumes that include fairies, birds, princesses and knights (not always assigned to the expected gender). When he enters they look at him and giggle.

A young man stands at the front of the classroom. He's tall and beautiful, with light green eyes and a dusting of freckles scattered across his face. He looks like someone Castiel once knew, but had forced himself to forget.

He's very young, and can't be more than 25 or 26, but the children are enraptured by him. He crosses the room quickly to meet Castiel. Castiel extends his hand, and the man reciprocates by extending a foam sword at his right hip.

"Who goes there?"

Castiel tilts his head in confusion, and the children giggle and repeat the words in unison.

"I, uh... my name is Castiel Novak. I'm with the Tribune. I believe you're expecting me."

"Are you a pirate?" the man yells and the class gasps with a collective intake of breath. "What do you think, my lost children?" he turns his grinning face to the class. Castiel makes to move forward, but the man slaps him back lightly with the foam sword. Castiel splutters indignantly, but is so put off by the man's strangeness that he can do little else but observe, mentally taking notes for what he will prepare at his desk later.

"Is he a pirate?"

They survey him seriously, and comically, given their bizarre get ups. One little girl speaks up: "can he fly?"

"I don't know." The young man whirls upon Castiel and eyeballs him. "Speak sir, can you fly?"

Castiel's brow furrows and he feels his eyes twitch in confusion. "No, I-"

"A pirate then!" the young man squeals, and the rest of the class join in the chorus. "A pirate! A pirate!"

The young man seizes Castiel by the arm without any kind of apology for the contact and drags him to the front of the classroom. His grip is light, but firm, and Castiel politely obliges the game by going with him.

"What shall we do with him then?" the young man crows as he surveys his class, who all stare open-mouthed. "Shall he walk the plank?", his voice growls out the last word and he gestures vigorously with his sword to the small swimming pool visible out the window, which would barely reach Castiel's thighs if he stood in it, "or shall we cure him of his piracy?"

The class at once begins shouting and becomes entirely raucous. A few teachers walk past the room through the corridor. They peer in, but only smile and wink at the young man, and continue on their way, completely unperturbed by the noise and commotion the class is creating.

The young man cups his palm to his ear and leans forward to the class. "I can't hear you? What are you saying?"

Rather than getting louder, the class quietens, until they all stop speaking but one. They all turn to the smallest, bespectacled boy at the back of the room, who sits quietly hunched over his desk. Unlike the other children, he sits not on a blue plastic chair, but in a small wheelchair, that has clearly been adorned by the class for it is decorated with tinsel and streamers.

"What say you, our fearless leader?"

The young boy appraises Castiel and grins: "cure him!"

The class cheers. "Excellent decision, Scott! We will not feed him to the crocodile today!"

The class cheers again.

"Who would like to cure this pirate?"

The entire class raises their hands, and the man closes his eyes, whirls around and points. His finger hits another child on the side of the room – this time a young girl. She races up to the front and holds out her hands out expectantly. From his pocket, the young man withdraws a small leather pouch, which he unlaces carefully, and lets her dip her fingers into. From it, she withdraws a small handful of glitter, which she holds carefully in the palm of her hand just below her chin.

Castiel looks at her quizzically.

The young man looks out to the class, and raises his hands towards his students: "Cure him!"

The class all at once extends their hands to Castiel, as though casting imaginary magic spells upon him, and narrow their eyes in intense concentration.

The young man crouches down next to the young girl, who glowers at Castiel underneath her brows and focusses on him.

"You ready, Claire? One, two, three!"

The young girl attempts to blow the glitter off her hand onto Castiel. She doesn't manage it, instead blowing a kind of raspberry into her hand. The young man is unperturbed and from behind her subtly blows against the glitter too and sends it towards Castiel. When he catches Castiel watching him he winks, and stands up. "Great job, class! But you forgot the most important part!"

"You do it!" Claire yells enthusiastically, jumping up and down on her chubby little legs.

The young man grins. "Alright, alright! Let's finish this."

He opens his arms to Castiel in a wide gesture that clearly says a hug is forthcoming. Then he yelled loudly again, so that his voice cracked a little: "I hereby declare you, NOT A PIRATE!" and Castiel is enclosed in a strong embrace.

He stumbles back a little dizzily, disoriented by the man's brightness and lack of personal space. He awkwardly presses at his glasses, and adjusts them so that they sat further up the bridge of his nose.

"Alright, back to your games lost children! I want to see those pictures before lunchtime!"

The class giggles, but almost at once turn back to their furious colouring. The young man turns to Castiel and winks: "lunchtime's in five minutes. We can talk then. Take a seat."

He gestures to his desk and his chair, which is adorned too, so that it looks like something of a makeshift throne.

Castiel sits awkwardly and extracts his writing pad quietly. He takes notes while he observes the teacher wandering around his class, complimenting his children on their artistry: "outstanding, Matilda! Phenomenal, Thomas! Abnosome, Felix!" Castiel doubts the children understand the multisyllabic compliments, but they grin up at their teacher, and at once return to their drawing.

When the lunch bell rings, they sit quietly while the young man stands up the front of the class, hands on his hips and entirely serious.

"Let's see those pictures then?"

The class hold up their A4 images above their heads, each straining for theirs to be the highest.

"Excellent! These must all go in the exhibition next week!"

The class cheers again and set their drawings down on the table, waiting expectantly.

"Alright, lost children, outwards!"

With that, the class scramble in their backpacks and extract lunchboxes and drink bottles. Once they are established, they race outwards from the door onto the lawn outside the room and settle themselves there, some commencing to eat and others racing towards the playground, skipping and leaping and hollering as they did so.

The young man waits until they have all left, and at once begin to collect their drawings. He assembles them in a pile on his desk and withdraws from a drawer some blue tack, not bothering to apologise for invading Castiel's personal space and brushing past his knees as he does so.

Then he draws up one of the children's chairs and sits opposite to Castel at the desk. It is comical, for the chairs are tiny and he is massive. But he perches himself carefully and sets to dotting the backs of the images with four spots of the sticky stuff. Then he meets Castiel's eyes.

"Hi."

"Hi," Castiel repeats nervously. He extends his hand, and the man takes it, shaking firmly, before returning to the task at hand.

"I'm Dean. Dean Winchester."

"I'm Castiel Novak."

"Nice name. Can we call you Cas though? Easier for the kids."

"Yes, certainly."

Dean grins. "They've got a little performance for you when they get back. I'll have to set up the room while we do this."

"That's, uh, that's fine."

Castiel meets Dean's eyes momentarily, and notices that they are dancing in amusement at his stoic and nervous demeanour.

"So, how can I help you?"

Dean pulls at the blu-tack so that it makes a lone line that exceeds his arm span. He grins at Castiel. Castiel chuckles a bit, but is unsure of what he is supposed to say, so he answers the question instead:

"I have a few questions I'd like to run through, and then perhaps the opportunity to observe your class."

Dean smiles at him again. "That's what the performance is for. Shoot."

"I, uh," Castiel runs his eyes down the list of questions which he had formulated before he arrived. A lot seem rather stupid now, in the face of this bizarre and excitable man: when did you start teaching, where were you trained, what kind of academic responsibility do you think you owe to children, to what extent do parents consent to your teaching methods when their child is assigned to your class? None of them really make sense, given the wide-eyed admiration that he had seen in the children's eyes as they had observed the man before him.

"Your class, they are... they adore you."

"That's very kind of you to say, Cas. I assure you, they have their off days." Dean grins and rolls a ball of the tack in his fingers before dotting it in the corner of the paper before him.

"No, I mean it..." Castiel searches for the words, "you are truly remarkable with them."

Dean blushes and looks down. His fingers run playfully along the little mountain of blue tack he has created beside the pictures. He twists at it, spiralling the tack in a way that allows it to grow taller.

"Why did you... start teaching?"

Dean's eyes flicker up to meet his again. "Who wouldn't?"

Castiel purses his lips and look down. He doesn't really know the answer to that, having watched that class.

Dean looks at him expectantly.

"Are you... are you ever sad?"

"Sorry?"

Dean's smile drops a little.

"I..." Castiel stops himself, "I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that. Sorry."

He shuffles with his papers and flips the notepad over again, so he is looking at his list of pre-written questions. He opens his mouth to pronounce once, when Dean reaches out and touches his forearm softly. Castiel shifts it away out of instinct and Dean withdraws. When he speaks his voice is soft, and without any hint of frustration at the small rejection.

"Are you ever sad, Cas?"

Castiel meets his eyes and drops them almost immediately. The dancing has stopped, and there's genuine emotion in the gaze that watches him expectantly now.

Castiel swallows and chides himself for the stupidity of the statement. He doesn't know why he can't control himself. Why he must always be so idiotic.

He summons the words of the question he intended to ask to his throat again, but when he speaks to Dean, he replies to the question in spite of himself, in a tiny murmur:

"Yes."

"How often?"

"Whenever I... whenever I forget not to think about it."

Dean reaches out to Castiel again and this time, Castiel doesn't know why, he doesn't pull away. Dean lets his fingers rest lightly on the back of Castiel's hand. The touch is butterfly soft, but reassuring and secure.

Dean doesn't bother to ask what it is. He knows, clearly.

As Castiel breathes unsteadily, suppressing the emotion that, out of nowhere threatens to broil over and erupt in an unsightly way, Dean lets his fingers move over Castiel's hand. Castiel doesn't know why he lets him. If it were any other man doing this to him in any other circumstance, he'd be politely excusing himself with an apologetic protest of his heterosexuality. That's not what this is about though. It's different. He lets Dean trace his hand, as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

"I was sad once," Dean says, matter-of-factly.

"O-Once?" Castiel splutters.

Dean nods, and the corners of his eyes wrinkle a little as they seem to retreat to a past memory. He doesn't elaborate though.

But he continues: "it can be hard, feeling small, when the world is so big."

Castiel swallows a rise in his throat. "I feel smaller than everyone else, even."

"I know." Dean lets his fingers dance up to Castiel's wrist and he traces the bone there. Castiel's fingers twitch and the pen he has been gripping onto falls out of them with a soft clatter onto the desk.

"When you get bigger, you get smaller inside."

Castiel doesn't say anything, but he watches the hair on the back of his hand rise when Dean's fingers brush over it.

Dean speaks again: "Tell me how it feels."

Castiel bites his lip and feels a rush of tears come unsolicited at those words. It's not the first time it's happened, but it's jarring everytime. He doesn't know why it only takes a few words, regardless of their content. But they come sometimes: when he can't open a jar in the kitchen, when the man at the grocery store tells him that comes to 21 pounds 50 pence, and when someone smiles at him on the tube when he makes room for them to exit through the sliding doors. They come now too, and he swallows them down carefully.

"It feels like I'm waiting for a train to arrive at the station, and I know it's not coming. But I have to wait there, because I have nowhere else to go."

Dean nods and lets his fingers continue to ghost across Castiel's skin. Momentarily, Castiel's throat betrays him, and it lets a single tear rise up to his eyes and run down his cheek to where it hangs at his chin, suspended.

"I feel like I've forgotten something important. Every night, I wake up, worrying what it is. At first I thought it was an assignment at work, or to lock the door. But..."

He hangs his head and feels Dean's fingers move to his forearm now. He has somehow undone the button of Castiel's shirt sleeve and slid his fingers underneath it. They move on Castiel's forearm in light circles.

"I thought there'd be something waiting for me at the end of it, you know?"

Dean nods and keeps his eyes on the sleeve of Castiel's trenchcoat where his fingers move beneath it.

"You grew up."

"Yes," Castiel breathes out and closes his eyes to the sensation of Dean's fingers, which he swears are spelling out his name against his own skin. Cas Cas Cas Cas Cas.

The bell rings loudly and startles Castiel out of his reverie. It seems to startle Dean too and he jolts backwards, momentarily unsure of himself.

However, moments later the children barrel into the classroom in excitement. Dean adjusts himself within split seconds, and he is upfront of the class again, hands on his hips and sword at the ready.

"Alright! We've got a show to put on for our friend here who was-once-a-pirate. Everyone, say hi to Cas!"

"Hi Cas!" the class choruses, unaware of Castiel's dishevelled and drooping exterior. They are so young – they cannot yet recognise the emotion that is written across the posture of his body and in the lines of his face. So they ignore it, as a grown-up thing.

"Now Cas and I were very silly, and we didn't get the classroom set up for our play at lunch time. He was too busy telling me a story of a mermaid he'd met!"

The class gapes at Castiel with wide eyes.

"Now, I might tell all of you what he told me, but first I want this classroom spick and span for our performance. Can we do that?"

"Yes yes yes!" the class choruses. Dean grins and sends them on their way. He has them all move their chairs to the side of the room, and he and Castiel (with a quick glance from Dean) move the heavier desks. The class sets up a few chairs in the middle of the room, as props, and Dean and Castiel sit together at his desk, Dean having moved the child's chair to the other side of the table.

They are squeezed together underneath it, and it would have been uncomfortable, but for the fact that Dean takes Castiel's hand as soon as they are obscured beneath the surface of the table and holds onto it tightly and deliberately. It gives Castiel the energy to smile at the children and nod enthusiastically when they enquire as to whether he is ready.

At first, he thinks he won't be able to focus on their performance, for the touch is too warm and reassuring. He has a hard time remembering to breathe with the interplay between the turmoil in his chest and the solidity of Dean's hand in his. But the class is well-prepared and their teacher is enthusiastic and encouraging. The performance is transportative.

It is a talent show of sorts. Each member of the class has prepared something, in groups or as individuals. Some enact fantastical scenes from stories (which Dean murmurs to him are of their own imaginings), others play self-composed pieces on drums or violins or xylophones, some read poems or show off drawings and some dance and perform acrobatics.

He finds himself hollering and praising them with Dean. Dean hands him a small sticker pad and after each performance he bestows upon each child a golden star that they wear proudly, adorning their cheeks, noses, foreheads, legs and hands at their choosing. Peeling off the stickers is difficult one handed, so Dean lets go of his hand, but lets the tip of his thumb graze up and down the side of Castiel's thigh.

Castiel doesn't know how he can bear it – this untoward physical contact from a complete stranger – but with every momentary departure of Dean's touch from his skin, he feels an instant craving for its return, and a warm release of relief when it does.

After the performance Castiel doesn't leave. Dean doesn't mention his continued presence and resumes with the lesson as normal, having the children complete a short spelling test before reading to them from a book which details the adventures of badgers and hedgehogs and rabbits in the English countryside.

Castiel doesn't take his eyes off Dean, and Dean sometimes catches him and smiles back. It's so welcoming and reassuring – like the embrace of a towel after a long day at the seaside, or a pre-warmed bed on a winter's night. Castiel is enraptured, and he gives up any pretence even of taking notes on his writer's pad.

He stays until the children finish the day. Dean helps them swing their backpacks onto their backs, and they stumble out the door armed with instruments and sporting equipment, yelling cheerily and promising "Mr Winchester" that they'll see him tomorrow.

Dean is silent when he closes the classroom door, and Castiel lets him take a moment to breathe. He doesn't slump though, even as he sighs softly. When he turns to Castiel his eyes are still alight like they were when his children performed for him two hours ago and his very being seems to be buoyed by the memory, as he walks across the room lightly back to Castiel.

He extends his hand: "Come with me, Cas."

When Castiel takes the hand, Dean intertwines their fingers and squeezes.

And Cas does go with him.

Dean keeps their hands entangled together, despite the teachers and parents still milling around the corridor and in the pickup zone outside. He leads them past Castiel's car and onto the road, and starts along the pavement.

Castiel doesn't bother to ask where they're going. Dean leads them through a park, and into the city centre (although it's small compared to the London Castiel grew up in). He tugs Castiel into the clocktower at the centre, and they climb the spire until they reach the peak, where the mechanics of the clock hang though the ceiling and within grasp.

Castiel knows they're not supposed to be here. But no door seems locked to Dean and no path untakable. No one who sees them make the climb bothers to ask any questions or even spares them a second glance.

When they reach the peak Dean seats Castiel against the wall and slides down beside him, once again tangling his fingers in Castiel's.

"Who are you?"

Dean smiles but only answers cryptically: "you've forgotten".

Castiel doesn't doubt he has. He feels like he's forgotten a lot of important things in recent times. Why he wakes, who he is and so on.

They sit in silence and watch the sun set and hear the sounds of the town becoming quieter and softer. While they wait, Dean runs his thumb across the back of Castiel's hand again, spelling out his name slowly and softly: Cas Cas Cas Cas Cas Cas Cas. Eventually, the natural light fades, and is replaced by the flicker of street lighting and it accompanying soft whirr.

Dean turns to look at Castiel and leans forward, so that his forehead is resting on Castiel's shoulder. He exhales softly and twists his face so that it is buried in Castiel's coat.

He waits like that for a long while, before he asks the question.

"You ready?"

Castiel doesn't know what Dean means, but he gives the right answer anyway: "yes."

Dean leads him to the edge of the tower, and to a small balcony that abuts the clock room, which looks out to the roves above the City. Dean lets go of his hand and reaches into his pocket from which he withdraws the small pouch that contained the glitter from earlier in the day. Grinning he takes a small handful and holds his palm to his mouth. Castiel braces himself and Dean blows the glitter into his face and then chuckles.

Then Dean leads him to the edge.

He turns to him: "Dean, I can't."

Dean cocks his head at him: "Have you really forgotten how to fly, Cas?"

Castiel swallows and shakes his head. "I never could."

Dean's smile is a little brittle. "I don't believe that."

"Belief doesn't mean anything."

Dean doesn't answer and stares out at the night sky.

"Would you go first?"

Dean turns back to him. "That's not how it works, Cas."

Then they're silent again.

When Castiel can speak, his voice is cracking, and hoarse: "What if I fall?"

"Do you want to fall?"

"No!"

"That's good, Cas. I don't want you to either."

Dean takes his fingers and runs them along the inside of Castiel's palm. Castiel tries to reach for them and hold onto them, but Dean keeps his touch elusive, only providing the relief of contact when Castiel relaxes against him.

"Cas, are you so afraid to fly?"

"No, I'm afraid to fall."

"They're different things, Cas."

"They start the same way though."

"Do they? Really?"

Dean lets his fingers move up to Castiel's wrist, and he lets them lightly encircle it. Castiel stutters out a cry.

"Dean, please. I'm scared."

"The fear isn't real, Cas. You've always been able to fly."

Castiel hangs his head and gasps in air so desperately that the intake of breath is a howl.

"Dean."

"Who told you you couldn't fly?"

Castiel stammers out an answer, but it's unintelligible.

"They lied, Cas."

Castiel turns to look at Dean, who cups his face with his free hand.

"You have to try."

Castiel grips at the hand that Dean holds onto his face with.

"No. No, I don't. I can't."

"If you don't try, then you'll fall."

"I can stay here."

"Why?"

Dean pulls his hand away from Castiel's wrist and cups the other side of his face. He pulls Castiel close to him, so that their noses are touching.

"Cas, please."

"Dean, you lied to me before."

"You lied to yourself."

"You told me you'd come back."

"I did."

"You didn't!"

Dean rests his forehead against Castiel's.

"Cas, I came back every night. But you couldn't see me anymore. You couldn't see clearly."

"You didn't come."

"You're seeing clear now. You have to fly now. You have to be brave."

"I can't."

"You won't fall."

"What if I do?"

"You won't. I'm here. They lied when they told you you would. Fly. Fly now." Dean's voice is urgent now. It's a desperate plea.

"Where will we go?"

"You know I can't tell you."

"Then how can I go?"

"Just because you don't know, it doesn't mean you should be afraid."

The spectre of Dean is becoming nothing in Castiel's hands. He clutches at him, but Dean fades from his eyes.

"Cas, fly. Don't get confused. Do it now."

"Dean! Come back!"

"You need to believe, Cas. Don't stop."

He's momentarily solid in Castiel's hands before he flickers out of existence again.

"Now, Cas."

...

Castiel is 38 when Dean appears at his door. There's no balcony to appear on anymore. Castiel lives in a one bedroom cottage now, far from the town where was found weeping on the floor of a clocktower two months ago.

Things have changed since then. And Castiel's changed. He's still sad, but he's been purging himself of the feeling slowly, grabbing at the tacky mess inside of him and extricating it, leaving it to rot and burn and fester in the warmth and sunlight of the life he was made for himself. It's hard, but some days he feels like he can pull his feet up from the mud he's felt rooted in. One day, he promises himself, he'll pull both feet from the swamp with a pop, and he'll fly, like he promised Dean he would.

Dean comes before then.

When Castiel answers the tap at the door, Dean greets him with his feet planted firmly on the ground. But Castiel knows that's not how he arrived – there are no footprints leading to the door in the snow.

Dean smiles when he sees him, but the smile twitches between a grin and a grimace, and tears well up at the creases at the end of Dean's eyes. Castiel lets Dean take him, and hold him, in the snow, for what seems like the longest time.

When Dean speaks, it's against Castiel's neck and muffled with tears and joy: "You did it, Cas."

Castiel nods against Dean's hair and burrows his face into it.

"Yeah."

Dean squeezes him tight, and then raises his hands to Castiel's face, where he touches their noses together, like he did when they were children.

"You flew Cas. You did it."

"You taught me."

Dean shrugs and nuzzles Castiel's nose.

"It was all you."

Castiel smiles softly and drops his gaze to where his chest is pressed against Dean's.

"You wanna go flying now?"

"Yes, please."

...

AN: I want to follow up this story with an author's note, because I am anxious that its content not be misinterpreted.

Please, if you have considered harming yourself, seek help immediately.

This is not a story that condones, glorifies or encourages suicide. Rather, it is an attempt to encounter and process and afford rationality to the existential desperation which I have endured as of late. I believe that desperation is experienced in common by the majority of young adults, but is largely unspoken of.

It's easy, when someone has their hands over your eyes and they're muttering garbled instructions in your ear, to forget the difference between flying and falling. It's easy to stumble onto a parallel set of railway tracks in the darkness, when someone's confusing you with contradictory directions and to find yourself on a line that takes you to a dark and torturous place without ever realising you switched tracks.

This is a story about not confusing escape with departure, and about not listening to murky instructions. It's about remembering to bring a flashlight, so you can look down the railway tunnel and see clearly for yourself where you're going, and paying heed to the dangers in your path.

Don't get trapped. Don't let things get murky. And when they do, let people help you and illuminate things. There's always value to be had here.