Logic states that he can't possibly know Dean's every move and breath at any point in time, but Castiel believes he can at least sense moments when he is needed. Waiting alone on an empty road -in the eternity before morning- he can feel the cold sweat streaming down Dean's face in the wake of a nightmare. While searching for his Father, Castiel feels soft lips of an anonymous girl as Dean tries to forget his destiny.
Arid winds tear at his face in a war torn city and Castiel feels regret, so strong and consuming he is brought to his knees.
The need for forgiveness dances on the tip of his tongue and in that instance, he knows.
He only has seconds to find Dean. To grip him tight and cover his mouth. To fight against the two words that lie right now on the precipice of destiny.
The rules state he shouldn't be able to find him. The sigils under his skin, lovingly carved into his bones should prevent Castiel from appearing at Dean's side. But the rules also say Castiel cannot feel. Being an Angel should hold him above any desire for the flesh, or the love of a human soul.
There isn't any real, singular explanation for how Castiel finds himself in the field. There are no ways to truly describe, in that moment, how the winds ripples through the long grass and makes the bending, golden straw dance in a perfect act of summer. The dirt smells sweet under a burning sun and behind him, there is a forgotten farmhouse, falling apart and so very, very natural to the landscape. The Impala is parked beside it, empty but not waiting.
Castiel removes his shoes and turns, without need for haste. He already knows it is too late. He might be able to keep Dean from speaking but he can't stop his soul from calling out to Michael.
The field is silent save for the rustling grass and chirping insects. Castiel's gaze burns onto Dean's back, just as intense as the call he felt in the desert, seconds ago.
It felt like an eternity.
There are years and years between them. The entire history of man, sweating and crawling from the mud, shedding fur and standing tall. Quaking ground and skies torn apart, frozen mountains and fire. Unforgiving oceans, calloused hands and splintering wood. Screeching birds ascending in coloured flocks. A cart full of dead bodies, clothed faces and sickness on filthy streets. Cold mornings, frosted windows and bombs falling like dark tears from heaven. In a hospital ward on January 24, 1979 a women screams and Dean Winchester takes his first breath.
The night sky above is an explosion of stars. Light years away a comet hurtles through an expanse of universe, burning ice following a predestined path. A dying sun ripples, before growing into something far greater.
Castiel can read the world in Dean's shoulders; can see every precious existence before him. An uncountable creation of steps has led one man to this field. Castiel is reminded of Atlas, condemned to hold the heavens on his shoulders.
And then Dean turns. Slowly, but Castiel wants time to linger even longer. He notes that Dean's own feet are naked and browning from the rich soil. His shirt is as plain as a Wednesday afternoon and the denim of his pants is faded and torn. He needs every frame committed to mind. The is the end, and he wants forever.
Every step is heartache, but Castiel lifts his head with hope. Searching Dean's eyes for something, anything. Walking the world with humans has made him weak, too riddle with need and hope and desire. There is an inch between them soon, while the sunbathed grass ripples like an ocean. Dean has chosen this place to leave, and it is beautiful.
Two hands grip Castiel's face. They shake, so quickly and uncontrollably. They hold tight enough to hurt a mortal man, and Castiel's grace reaches upwards, yearning to comfort and screaming for Dean to not let go. To never let go.
Standing alone in the field, they both know what will happen next.
Because Dean is tired.
Because he can't go on.
Because he needs to save his brother.
He is so scared, and the regrets keep piling up until there is nothing more than a bitter abyss inside his heart.
Because it is his destiny.Castiel breaches the space between them and places his mouth in prayer to Dean's forehead. In an instant they are clinging to each other. Tearing with their lips and pulling apart with their hands. Dean's skin burns with every touch, and Castiel grows cold each time their mouths break away.
Summer whispers around them and the sky reaches on forever.
Angels are not meant to feel. But it hurt, being blown apart at the hands of an Archangel. It hurt, as Lucifer fell from the heavens and brought darkness whispering upon their grace. And it hurt to be reborn –from nothing- and wrenched back into the battle ground known as Earth.
Castiel is given his first goodbye, and it hurts more than he can understand.
He leans his head into Dean's neck, breathing in the human scent and holding on when he knows he should let go. There is light escaping under Dean's eyelids, trailing down like silver tears, shining stronger with each moment.
Dean's heart beats once, twice, and stops. And then there is thunder.
The peaceful field is gone, the sky above a vortex of streaming winds and violent rain. The clouds spread like angry bruises, covering a bloodied heaven as the sun disappears.
Castiel stares into the eyes of his brother, the shining warrior. He is still caught gripping Dean's shirt and the hands that once cradled his head now hold his wrists.
Castiel can't let go. He is weak, on this world of humans. On this tearing battlefield, he feels only hope.
The hands on his wrist do not loosen, and so Castiel looks ups. Behind green eyes, there are whispers. The sky is an explosion and far away, a comet follows the same path it travelled for thousands of years before. His heart ripples, and Dean becomes something far greater than he used to be.
Castiel falls. Under the power of Michael, he will always bow his head. But it is for Dean, that he falls onto his knees.