Written for the Destiel Advent Calendar: destieladventcalendar dot tumblr dot com/ (copy and paste, replace with dots)
Please review. That would be amazing.
It's Christmas. The whole world is immersed in the Christmas spirit. You know the deal. Houses are decorated with lights, streets brightly lit up, shop windows covered in fake snow, toy Santa's, socks and God knows what. If you like it or not, Christmas is everywhere. Cheesy movies will dominate the TV channels, old creepy Christmas songs will bust out of your car radio, everything will scream at you: "FEEL HAPPY, FEEL CHRISTMASSY". There's just no getting away from it. Everyone has to deal with it. Right? Well, not everyone. There's a small hidden community of people on the world to which Christmas doesn't mean much more than any other day. A community that no one who sits cozily at home on the cold, stormy Christmas evening our story begins, even knows the existence of. And if they do, they want to forget their encounter with them as soon as possible. The community of Hunters.
In a cabin deep in the woods, far away from those people in their decorated houses, of the kitchens filled with delicacies, of children who are staring longingly at the presents under the three, is Dean Winchester. He sits alone in the cabin, the wooden table covered with empty beer bottles and tattered old books and ripped out pages. He's quickly digging through the pages of one of the books, from which the cover reads "GREEK MYTHOLOGY". He takes the last swing of his beer bottle, and then puts it down with the rest.
The cabin has been Bobby's, but they hadn't checked it out for long after his death. They use it sometimes, him and Sam, to lay low for a while, do some research when they're not on a particular hunt, and feel like taking a break. Right now it looks as far from Christmassy as it gets. It's shabby, sloppy, the furnishing is poor. There's a table, a small kitchen sink, tiny bathroom and two single beds on each side of the room. Shabby curtains that are always drawn cover the windows.
It's not much like a home, but it'll do for Dean. It's just isolated enough to keep this terrible weather outside. Outside, the wind is howling, pulling at the hinges of the windows and the door, blowing through the small notches. They have been warning for a snow storm on the radio for a couple of days now. Seems like tonight it's finally hitting. Sam is away taking care of some business on his own at the moment and Dean is spending the night alone. He doesn't worry about his brother, not really. He trusts him enough by now to know he can take care of his own.
He drops the book for a while, looks over the mess at the table, rubs his temples and sighs. A sudden and heavy feeling of tiredness comes over him. He walks up to the small bathroom and leans over the sink, splashing some water in his face. He inspects himself in the mirror. Fourty, he is now. An age he had never dreamed of reaching. He doesn't look it, he knows he could easily pass for being in his early thirties. Whenever he tries to get laid with anyone in a pub, he usually makes himself five years younger, and they believe it. But when he looks at himself, he can see himself for what he really is. He sees a man that is tired, that reached and smacked to the bottom long ago. A man that is much older than fourty. He can see the hardened lines in his face, the tightened jaw line, the stoicalness that indicate his true age. The once soft features in his face have deepened, like they're carved out of stone. Also, he should really shave again, he notices, rubbing his chin that is covered with rough stubbles. He makes a mental note of this and walks back into the small living room to return to his books, his only company.
The only thing that reminds him of the fact that it's Christmas today is when his gaze coincidentally wanders over to the calendar on the wall. December 24. It doesn't provoke any more reaction from him than just a shrug. Christmas isn't exactly something that recalls warm, fuzzy memories in his life. Being kidnapped by cannibalistic monsters, stealing presents for Sam because their father had once again abandoned them. Nope, not exactly awesome Christmases. Still, though, his mind starts drifting. The fact that it's Christmas makes him think. About dad, Sam, about family, about old friends, old girlfriends, about the one cozy Christmas he spent with Lisa and Ben. And…. No, he doesn't want to go there. He really doesn't. But now he's taking a walk down memory lane anyway, he might as well admit it to himself.
It also makes him think about Cas.
He hadn't thought about him in a long time. Hell, in forever. He'd trained himself not to think of him, to block him out of his mind. Simply because it hurt too much. No matter how much the itch drove him crazy: he didn't scratch that wound. He didn't go there. Not ever.
But now, he'd scratched it all right, and it ripped open. It was ages ago since he had last heard of the angel. Even longer since he'd seen him. He remembered his face like it was only yesterday. And the memory hurt.
Things had seemed all all right with Cas seven years ago. He'd been back to his old self again. He had made it out of Purgatory in one piece, he had regained his sanity and his angel status. For all Dean knew, he was fluttering around happily again and all was good. But then, one day, he'd just… disappeared. Hadn't shown up anymore. He had prayed to him, every evening for years, hoping to hear that gravelly voice behind him and have that jackass invading his personal space, but all that ever answered him was that Goddamn awful silence. At some point, he had stopped believing. He just prayed to him as a habit, a part of his every day routine, to sort of hold onto to the idea of Cas, but his hope had been long dead. And then at some point, he had stopped praying too.
The moment he knew he had really given up hope, was when Cas had stopped appearing in his dreams. For a long time, he had. Sometimes he relived the awful moments when he had believed he had lost him for good, seeing him being sucked up in that water, slipping out of his hands in Purgatory. Sometimes when he would wake up in cold sweat, he'd wake up just in time to hear his name coming over his lips. He knew it must wake Sam up, but they never talked about it. Sometimes, he just dreamed of Cas being there, just standing there. He would reach out to touch him sometimes, but of course, that was the point the dream dissolved. Even his subconscious knew that Cas was gone and even in his dreams, he couldn't have him. He was far too disappointed with reality to allow himself to dream.
Where are you, you son of a bitch? Do you ever even think of me? What would you say if you saw me like this, huh? he thinks, staring over the table wistfully, looking at the fucked up mess that is his life. staring somberly over the table, looking at the fucked up mess that is his life. He is fourty and spending Christmas Eve alone in a cabin in the woods, like some kind of crazy hermit. If he would have a heart attack here and now, that sure would be what he would look like to the unfortunate person who'd find him, surrounded by books about mythological monsters and equipped with numerous fake ID's. He can see the papers already. 'Hermit in woods was societal outcast'.
Some good booze would do him well. He stands up, walks over to the kitchen, rummages around in the closet. Finds a glass, gets the bottle of whiskey from the refrigerator. Sits down and pours himself a glass.
"Here's to you, you son of a bitch", he murmurs, before bringing the glass to his lips.
Just at that moment, there's a loud thump on the roof. A sound as if something heavy falls down on it. Dean's head shoots up, his hunter instincts switching on. Alert. What the hell could that have been? Then, a number of things happen quickly after each other. Thunder rolls, bright lightning flashes and sets the room in a pale white light for a brief second. Oh, great. Now he has to go outside in a freakin' thunderstorm. What if it's a some kind of creature that has been lurking around the cabin and is trying to attack him? He better go outside and find that thing, whatever it is, before it gets to him. He gets up. Grabs his demon knife from the pocket of his jacket.
Then, the kettle on the stove starts whistling and a high, shrill ringing sound fills the room. The glass of whiskey snaps, causing the whiskey to drip all over the table and onto the floor, and a burst appears in the window. Dean immediately covers his ears, but the sharp sound seems to intrude his skull. It goes on for what feels like ages, but it's probably only a few minutes before it fades away again. Slowly he uncovers his ears. Okay, a thump on the roof, thunder, a ringing sound, glass breaking? He's been around in this life for too long to think those are just coincidental events that have nothing to do with each other. Something supernatural is at work here. Wait…. he freezes as a realization hits him.
That sound.
He's heard that sound before. A long, long time ago, in a far, shady past. But still. He wouldn't forget that sound in a million years. It's impossible. Of course, but he can't help the fact that a whiff of hope flares up inside of him. His heart starts beating like a maniac, he feels himself getting almost dizzy with adrenaline as he walks to the door. The cold wind and snow flakes blow in his face as he opens it. He squints and peeks through his eyelashes, looking over the open spot in the woods.
He scrapes his throat and yells, at the top of his longs: "CAS!" His scream sounds hollow and muffled and seems to get lost in the wind.
"CAS!" he screams again, but there's nothing but the dark, quiet space he's staring into. The hope he felt just a few seconds ago sinks. Did he really think Cas was back just because of some thunder and a sound that reminded him of the sound his real voice had made? He feels like the biggest imbecile in the universe. "Idiot", he swears at himself.
Trying to swallow away his disappointment, he is about to close the door, when he hears it. A weak, low voice comes up only slightly above the howling wind .
"Dean".
He freezes in the doorway. A jolt shoots through his spine. For a moment he can't move or think. Slowly he turns around, staring into the dark with wide, unbelieving eyes. No…. he can't really have heard what he just heard. It's out of the question.
"Cas?!" he calls out again, his voice a bit weaker now, because his throat is literally throbbing.
"I'm here."There it was. Unmistakably. He would recognize the gravelly sound of that voice anywhere.
Dean searches the open spot panicky, and then he sees it. A fragile human shape is laying curled up in the snow about twenty meters from the cabin, black hair peeking out of the snow. No… it can't be. Dean's jaw drops almost to his toes. For a few seconds he just stands there, then he realizes he has to move, do something about his friend who's laying there in the snow in a very bad looking position.
"Stay there!" he calls back, as if there's much more he can do. "I'm coming for you!" Quickly he reaches for his coat on the hallstand behind him, leaves the door on a gap, and faces the storm head-on. Step for step, he walks against the storm. The wind is stinging in his face so hard it feels like it's biting him. Snowflakes keep landing in his eyes, and the wind cuts off his breath. Every once in a while he has to turn his head backwards in order not to choke.
It seems to be ages for he has reached Cas. But when he's there, he drops to his knees, drags him up and pulls him roughly into his arms. He feels fragile. He holds him to his chest briefly before yelling: "Come on, we have to get you inside!" He helps him up his feet, wraps an arm around him and on the way back, the wind almost blows them to the cabin.
They stumble inside, almost tripping. Dean quickly closes the door behind them. He pants and stares at his friend. His mind can't believe what his eyes are seeing. It's Cas. Bruised, hands and face covered in scratches and blood. But alive.
He grabs his coat. Drags him into a chair. "Are you hurt?" he pants.
Dean's instincts are so set on survival he does this by habit. No time for chitchat, first he has to make sure the danger is out of the way.
Especially when it concerns Cas. It's funny how after so many years, he is only reunited with him for just a minute and he immediately falls into his old role again: making sure he's okay, safe and healthy.
"Nothing permanently damaging. I think I may have a few bruised bones", Cas answers, voice distorted with pain. He feels his head. "Perhaps a slight concussion".
Dean looks at him. Hears him talk. It's as if he's never been away. It's as if he's gone back in time and Cas just got hurt on a hunt. Except that isn't the case. This is the first time in seven years he sees him.
"Cas, what the hell?" is all he can say. "What happened, how did you… how are you even here?" He's so confused.
"I fell", Cas remarks dryly.
"Yeah, I can see that", Dean says. "I mean how did you fall? How did you end up here? I don't hear from you in what, seven years, and all of a sudden you just drop down from the Heavens on my doorstep?"
"That's exactly what I did", Castiel said. He sees Dean's confused expression, and he repeats: "I fell, Dean". He says it slowly as if to spell it out for him, and it takes Dean a while to get the true meaning of what he said to get through his mind. With falling, he didn't simply mean tripling.
"You what? You mean as in 'City of Angels' jump-from-a-building-and-become-human-falling?"
"Not exactly like that", Cas answers. "It's a much more complicated process."
Dean's head is spinning. There sits his best friend, right in front of him. The one person that has been the most important to him next to Sam, the one person he has ever truly loved. He had lived with the belief he was dead for so long that his loss had become a part of him, and now, he was here. Bruised, crumpled, but here.
"So if you're not an angel anymore, how come I heard that squeaky voice of yours?"
"I was speaking out a last goodbye to my Brothers and Sisters before I, as you would put it, 'ran out of angel mojo' ", he says, indicating the brackets with his fingers. Dean nods, as if to say: of course.
"Why'd you do it?" he asks. A question that gives a direct déjà vu to a moment so many years ago, when he asked him a question about the opposite: why he had raised him from hell.
"I felt you needed me", Cas says, dropping his gaze at the table, avoiding to look him in the eye.
The comment lingers in the air between them for a moment, before Dean responds to it. The anger, all that anger he had bottled up for all that years, springs to the surface. "I needed you for seven years!" he screams. "Where were you all that time? I thought you were dead! For seven years, I've thought you were dead! And now you show your face here and you tell me you fell off your cloud for me? Screw you!"
Cas still has his eyes fixed on the table, as if he's embarrassed. May even be blushing. "I would have come to see you if I could", he explains quietly.
"What do you mean if you could?" Dean looks at his friend in horror.
"Orders from Heaven", Cas sighs. "I had business to finish in Heaven. Heaven called me. They were prepared to take me back, to forgive me for my sins. But there was one condition".
He looks at Dean with a wounded look, as if he wants Dean to understand by telling it with his eyes. But Dean is waiting. He wants an explanation.
"What condition?"
"To never see you again".
Dean doesn't know how to respond. His mouth feels dry.
"They said you were a bad influence on me. I agreed on it. I looked and you and you had Sam, Benny. I thought you didn't need me. I thought it would be for the best."
"Well you thought wrong!" Dean yells, looking at his friend in disbelief. "I always needed you", he says, softer now, feeling his eyes sting hard. Damn it, he was not going to cry.
Castiel finally looks him in the eye. Dean stares into the eyes he thought he would never stare into again, not even in his dreams. It feels like no time had passed at all.
"It wasn't easy for me, either", Castiel said, his tone getting more defensive. "Not a day went by in which I didn't think about you. I looked down on you. I made sure you were safe".
"And you couldn't have sent me, I don't know, some kind of message? You didn't hear my prayers?"
"Any form of correspondation with you would have gotten me banished out of Heaven", Castiel spoke.
Anger rises up in Dean. He turns his head away, actual tears jumping into his eyes now.
"Cas, I'm sorry. I need a minute with this. There's some clothes in the drawer, you can go change in the bathroom".
He hears Cas getting up behind him, and he hears the click of the bathroom door closing. Then he sits down on the couch and puts his head between his hands. He needs to let all this sink in. Just a few moments ago, he had still believed Cas to be dead and gone for good, never to be seen again. End of story. He couldn't live without him and never would be able to. But it had taken him this long to find a way to at least endure the pain. Now, he's in the bathroom. He shakes his head in disbelief. Just when he thought he had seen it all.
Well, he can sit here and think about it for ages, but the fact is: Cas is back. As much as it confuses him, that is a good thing. A damn good thing.
He better get him something to drink or something. Falling hundreds of meters from Heaven must make you thirsty. He gets up, finding he still has a bottle of wine in the fridge. In the drawers, stocked away all in the back, he finds two dusty glasses of wine,
When he sits down with the two filled glasses, the door of the bathroom squeaks, and Cas comes out. Dean looks up immediately. He's dressed in an old shirt of his that's a little too wide on him and old jeans with some holes in it, bare feet peeking out under it. It's weird seeing him in something else then his trench coat, but he likes it. It strangely suits him. Makes him more… human.
He takes him in from his toes to the top of his hair, as if checking him out, and he suppresses the need to whistle. "Looking groovy", he comments instead.
"Thank you", Cas says, his eyes dropping to the floor for a second, as if the attention makes him shy.
"Want a drink?" Dean gestures at the glasses of wine. "Figured you must be thirsty".
Castiel sits down next to him and gives him a studying look, as if he see look into his mind by staring at it. "I've hurt you", he establishes.
Dean looks at him, being smitten by his face every time he looks at it. He smiles at him sadly. "Yeah, Cas, you can say that".
"I'm sorry", he says, sounding genuinely remorseful. His eyes are fixed intensely on Dean, the way he'd always looked. "I was wrong to do it. At the moment, I was taken over by grief and shame for what I had done in Heaven. I didn't think properly".
Dean listens to him. Lets the pleasant rumble of his voice fill his ears.
"But I was wrong", Cas continues. "In all those years, I found out that from all of my weaknesses, I have one weakness I can never overcome. One thing I'm incapable of doing".
"And what's that?"
Castiel gives him a little smile. "Staying away from you". Dean's cheeks feel like they are on fire.
"Don't get me wrong, knowing you has brought me more problems than I would have liked. I nearly lost my mind over you. But in the end… in the end being on earth, fighting at your side, is where I always felt at home". He looks at Dean nervously, as if afraid of his reaction.
"So I fell".
Dean feels his jaw drop again, and he realizes he has fallen into his old pattern of eye-fucking the man again in no-time. But give him a break, he hasn't seen him in forever. He's allowed to stare, damn it. "So: the other angels?" he asks. "Heaven, Paradise… you gave all of that up?"
"Yes".
"You won't miss it?"
"I can handle it", Cas says. His jaw set, his voice determined.
The idea that Cas missed him makes his heart beat faster and the blood rush to his face. He just looks at him, and for a moment, he sees himself. He sees his own pain, his own tiredness reflected in Cas's eyes. There sits a man who is broken, a man that is done for, a man that has lost the thing that was most important to him and can only be whole again by finding that thing that broke him in the first place. It's as if staring into a mirror, and by looking at Cas he can now see the huge fool he has been all this time.
He isn't able to say anything. So instead, he just lets his actions speak for him. Goes with his most primal instincts. Their mouths meet in a crash, stubble grating.
From there, it's all a confused blur of tugging at clothes and mad hormones he never even knew he possessed. The blood is pumping in his ears.
"I uhm, I never had sex with a dude before", Dean murmurs.
Cas cups his face with his hand. "It's okay Dean", he says. "I trust you".
His lips are on his lips again, and his hands are on his hips again, moving up to the beautiful flatness of his stomach. It's different to have a manly and broad body beneath him, instead of a round and fragile female body, but it's a nice difference. He lets his instinct lead the way.
After what could have been minutes or hours, Dean rolls on his back, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry that... took me some time", he murmurs.
Shaking his head, Cas says: "I'm the one who should apologize."
"You're forgiven. Just promise me one thing", Dean says. "What?"
Dean gives him a hard look. "Don't ever leave again. If you're staying, that means you're staying. With me, here, on earth. Get it? Never leave".
Cas promises.
Outside, while the storm rages on, they drift away into a dreamless sleep. Their bodies already feel so familiar with each other it's like everything that ever happened between them that's unspoken is put to rest in their embrace.
The next morning, the ground is covered in a thick blanket of snow. At the edge of the woods, that borders on a toll road, is a tollbooth. Inside of it sits a man, doing his early morning shift. He blows in his damping cup of coffee, while staring out the window. It's still early, so the road is very quiet. So quiet he can almost hear the birds chirping if he listens really hard. He's bored, but he's enjoying the view. Then he sees two men coming out of the woods. A butch, broad-shouldered one and a more fragile one. The butch one has his arm wrapped around the fragile one, and gives him a droopy smile. He leans forward to get a better look at them. The butch guy takes the coat of the other man in his hands and zips it all the way up, fumbling with the collars, making sure he's warm and wrapped up. It's such a kind and caring gesture he almost feels like a voyeur. Well, at least they must have had it warm and cozy tonight, he thinks, and he takes a sip of his coffee.
Merry Christmas.