Disclaimer:
Dean, Castiel, Sam and Co. belong to Kripke and his associates.
The very much unholy rewriting of Barachiel and Selaphiel is all mine.
This was written for the 2009 Renegade Angels Exchange on the Dean/Castiel community over at LJ.
* * *
I. A Customary Fever
It begins, as many things do in Dean Winchester's life since his sojourn into the incarnadine depths of Hell, in dreams.
He is still in the hospital that first night, hopped up on drugs and painkillers, keepsakes of the interrogation that had gone south. He hurts all over, but it is not the ache of bones broken and flesh blossoming riotous puce and perse. Rather, it is – it is – and anger sets in and burns all to fuliginous soot and he evades his thoughts – it is nothing. In bed, he keeps his eyes closed, and hopes to fall, heavy and insensate.
He drifts off to sleep a few minutes before ten, but the last images that twist languidly before his shut eyes are not those of backhands and punches like caresses, are not of Alistair and marking and defiling, are not even of nurses and short white dresses and inappropriate bed care. He thinks of colors – soft grey and fierce argent - and he thinks of an angel's shame and silence, their breaths keeping time, filling his hospital room, and broken only by the hitch and murmur of his own tears.
*
He finds himself in a library, which is in itself a brand of fucking weird that should have alerted him to the fact that all is not well. He is alone, and the library is cavernous and a yawning mouth of books and books and books, and he walks slowly, not looking at the shelves because hell, he is not Sammy, and cannot get off on knowledge and geekry or whatever the right form of the adjective would be. The library is quiet, the kind of stillness that turns on itself as the air echoes and hums, and it is really more of a forest than a library, everything alive, and breathing, and waiting. There is sunlight, unadulterated liquid aurulent that soaks the room and pools in the crevices of his elbows and eyelids, that whispers against his skin. And he swears he really hears voices, the reedy whispers that swell around him, and it is a language he feels he could know, but he doesn't, not yet.
He is soon jumpy, and pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, for a lack of something fruitful to do. This is a dream, he knows, but he wonders if it is his, because the air is charged with a power that falls heavy in his heart, that settles, warm and humming and pleased, and he stands no chance against it. He is unnerved, but yet, against all his hunter's instincts, not afraid. He takes slow steps, following his feet, one before the other, and then, again, as though they read a map in this ground of moss and fern – is he truly in a forest?
He wanders around, experimentally looking away from the shelves and then back again, waiting for copies of Busty Asian Beauties that he knows must be there. The books shift every time his gaze falls on them, fade into the grain of the shelves and then rematerialize, their spines ghostly against dust motes and the fiery tails of fragmented sunlight, as though they are half-hearted about being here, as though they have somewhere else better to be. He stares at them, and against reason, scowls deeply, taking offense at their incorporeality, and at this dream that is beginning to freaking suck. He reaches out, tentative fingers to brush cloth jackets and leather bindings, and then rests two digits against a bottle-emerald volume, watching as it flickers once, and then twice, before solidifying, like an animal tamed. He grins, vaguely triumphant, the book patient and pliant beneath his fingers, and draws it from its bracket, turning it over in his hands, the weight reassuring, and warm.
"Dean".
He startles, and curses, and almost drops the book. He follows Castiel's voice – for only the angel can sound his name like a statement and a declaration both, and never, never a question – to a huge tree just beyond the last bookshelf in his vision – a giant of bark and moss and leaf. Castiel is high up in the tree, his tan coat folded over a branch, and his white dress shirt pulled messily from his trousers. Dean stares, his throat suddenly dry at the sight of this Castiel so … unguarded, and only looks away when the angel pushes off against the trunk, the straight line of his body, and the careless white of his shirt, majestic and blinding as he falls freely through air. Castiel lands quietly, a thump that Dean feels rather than hears, and he is once again reminded sharply that the man before him is no man at all. He drops his eyes to the book he holds, still, within his hands, and wishes to wake up.
Unthinkingly, he offers the volume to Castiel, but the angel's palm closes over his wrist instead, and pulls, urgently. He looks up, hesitates, and jerks away, two seconds too late, his racing heart seemingly unwilling to keep pace with his head.
"Dean, why … how are you here?"
It's my dream, Cas, he begins to say, sarcasm like a reflex, but the world around him spins, and the book pitches from his hands. He stares as the viridian dissolves into the saffron and brown of the waiting forest floor, and shuts his eyes as more colors begin to blend and bleed around him.
No, Dean, it is not, he hears - in his head, he thinks – words accompanied by the blaze of impossible azure, an angel's shock and the last thing that he sees, and then he wakes up, to a full bladder and Sammy's low snores, late at night in a hospital finally lulled by the somnolent silver of the moon.
*
It would be four days later before he is successfully discharged from the hospital, if to nobody's satisfaction but his own.
Sam wakes up that first night to find him halfway across the room, an apparition attached still to tubes and drips, eyes unrecognizable murky depths, glazed over from the effort to remain upright. He does not protest, much, when his brother leads him back to the bed, and turns away once Sam has embalmed him in blankets, afraid of the dregs that he knows would wash up under Sam's scrutiny.
The next two days he spends complaining, lobbing pieces of limpid vegetables at his brother as he argues his health. Sammy watches him a little too carefully, eyes a little too wide, and he makes up for the tension by bitching about the hospital food, and comparing it to the merits of pie. He tries not to think of his not-dream, or why it stays with him, curled up against his spine, a secret itch that he cannot scratch.
On the third night, after all his earlier wheedling fail, he pulls the Older Brother card, and even though Sam rolls his eyes and calls him a jerk, he leaves to talk to the doctor anyway.
He dreams again that night, and like before, he is not alone in it.
*
It is drizzling when they leave the hospital the next morning, and he waits by the sliding entrance as Sam charges his bills to a Mr. Wotton, an inside joke that Sammy finds hilarious but refuses to explain. He watches his own reflection in the glass door, his right eye in mottled hues of chartreuse and ochre, discolored flesh that is stark against the ropes of raw scarlet on his neck, the outline of Alistair's curling fingers still vaguely visible.
There had been flowers last night in that forest, and they were red too - a vermilion that seethes and flares, and a coil of curiosity had wound tight within Dean as he studied a petal, the very force of his emotions causing Castiel to turn away, fingers clenched into a fist where Dean could not see them. Castiel had explained, with somber eyes that Dean could not hold, that the forest is a projection of his consciousness, his essence, but had offered no reason for Dean Winchester's apparently innate ability to sleepwalk into an angel's head.
The flowers, unapologetic in their grandeur, had been on the tree – Castiel's tree, and with a thrill of something he could put no name to, Dean had understood that everything in that world was Castiel's. And naturally it figures that the angel would be a bibliophile, here in this mind-forest that sings with its own concealed energy, surrounded by books and nothing else. Castiel had been waiting for, or at the very least, anticipated, his presence last night, for he was once again in his coat, neat and unblinking, and Dean had not – could not – ask if his intrusion was unwelcomed. It isn't as though he wants to play house with the angel, he had contemplated mulishly, and he sure as hell does not need any additional angel mojo in his life, or his sleep.
"I did not bring you here, Dean," Castiel had said, quiet and patient, gazing off into the middle distance, as though he knew just how much it would cost Dean to have to look into those still blue depths, here, now, in this place that makes unmistakable their bond, and the trust that Dean is incapable of admitting to himself.
"Then who, Cas? Because this shit right here," he had gestured, widely, his arms passing through the vaporous outlines of tomes, and they shimmered, reproachfully, "this shit is messed up."
Castiel had focused his gaze on him then, without even blinking, and it had been like turning on search beams, but with the effect of casting one further out to sea.
"I am sorry this state of events causes you such distress."
And damn if he had not felt guilty immediately, at that slightest inflection of hurt in Castiel's voice, no more noticeable than the hitch of a breath.
"No, Cas, I …," he had begun to protest, and then, incredulously and almost accusingly, "I'm in your head, for God's sake! You cannot tell me it does not creep you out!"
"It does not frighten me, Dean, if that is what you meant to ask. But yes, it is uncomfortable … to be seen thus."
A beat, and then two, and Dean had cleared his throat to mutter, "Must be something that sick shit Alistair pulled. Should have ganked him when I had the chance."
"Alistair is indeed a being of infernal design," and the words fall over themselves, suddenly graceless, and Dean senses an apology in them, an apology for his numerous aches, for his broken flesh, and the welling of blood beneath the skin that cannot be seen. He holds Castiel's eye, unflinching, and there is a warning – dismissal - forgiveness that had been given before it could even be asked.
The crease between Castiel's eyes smoothes out, and he continues, his voice deceptively even.
"But this … this is my head, Dean, as you have put it. It isn't accessible to anyone, of any order or authority."
"Then how do you explain this," an emphatic jab to indicate himself, "me, us, whatever?"
Castiel had turned steady eyes to him then, but the surface of those mazarine pools had rippled, Dean's words like stones skipping across them, and he had reached forward silently, pressing a warm open palm against the mark on Dean's shoulder, a keepsake of angelic grace that he has taken to wear hidden. Dean had stared back as the fingers murmured against the fabric of his tee shirt to fit into grooves unseen, turning a lock, deciphering a code.
Castiel's lips moved, and Dean had watched them helplessly as the forest began to spin again, stealing the angel's voice into glistening sage and emeralds. He had woken up then, fingers clenched in blanket, still watching Castiel's grave face, still hearing the words that had made no sound.
*
Sam and he check out of the hospital and into a nondescript motel, another in their long chain of seedy, fleeting homes. He pretends not to notice that this motel is cleaner, that the bulbs are where they should be, that they come on willingly at the flip of the switch, that the blankets are heavy, and warm, and without the stains that keep him up on good nights entertaining phantom itches.
He bitches a little less heartily as Sam helps him into bed, lays off the crotchety speech about being treated like an invalid, and even allows his baby brother to toss him the remote control and the television guide for pay-per-view once he is tucked in. Sam is, has been, frightened and Dean knows it – the younger Winchester had not been too concerned with volume when he had ripped into Castiel in the hospital – and it is a fear that Dean understands only too well.
They hide out for three days, and in that period, he does not hear from the angel – not when awake, and not in his sleep. He tries not to think of it, and believes himself successful.
*
On the fourth morning, he wakes up Dean Smith, herbal tea drinker extraordinaire. In that world, he meets Castiel Sera, an executive in the position above his, working for a Mr. Michaels, whose office Mr. Adler slyly tells him he ought to covet. He meets Castiel on numerous occasions - in board meetings, and in crowded elevators in which they are forced, once, to stand face-to-face in the hum of electrical mechanism and murmured conversations.
Castiel stares, always, an unreadable cerulean that Dean knows should bother him, but causes heat to blossom under his skin instead, greedy open petals, such that in meetings, he has to tap his pen against his notes and look down, unreasonably entranced by its staccato rhythm, or pull out his cell in stifling elevators and set unimportant reminders for himself. He does not know why his body behaves that way in Castiel's presence, but truth be told, he does not particularly resent that burn of heat. There is something familiar in its design, and in that elevator that morning, he had stared back, with a challenging fervor to match Castiel's, and had felt as though he was remembering something only to forget himself.
He sees Castiel in hallways, sometimes distracted, sometimes focused, but his eyes are always that hue of faded cobalt, as though the light had gone out in them, as though he is lost in this place.
He once happens upon Castiel with Mr. Adler, the slighter man's head bowed as he receives what looks unmistakably like reprimands, and something hot, something primal, had flared in Dean Smith's stomach, and he had not known what to do with it.
It is then of no surprise that he should be alarmed when he dreams of Castiel Sera two nights later, just when things with Sam Wesson are starting to become that kind of a sticky mess that pulls and tears. He finds himself stranded in a forest of books, the air discordant with the call of insects and the lone trill of a songbird, a keening that sounds borne of distress that cannot be concealed. The dream had been short – in it, Castiel had reached to grip his shoulder, and it had flared, almost an unbearable scorch that had made him gasp aloud.
"Dean, wake up," the other man had said, low, urgent, fierce.
And he had, although, as he contemplated in bed and in the gathering dark broken only by the red digits of his bedside clock, it might not have been what Castiel Sera meant.
*
On that evening that he discovers ghosts are real and vulnerable to salt-and-burns, he is sitting in his office when Castiel enters with an inter-department document that he has neglected to cross sign. With blood that had stirred and quickened in his veins, and a pulse that had drummed with the ferocity of life, with the giddiness of being alive after his close encounter with Death, he had reached out almost instinctively to grab Castiel's wrist as he turns to leave, and had kissed him open-mouthed before logic can descend, the fire under his flesh pulling the floor out from beneath him. Castiel had been still, too still, and then, in all madness, he had kissed back, hard and soft, and too brief.
"Wake up, Dean," he had said, and it had been like déjà vu, but there is distinct sadness in the corporeal curl of his lip, hesitation in the brush of knuckles against his cheek, and then Castiel had pulled away, and left.
In the amber glow of dusk the next evening, Dean Smith says no to the promotion he has been told to desire, and wakes up Dean Winchester, with memories he isn't sure he wants, and feelings too fiercely substantial to idle, repressed, in dreamscapes.
*
The next time he sees another angel, it isn't Castiel.
He had been returning to his car with takeaway when he notices her, and frankly, it would have taken a coma for him to not register her presence.
She is leaning up against his Impala, and looks oddly at home despite her pair of low-slung grey jeans and lavender blouse. He notices immediately that she draws every male, and then some female, gaze in the parking lot, her wandering eye dismissively careless and almost bored. She fixes him with a smile when he approaches, and he smiles back easily even as he frees his right hand, his mind on the pure silver blade tucked low against his ankle.
"You have a beautiful car, a '65 Chevy?"
"'67," another smile, all teeth and false charm, and he stands just to her side, closer to the boot of weapons.
"Well, it is lovely," she says, fluttering fingers against the exterior of his pride and joy, "I've not seen lovelier."
She is smiling at him, her eyes – a shade of pale grey-indigo, the irises of wolves – burn, steadily, and he is careful to look away, to save himself the trouble of being ensocerelled.
He is bold, perhaps tired of playing whatever fey game of enchantment and flirting that she seems to have in mind, says - "But you are not here to talk about my car, are you?"
She startles, and for a second, her face hardens, but then she laughs, heartily, and the heaviness that pushes at him in the air disappears.
"My, it seems my brother is right about you after all, Dean Winchester."
He keeps a wary eye on her, does not really hear what she says, and moves casually closer to the boot.
"Tell me, how did you know? Is my appearance not fetching enough?"
She inclines her head, and her black hair sweeps forward over a shoulder, and her question is not the leer Dean had expected. Instead, it is genuinely curious, as though this is all a game, or a learning experience to her.
"Sure, it is fetching," he shrugs impudently, "but waiting for me, and against my car, and with that glamour? Is this your first gig, witch?"
She frowns at his words, and then, incredulously, asks, "Is that your attempt at an insult, or do you seriously think me a witch, Dean?"
He matches her stare, and then lunges the remaining distance towards the Impala's trunk, and she rolls her eyes.
"Whatever arsenal you have in your car can do me no harm, Dean Winchester, and I am no witch."
"Oh yeah?"
He pops the trunk regardless, and reaches, unseeing and with familiar fingers, for the vial of holy water tucked in the corner – "What are you then, demon, changeling, some wee beastie?"
"You are truly an enigma, Dean – bright, but so hopelessly dense at the same time," she pauses, and looks pointedly at Dean's hand holding the holy water behind his back, "and I would warn you not to throw that liquid on me, either. It would just be using my Father's name in vain, and I do not much appreciate soiling these clothes."
Dean hesitates, ruminates for a moment upon those words, and it seems a moment too long for his partner, for she begins to laugh softly under her breath, as though his delayed reaction validates her opinion of him as dim.
"You – your Father's name – you are an angel."
"Bravo, Dean," a wide grin, in turns mocking and amused.
But if the angel had expected Dean to quail under this sudden realization, she is mistaken, for he draws himself up and higher, his green eyes blistering with challenge and distrust.
Her laughter ebbs away, and she studies him quietly, and in that moment, understands the hold he wields over her brother, that command of loyalty that is much like the pull and burn of something sticky and inevitable.
"I am not here to involve myself in your affairs, Dean – I merely wish to know where Castiel is."
Her words are greeted by confusion on the hunter's part, and she judges it to be sincere. However, his eyes cloud over a few seconds later, muddied smaragdine as he closes himself off, in protection of Castiel, and in protection of a secret she cannot lift from his head.
"And you are asking me? What not ask your superior? He is the one with the power to lay the whammy on people."
"Zachariah?" she laughs, amused but derisive, "he is not my superior."
He blinks slowly at this admission of great power within the angelic hierarchy, but to give him his due, he does not flinch from her, and belatedly, she realizes she is pleased – pleased that this human, this child that Castiel has chosen to lay aside so much for, is in his own way worth the esteem.
"Castiel has not returned to the garrison since the night of Uriel's betrayal, the night you took the blade to Alistair, and failed."
A flicker passes through Dean's face, quicker than a sleight of hand, and then it is gone, and his expression is passive once again.
"He was there in that world Zachariah conjured – he was carrying out his angelic duties still," the words are guarded, and in them she hears a defense of Castiel's honor, of his name, and of his safety.
"It is not his duties we fear he has neglected, Dean Winchester, it is himself."
The hunter does not speak, just crosses his arms in front of his body, and she understands it as dismissal.
"Tell Castiel – tell him that his sister Barachiel wants him home – and tell him that when the other angels notice his absence, they would not be as kind."
Her words are regretful, and the expression in her indigo eyes is suddenly wise, and old, and sad, and Dean swallows around the lump in his throat, and nods tersely.
"And Dean Winchester – release my brother if you do not mean to return his … regards."
Dean blinks, and when his eyes refocus again, a fraction of a millisecond, he is alone in the parking lot, with nothing more than just his takeaway, now greasy and old, and his thoughts, tumultuous and discordant.
*
He searches Castiel out actively for days, and then weeks, after that.
He stands still in silent rooms, listens carefully in noisy ones, always expecting to hear the rustle of air that announces the angel's presence. On nights before he falls asleep, he thinks hard of that book-forest, recaptures its colors of brown wood and verdant growth, hums its quiet rush and throb of life, and of thought.
His efforts are all futile, and exasperation gives way to frustration, and soon, frustration to worry as the days wear by.
*
The elusive angel finally makes his appearance nearly two weeks later, gravelly voice reproachful as he warns Dean off the unlikely prophet. Dean spends the duration of his visit, the moments in which he is not cursing Chuck out, inclined against the wall, glaring at Castiel as the angel carefully keeps his face averted.
The first few minutes are particularly frustrating, as Castiel pays almost undue attention to those ludicrous books he calls the Winchester Gospels, head bowed and eyes, too wet and too blue in the dim of Chuck's home, cut away from Dean. Eventually, Dean's patience runs out, and his blood rages warm, and even before he can consider the wisdom of his actions, he is thinking, hard, and pushing those words outwards, into the space of quiet, echoing energy that he now knows is Castiel's mind. He knows he is heard when Castiel's shoulders stiffen, but then the angel continues to thumb those damn novels, his voice steady, eager even, as he praises the prophet for his work.
Where the hell have you been?
He projects again, his words now almost a shout, the worry that Barachiel has set loose on him two weeks ago finally succeeding in gnawing a hole through to his nerves.
Around, Dean, I have other duties, I cannot …
Castiel's voice, spoken in Dean's head, reverberates and settles, liquid vowels viscous and fluid, and Dean shudders with something not unlike pleasure, and masks his discomfort with easy wrath.
Perch on my shoulder, yes, I know, don't you feed me that line. I know you haven't returned to your garrison, in heaven or wherever – your sister has been here looking for you.
The angel's shock slams into Dean and knocks him breathless, and he clenches his fist, biting back the gasp that nearly spills from him, even as Chuck turns to study him curiously, before prattling on about his craft, and the difficulty of writing, and the conflict of art and social responsibility.
Sister – Jophiel, Selaphiel – hurt – were you hurt, Dean?
Castiel's anxiety twists messily through Dean's own consciousness, and he does not even have time to be smug that the angel is finally looking directly at him, just wants – needs – to assuage those fears that he can no longer tell apart from his own.
No – no – we – we have to talk, Cas.
Castiel nods, an imperceptible movement, and they hold each other's eye above Chuck's oblivious head, and Dean can still see the frayed ends of fear and guilt and worry in the angel's outwardly passive face, and almost wishes he is blind to it.
*
In the end, Sam, and Lilith, gets in between, and it is four in the morning, and in the hold of sleep, that they finally talk.
The first thing that Dean says is thank you, for Castiel's involvement earlier in the night, and his angel – and he is now loath to deny otherwise – smiles. The forest pulses steadily, its heartbeat almost a merry call, as though welcoming Dean back after his long absence. He raises an eyebrow at Castiel, still brave and intoxicated on their mutual good humor, and a smatter of red heats Castiel's cheeks, and Dean, in between the sudden stone in his throat and the song in his heart, laughs.
They stare at each other for a few seconds, all of which Dean spends pretending he isn't recalling the feel of Castiel's lips on his – on Dean Smith's – own. Finally, embarrassed, he looks away first, and heads towards the bench, a new addition, under Castiel's gigantic tree. He takes a seat and leans back, and on his right, Castiel perches on the other end, and it is almost déjà vu once again.
When Dean speaks again, his voice is raspy, and he coughs, not wanting Castiel to think it is because he is being a girl or anything over their decidedly chick flick moment. Castiel's lips twitch at the fake cough, and Dean pretends to not have seen it, reddening just a little, a slow scald that begins from his ears.
"What's going on, Cas?"
He means why have you not gone back to your garrison – are you in trouble with those feathered dicks – should I be more worried than I already am – but this gruff summary of a query appears to work just as nicely, as Castiel tilts his head at him, his aquamarine eyes lucid and just a little too bright.
"You've met another of the garrison."
It is not a question Castiel asks, but a statement, spoken without inflection, without seeming care.
"Yes, Barachiel, and she is a babe, man, why didn't you tell me – "
Dean breaks off, uncomfortable, having fallen unthinkingly into the routine of back-slapping only to belatedly realize it is hardly appropriate after the moment he has just shared with the angel, or really what he wants to say in this moment.
He clears his throat, and starts over.
"Right, Barachiel, bossy kind of angel," he informs Castiel, pauses, and then adds, both because he cannot help it, and because damn he's Dean Winchester and it is what he does, and he's not going to pretend otherwise, "but a babe."
Castiel just glows at him, all white heat and white light in his unspeaking stare, and Dean can hardly tell if he is amused, or irritated, or both.
"Yes, Barachiel has a fine eye for aesthetics, and her form, even by angelic considerations, is decidedly comely."
Dean can think of at least three jokes he wants to make with "comely", but yet, what comes out of his mouth is neither crude nor funny, just embarrassing.
"You are not so bad yourself, Cas," he says, quicker than thought, and then mentally slaps himself when the angel stares at him, the white glow even fiercer, but concentrated now, making Dean want to blink, or purr in delight, or moan, or a combination of all three. Really, he does not know where his words are coming from, but he suspects it is the same place that dispenses liquid heat liberally through his body at every small gesture Castiel makes, every concession of faith, and trust, and blind love that the angel doesn't even hide.
Under the duress of pain, he might be compelled to admit that he had known he cares for Castiel – in a way that isn't fear, nor the way he loves Sammy – even before the first night he had wandered into Castiel's head, and wanted to linger, always, with Castiel's hand flush against the mark that makes Dean his. Zachariah's little mind-fuck, not that Dean would ever concede this, had been more helpful than not – Dean Smith, unlike Dean Winchester, had known no reason not to take what he had wanted, and the taste of Castiel, in this world or the next or any that he does not yet know, had been right, and it had been all the reassurance he had needed.
"And Barachiel's left you with a message."
Again with the not-questions, although Castiel has now shifted closer, knowingly or not, to Dean, and the hunter swallows, and quickly plunges on before his throat runs dry with anticipation.
"She wants you to return to the garrison – and some warning of how your absence is starting to be noticed, and how your other – ah – siblings might not take as kindly to the realization."
Castiel flinches away at the mention of the other angels, but it is not the startle and jerk of fear, but the sharp recoil of shame, and Dean is reminded of the same shame he had felt in the past, when he had, in some way or another, failed John.
"What is going on, Cas?" he asks again, but more certain this time that mayhem is afoot, "has something happened to bar you from returning up there?"
"I can't return, Dean," the angel finally says, looking away, "not like this."
Frustrated, Dean reaches out to grasp at bowed shoulders, but Castiel deftly side-steps him to stand, away from their shared bench, and something like hurt flares briefly through him.
"What the hell are you hiding, Cas? Is this because of Uriel? Are the other angels on your case because of that murdering, traitorous … "
"Dean, stop. You will not – do not speak of Uriel in that manner."
The words are bitten off, and angry, and Dean knows he is right, that this mess is somehow Uriel's making, and he opens his mouth to retort, but Castiel cuts him off.
"You would not hear a word against Sam, and I will not stand to have my brother slandered."
Dean glowers, and Castiel knows he thinks Uriel unworthy of regret, of mourning, and he has not the heart to correct him. And how does an angel speak of doubt, of shame over uncertainty, when the reason for his independence, for his unwise sympathies for his fallen brother, is one whom he would not blame, could not turn away from, could not not want?
Dean stares up into his resolute face, and Castiel sees anger and hurt in the celadon of the hunter's gaze, in the furious lock of his jaw, and watches as he jumps up and stalks away, back towards the numerous book shelves. He is suddenly heartsick, unhappiness that affects this material projection of his grace, his essence, and the tree loses leaves in a shower of gold and yellows.
"Dean," he tries again, and the name echoes in his head – Dean, Dean, Dean – as he reaches out to grab a wrist, to pull back as he had been pulled back in an office weeks ago, in another life now. The hunter stumbles backwards and curses, but Castiel seals his lips over those words, swallow them whole, desperately, offering an unspoken apology of his own. Dean does not hesitate then, and his kisses are certain, and Castiel allows his tongue entry, welcomes it with wet heat and gentle teeth, and when they pull apart, leans forward to press a shaking breath against the side of Dean's mouth, brushing two fingers against his forehead to wake him up, send him away from harm.
Dean's absence immediately accentuates the distant billow of wings and tumult of angelic voices, all seeking entry, and Castiel sets his jaw, and tries to decide on a course of action.
The next day, he returns to the garrison, but discovers his superiors' plans for the apocalypse, for Sam Winchester, for his Dean, and he hears, in the pounding of his heart, fiercer than it had for millennia, the choice he had perhaps always known he would make.
* * *
End - Part 1