Castiel has been sullenly and silently kissing cigarette filters for the better part of the evening. A chipped mug with only jagged stumps remaining in lieu of a handle sits nestled between his thighs, a crudely drawn devil printed on the ceramic proclaiming the owner a 'sexy devil'; and Dean would allow himself a derisive snort, but doesn't think Cas would appreciate the reminder of his lingering presence; content to wallow in his stifling, solitary atmosphere.
Dean feels like he's been blowing on sparks and damp kindling for months; where Cas was once upon a time fire and passion and all-consuming possession, it's all but burned out, and Dean's left to attempt a fumbling revival while Cas watches on, disinterested; vague and distant in a way that drains the sea water and storms from his eyes.
Their bathroom cabinet had been a study in unaddressed emotional decline; collection of half-abandoned medication treating ambiguous symptoms that Cas doesn't care to discuss, eyes rimmed in twilight and charcoal saying, 'It's not important, Dean'. But theirs has been a family plagued by misfortune and Dean would like to credit himself with recognising the signs. Cas, dedicating hours to cataloguing the changing colours of the sky from their living room window, lighting cigarette off of cigarette; Cas, restless in their bed, coveting the AM hours of the morning to twist bone-white knuckles in bed sheets and stare into the shadows like they owe him an explanation for this. Scratching at the pale skin of his wrists, head hanging, eyes unfocused and glassy as Dean offers brief anecdotes from his day in the office, allowing stretching silences for Cas to intervene should he feel the need to contribute. Eventually, those very same silences consumed and grew until there was no conversation left; just two people sitting over a kitchen table and a clock dutifully ticking out the moments it took for Cas to fall out of love.
Before the move, Dean had been spending hours at the agency, pouring every last ounce of waning enthusiasm into passive aggressive phone calls and pages and pages of repetitive paperwork, the vague notion of promotion and the very concept of 'free time' just out of reach. He would, under duress, figure himself relatively popular among his co-workers; he'd never before considered himself a 'lonely' person. But living with Cas felt like living in a void, sharing a space with a silent shadow, an emphasis on a growing familiarity with isolation. Asking questions to an empty room, tip-toeing around the black holes pin-wheeling in Cas' eyes.
A specific occasion springs to mind.
An after-work party stretching into the small hours of the morning, celebrating some deal or other sealed over a phone call through which autopilot Dean bullied and manipulated his way with a client, channelling weeks of pent-up frustration into an unstoppable force of verbal persuasion. And he's the man of the hour, faceless handshakes and bleating voices of congratulations; a missed call from Sam flashing bright on his phone screen.
Two.
Three.
He's killing the power and shoving the familial leash into his pocket, craving a few hours free of the stress interacting with Cas seems to inspire in him these days. And he has no doubt Sam's increasingly frequent calls can be sourced back to Cas; inevitably seething and sour and using Sam as the eloquent diplomat to their self-contained cold war.
He's just barely reconsidering calling his brother back, or skipping the middle man all together and enduring Cas specific brand of ruthless cold shoulder directly; but there's a hand on his shoulder, delicate fingers and manicured nails, a wave of chestnut silk swept into view, the sharp smell of incense, the high, forced laugh of a woman of intention. Bella's got jewels glittering around the tall, pale column of her throat, a harsh glint in her eye he's not sure isn't purely natural.
Delicately combing a few stray strands behind her ear, she's saying, 'The SucroCorp deal, darling. Big fish', a British lilt elongating her vowels, slurring her r's. Tracing a lacquered nail absent-mindedly across the harsh geometry of her collarbone, her eyes scan the bar, 'Big Boss Man must be so proud', and Dean's following her gaze through stranger's silhouettes and designer cigarette smoke, Zachariah Adler perched on a stool, bug-eyed and glassy, a smug curl to his lips; catching Dean's eye and raising a glass in congratulations. Dean's offering a lazy two-finger salute in response, mumbling, 'What now?' and Bella's demonstrating that high-pitched, tinkling-bell laugh again, demurely hiding the gesture behind her fingertips.
'A well-deserved promotion, I'd imagine,' reaching for a tumbler of glittering amber liquid, eyes unfocused and narrowed, 'Dick Roman has been nothing if not a pain in my arse throughout this harrowing ordeal,' Kohl-rimmed eyes rolling exaggeratedly, glossy lips curling around the rim of her glass, Dean's shrugging non-committally, thoughts fuzzy, an ethanol fog seeping into his brain, his vision vignetting; but Bella's speaking again, fingernails tap-tapping against the glass cradled in her hands, 'A relocation to the big city,' she continues, and as always, her observational awareness proves on point, eyes swiftly shifting sideways to take in the way Dean deflates ever-so-slightly at the prospect, eyes falling to the scarred linoleum floor, cataloguing stains and scratches like the process of documenting will remove him from Bella's lazer-sharp focus, or the suggestion she frames so innocently, but fuels with so much cynicism, 'Perhaps a change is in order'.
It's a blatant reference to Castiel, who she'd encountered only briefly at some office gathering, watching intensely, thoroughly enthused as he and Dean had waged a whisper war in a secluded hallway, Cas storming out enraged immediately after, leaving Dean awkwardly deflecting questions as to his whereabouts for the rest of the evening.
Dean doesn't miss the thinly veiled suggestion, takes offence on Cas' behalf and struggles to summon the energy to glare her direction, toxic eyes momentarily illuminated by something fiercely protective and hugely misplaced. 'Cas hasn't been well lately,' and it sounds feeble and uninformed to his own ears, a man who built his career on the foundation of his persuasive prowess finds his own argument falling flat, Bella offering him a sympathetic look, something unpractised and awkward across the angles of her face. 'Oh,' she's stating simply, gazing into the middle distance, corners of her pretty mouth pulling down in the unspoken argument.
Dean arrives home in the still dark hours of morning, cloying scent of cigarette ash and jasmine clinging to clammy skin; eyes glazed, pupils blown wide and dark. He's awkwardly checking his phone to avoid eye contact with the rumpled silhouette of Cas curled unmoving in the corner of the sofa, paperback parapets flanking him on all sides, his last-minute defence efforts in the face of the oncoming verbal assault. He's wide awake, has been for days; modelling the sharp, hollowed look of someone growing intensely bored with themselves. His eyes are blue electricity and dry anger; he's saying, feigning disinterest, 'I tried calling you earlier,' stubbing out another cigarette, voice like gravel and broken glass, 'I didn't realise you were staying out late'.
Dean's sitting down slowly, wary of spooking a cornered animal, speaking slow and calm and entirely condescending, but Cas' attentions are wrapped up in trembling hands and dime store lighters.
'Everything okay, Cas?'.
No response but for the incredulous widening of eyes and tilt of his head, the unspoken 'of course fucking not' clearly spelled out on the lines of tension keeping his body quaking. Slamming the Zippo against the tarnished wooden coffee table, the no man's land of this encounter, Cas is channelling shades of his former self tonight.
'You should have called,' he's saying simply, scratching fingers through already dishevelled hair.
Dean thinks maybe if they were normal he'd offer up some joke about jealous house wife syndrome, but Cas is thoroughly uninterested in the cavalier charade; crumbles it with a glacial stare. Dean watching Cas watching Dean and silence reigns while the clock hanging accusingly over the kitchen table supervises proceedings with a condemning tick-tock anthem.
Dean, these days, isn't afforded many opportunities to study Cas; he's too jittery, constant motion, a shark circling. His eyes closed, head tilted back, arm thrown over the back of the sofa, cigarette spilling swirls and spirals and angelic halos around his head. His skin is tight and pale, agitated around his eyes, ('Medicinal side effects, Dean. I'm fine. Really). Eyelashes like elaborate black lace, long and delicate and emphasising the waning colour in his cheeks. A smile curls the corner of his mouth, like he's reached a self-satisfying conclusion, an answer for whatever private truths plague him in the early hours of the morning.
'I'm not going to argue with you tonight, Dean,' he's saying, one last puff of his cigarette before stubbing it out on a hardback copy of the bible, coffee ring stains blooming sepia-toned flowers across the material. He's removing himself from his corduroy throne, shambling his way towards the bedroom, throwing a meaningful glance over his shoulder, ice skies lost in the harsh shadow of the hallway. All that white marble skin, the geometric intricacy the bare bulb paints across his face; modern art boasting strict instructions to please, do not handle.
This piece is delicate.
And Dean's trying not to focus on why Cas insists on punctuating each sentence with the formal pronouncement of his name, a constant desire for reassurance that they are, in fact, speaking face to face, that this thing festering between them has yet to destroy them. That for now, they continue to exist in each other's space.
Later, Dean pretends to be asleep when Cas extracts himself from between their sweat-stained bed sheets, watches him fumble through their clothing flung about the room, hanging from cupboard doors, curtain rails and ceiling fans like wild vines. He's counting the notches of his spine, throwing brutal shadows like dinosaur spines across his back. There's poppy coloured bruises blossoming along his shoulder blades, visible like inky fingerprints in the dark; evidence of a deeply subconscious desire for possession that Cas inspires in him these nights when he climbs into his lap in the dark, licking at his jaw line until the hair's breadth between love and violence is rubbed raw and blurred; Cas' mouth a startling scarlet stain in the gloom, working shiny and spit-slick, singing praise for Dean's calloused hands, a harsher touch; sinking teeth into the skin of Cas' neck.
And maybe Dean hummed Hallelujah to the sweat-soaked valley between Cas' shoulder blades, but the answering gasp of 'Amen' does not go unheard.
'You not coming to bed?' Dean's mumbling from beneath his arm, feigning the sleep that slurs his voice, and Cas, to his credit, barely hesitates; reaching for a tiny plastic pill container on his bedside stand, clutching it too tightly in a white-knuckled grasp, shrugging casually an, 'I'm not tired'.
Dean let's it slide, let's Cas carry out all the evidence to the contrary and smuggle it to whatever safe space he seeks refuge in when the very idea of sharing a bed with Dean sets insects crawling beneath his skin. And just as Cas is crossing the threshold, AC/DC shirt hanging limp from his thinning frame, Dean is driven through with a spike of anxiety; the thoughts of Cas walking out and leaving for good.
He's sitting bolt upright in bed, eyes unfocused in the warm dark of their room, he's addressing the silhouette turned to watch his sudden outburst, an unexpected display of intimate emotion. 'Hey Cas,' he's saying, awkward and hesitant, sees Cas' throat bob with a thick swallow, 'Do you still -' and maybe he would have said 'love me', more likely some bastardised version of a sentimentality rapidly disguised by bravado and awful jokes, but Cas interrupts to answer, 'Yes, Dean' and his mouth may be saying yes, but his posture is telling a multitude of different stories, none of which reach the offered conclusion.
Dean can't sleep for the sound of the clock over the kitchen table drumming it's vicious tattoo.
Tonight is not to be one of those nights, Cas isn't feeling particularly generous with his hands. Or thoughts. Or feelings or even an offered indication that, yes, he's aware of Dean's looming presence; consciously ignoring the sensation of being watched; slow, deep inhale of cigarette smoke, he's letting the crystal blue glaze over, neck unable to support the weight of his head, nor the typhoon of inexpressible sentiments rattling around inside.
Dean's making his way slowly across the polyester wasteland spread between them, a riddled minefield of awkward emotional confessions and cutting questions, cardboard gravestones standing sentinel over the scene, cigarette light sunset glowing in the distance, perched between Cas' thumb and forefinger, coffee cup parapets and the halo glow of his phone setting the mood.
Dean's sitting opposite, hands pressed tight between his thighs, reluctant to interfere with Cas' self-imposed vagrancy, the empty take-out boxes, a dust-fall off ash clinging to his hair. 'You gonna pack away some of these books, man?' he's asking, eyes scanning the various stacks growing like weeds among the debris of their move, and he loathes the way he sounds, cautious and wary, approaching Cas like something volatile, a violent animal, a ticking time bomb of emotional repression, but he's struggling to find a way to engage, despite a desperate desire to do so.
It's not unusual to find him sitting silent, head bowed, draped in the figurative funeral shroud, mourning people he's never met, homesick for places he's never been, plagued by and prone to fits of melancholy that see him retreating to their bedroom for days, offering a feeble string of increasingly incoherent excuses and apologies each time.
In these instances, sitting silently opposing one another, Dean concludes he is the worst thing to have ever possibly happened to Castiel Novak, heaping already slumped shoulders with the pressure of existing as a contributing aspect of somebody else's life. But leaving Cas is not one simple physical action; it's thoroughly scraping out beneath his nails, where he drives them through hips and thighs, a constellation of half-moons and bruise coloured galaxies gathering evidence beneath Cas' clothes. It's a chemical bath of stripping through layer after layer of his own skin to reach something Cas' mouth hasn't kissed, Cas' words haven't cut. It's the fine art of excavating the swirling imprint of each fingertip where Cas has made his home under hands too eager to please.
Cas' moving sluggish and weary, waking from a metaphysical coma; glances briefly at the haphazard paperback towers, before turning those high-beam blues on Dean, fixated on his mouth, reluctant to meet his eyes. 'Maybe' he's saying, a trained response, ambiguous and non-committal, a loose shrug accompaniment. Fingertips fidgeting with the delicate leaves of rolling papers, the curling brown of residual tobacco caught under jagged fingernails, Dean's thinking maybe their conversations would flow a lot smother if Cas didn't have to frame his words against clenched teeth and the cigarette perpetually perched between his lips.
Dean finds himself mentally exhausted after these exchanges, a constant struggle to quell and quiet a million different urges and inquiries as to how Cas is feeling; he doesn't think his partner would appreciate the unwarranted assault on his emotional Achilles heel. But the Super 8 reel of their early years plays projected on his eyelids whenever he finds time to shut them, painful reminders that itch and burn beneath his skin; Cas' megawatt smile, all lingering touches and intense eye contact, brilliant blue and healthy blush.
Dean had first encountered Cas through his then neighbour, the incorrigible Pamela Barnes; a page three, leather-wrapped wet dream with a passion for scented candles and the occult.
Dean's arriving home from what had threatened to be an overnight office stay, bruise coloured smudges beneath his eyes, shirt a tapestry of coffee stains and sweat. He's fumbling his apartment keys in clumsy fingers when Pamela's voice interrupts, supporting her door frame with a tattooed shoulder, deft hands expertly shuffling a deck of cards back and forth between them.
'Hard day at the office?' she's purring, hazel-green blinking bright in the dimly lit hallway. Dean scoffs, ceaselessly flustered under Pamela's intimate methods of interrogation. She's exaggeratedly cocking her hip, elbow propped against the soft curve, clutched between polished fingers, a spread of battered, dog-eared cards; she's smiling a Cheshire cat grin, and Dean's not feeling mentally prepared for her specific brand of sinister mischievousness. Eyes raking his silhouette, she's taking in the dishevelled appearance, the six-pack clutched between fingers blackened by ink and motor oil, smirking coy and confident, 'You're going to kill yourself, kid,' she's saying, a tilt of her head gesturing to the paper fan flourish from her fingers, 'Pick one'.
Dean's awkwardly manoeuvring his groceries to the floor, eyes scrunched in wearied concentration, fingers stiffly picking through the numerous keys glittering on the chain, mumbling, 'You have no idea,' glancing over his shoulder at her enduring silence, in these moments entirely suspicious of Pamela's repeated claims to possess psychic abilities.
Her lips curl up at the corners, eyes shifting once more to the cards, back to Dean, brow climbing in expectancy. Rolling his eyes in dramatic over-exaggeration, opting to humour her silent insistence, he's flicking his fingernail against the thin plastic coated-paper, 'This one'.
Pamela's elegant features morph and wrinkle in intense concentration, rapidly reshuffling her cards to have Dean's selection resting on top, a wide range of expressions cycling across her face as she considers the clutched card and all it's implications, and Dean's asking, 'What are you doing standing out here anyway?', but she's cutting her hand through the air, a wordless demand for cooperative silence, nodding once more as though reaching a climactic point in her internal debate, tilting bright eyes back to Dean's face and smiling like the poster-child for innocence. 'Waiting on my ten o'clock,' she says simply.
Pamela had previously (doe-eyed and soft under the influence of a few too many drinks) confessed herself an expert alternative healer; many an unusual client knocking on her door at strange hours of the night claiming referrals from individuals rarely qualified in the field of medicine. Dean never thought to question her late night antics, her unusual working hours, preferring instead to consciously avoid the ill will of a near six-foot, Amazonian-built psychic with a pair of steel-capped boots specifically named, 'The Ball-Breakers'.
Dean's mouth shapes a silent 'ah' of feigned understanding, preferring ignorance in matters regarding Pamela's appointments. He's jamming the next key on the ring into the lock, attention elsewhere, uncomfortable under her sharp scrutiny, but the victorious click of the bolt as it turns sends a wash of relief over him; an opportunity for escape, the noise usually indicating an end to their hallway pleasantries, an audible 'full stop' to indicate Dean's retreat.
Crouching to collect his scattered possessions, Pamela opts to venture off-script, ignoring all established previous routine, overlooking her own rules in favour of betraying patient privilege.
'Nice guy,' she's saying, speaking to the spider-webs tracing dust trails across the ceiling, eyes falling closed, dark hair curling and swaying about her shoulders as she fans herself with Dean's card.
'Castiel,' she offers without any suggestion of context, eyes white fire as she turns them on Dean at his answering silence, his nose scrunched in confusion.
unfurling from her languid lean, card still fluttering between fingers bedecked in heavy silver and glittering stones, she's gently shoving at his shoulder, a musical laugh accompaniment, 'His name. Silly.'
Dean's silently repeating it under his breath, baffled; the shapes uncomfortable and unfamiliar on his mouth, brow climbing ever higher into his hairline as he considers the type of parent who would condemn their child to such a bizarre name.
With one foot frozen over the threshold to his apartment, Pamela opts to offer more, interrupting his actions through such an abrupt, stilted conversation, Dean's beginning to grow increasingly paranoid of her intentions, recognising an effort to stall for time, having witnessed his incompetent subordinates attempt it several times daily at the office.
'Cute smile,' she's sighing, eyes distant and dreamy, a pining damsel routine she is completely unaccustomed too, but she soldiers on, regardless. A woman on a mission. 'And he's got these eyes-' but Dean has had a long day, his patience a shield worn thin throughout, and despite nursing a particular fondness for Pamela's eccentricities, he would much prefer to be alone, making significant headway in his descent into alcoholism, just like Daddy.
'Pam, why are you telling me this?' a tired enquiry, words escaping on a sigh, eyes closed in controlled frustration. He hears the rustle of old leather and torn denim, chancing a glance sideways to see her shift again, brazen smirk still situated firmly in place. She's nodding subtly, indicating the elevators humming their monotone mechanical symphony at the end of the corridor. 'Because he's behind you, kiddo,' her sentence perfectly punctuated by the tell-tale chime of doors opening.
Pamela Barnes proves a woman of her word, and sure, maybe Cas wasn't smiling at the time (rarely does at all, any more), and he certainly did have eyes, just like she had promised before his over-eager interruption, but Dean's attentions are drawn to other aspects of his person; his odd gait, favouring his left; exceptionally delicate on his right (which Dean would later come to understand as being the result of an old military injury, particularly agitated by the bruising winter weather the city was enduring at the time.), the repetitious curling and unfurling of fists by his sides; attempting to break a bad habit by indulging in a monotonous pattern of distraction, the outline of a pack of cigarettes protruding from his jeans pocket. His hair a windswept mess of bird's nests and spider legs, eyes the colour of glaciers and Windex and blue blood veins pumping too close to the surface. He offers a restrained, close-mouthed smile in Dean's direction, only a slight stutter in the constant motion of his hands, probably unnoticeable had Dean not been hungrily indulging his curiosity.
Pamela raises two fingers to her temple, offering a lazy salute.
'Castiel,' she's announcing, by way of greeting; tongue curling to lick at teeth in an overemphasised exotic pronunciation, harsh T's, curling L's, and Dean's thinking perhaps once upon a time the sight would have inspired a quiver in his knees, but currently, he is thoroughly invested in his scrutiny of this rumpled outsider.
Pamela's introduction is lost to focus, but Castiel's raising his hand, slow and disinterested, calloused fingers curl from sandpaper palms in invitation; Dean's attempting to re-situate his groceries on the jut up his hip, flustered, thrusting a hand at Cas, admittedly over-eager, but Pamela says nothing, offering a slight, encouraging nod; the way one would reassure a child taking it's first steps, uneasy and unsteady, and he presumes that this is probably exactly what that moment would come to represent.
Deceptively simple baby steps leading down the yellow dirt road of a turbulent relationship, a cowardly lion seeking courage, and a tin-man without a heart.
Cas mumbles an incomprehensible greeting, falling flat at the dusty toe caps of his boots; A vague nod of acknowledgement, a smile like an angry crack in a porcelain face, jagged and harsh at it's edge. Pamela's clapping her hands together, the exclamation point to a waning attempt at conversation. Reaching an arm across Cas' shoulders, shepherding him through her doorway, Dean recognises her reluctance to lay hands on her patient, hands hovering useless by his shoulders, emphasised as Cas turns those violent blue eyes on her in narrowed caution, but she's ushering him regardless, beaming smile like spotlights and Hollywood turned on Dean left standing sentinel in the hallway, baffled by the brief encounter.
She's reaching to push the door closed behind her, Cas already dissolving into the darkened, candlelit interior, but Dean still has one question beating behind his teeth.
'Wait!' a harsh whisper, suddenly plagued by spontaneous self-consciousness, reluctant to allow Castiel an opportunity to overhear.
Pamela hesitates to indicate she's listening, eyes still turned to her apartment, 'What's up with the cards,' he's lifting a hand loaded with cardboard files and crinkled paperwork to lamely point at the deck still clutched within her tinsel-draped fist. Reacting as though she's surprised to find them there, Pamela's mouth shapes a pretty 'o' of surprise, raising the plastic-coated cards to reassess them, she simply corrects, 'They're Tarot', moving to return to her apartment before once again hesitating, fingertips stained yellow from years of smoking a pack a day, she's peeling the top card from the deck, his card, offering it face down to a sceptical looking Dean, eyeing it cautiously, like a snake coiled in the palm of her hand.
And as Pamela came to understand throughout their years as neighbours, Dean frequently had to be told twice, so thoroughly unsure of himself, self-confidence crushed, she has no doubt, by a strong paternal presence in his life, a suspicion for which she received an astounding amount of supporting evidence, despite having only met John Winchester once.
She presents it again, more urgency in her movement, eager to return to Castiel. Dean gingerly accepts, slowly raising the card to squint at the elaborate design in the dimly lit hallway, bare bulb flickering in tandem with his baffled blinks.
Her door creaks as she closes it, but not without her parting words, pointing a finger at the card perched between Dean's thumb and forefinger.
'How fitting,' she's saying, 'The Lovers'.
The very same card is currently decorating their fridge, wedged beneath a gaudy tourist magnet emblazoned 'San Francisco', courtesy of Sam and his country-wide adventures; and while Cas has never understood the sentiments behind it, reluctant to inquire as Dean had never been forthcoming with an explanation with regards it's sudden appearance and apparent emotional value, Dean himself regularly brushes fingers across it, almost absent-mindedly, with an inexplicably nostalgic fondness, a faint smile across his mouth.
The day he and Cas had finally managed to pack their lives into a measly pile of crumpled cardboard boxes, Pamela had knocked on their door, hair frizzled and haywire, dark-rimmed eyed suddenly too wide for her face.
Dean had heard her identifying low purr dwindle in it's rich baritone as an inexplicable and uncharacteristic urgency seemed to take hold of her, Cas' grave tone heard attempting to reason with her. Luckily Dean had managed to interrupt before she was forced to lay hands on Castiel in order to pass him, but upon seeing Dean, a familiarity relights in her eyes, a sigh of relief escaping her lips, and he can't help but feel uneasy that she so crucially needed reassurance that he was in fact okay.
She presses passed Castiel, who looks inconvenienced by her badly timed arrival, but remains oblivious to the steel in her eyes as she stand-offishly bustles by. 'Heya Kiddo,' she's saying, grasping his hands between hers, and he feels the plastic-coated card before she addresses it, focused on maintaining intense eye contact as if to emphasise ever word she offers after, nodding her head encouragingly to punctuate each syllable.
'Put this in your wallet,' her palms are sweaty, Cas' eyes narrow in suspicion; she leans closer, the confident liquid chocolate returning to her voice, 'This is the only card you're ever gonna need'.
Dean's studying the intricate lines of the artwork currently, touching fingertips across it's worn surface, Cas clears his throat behind him from the depths of the living room; and the sound crushes Dean's teeth together, irritation tightening his fists. The constant battle of measuring Castiel's ups and downs, the volume of his darkness, attempting to accommodate something so huge and enveloping in their private life; the black hole spiralling beneath Cas ribcage, feeding on conversation and intimacy and the stilted looks they gradually became.
Cas has the perfect face for a collapsing star.
The whole scientific process weighs on Dean, sucking at his top teeth now, and nothing specific has happened to bring on this melancholic state, but in the context of their silent apartment, the vacuum existing between them is laughably blatant.
Remembering military strategy and theory his father had proudly lectured over the 8-track as the Impala tore down some back road, Dean chubby, small and sticky-fingered, a concentration of kinetic energy perched beside Daddy in the front seat; he's struggling to recall, eventually concluding guerilla tactics as the most effective way to tear through Cas' carefully maintained defences, a sucker-punch of verbal accusation and a hasty retreat, Cas' own preferred methods adapted and utilized against him.
Dean understands distance is important, holding steady in the kitchenette, aware that Cas has eyes that work in magnetism and distraction, has hands that move in the peripheral to trace patterns across knuckles and cheeks and mouths that seal shut in protest. Cas has refined the art of avoidance, viciously protects himself and the few genuine emotions he has left festering away in his chest.
Dean is saying, 'What's going on, man?', words weighted by sleepless nights and an inexplicable sense of disappointment, in himself, or the failings of their five year long relationship, he can't be sure; prefers not to dwell on it, further fuelled by the minute shrug of slumped shoulders; Cas tapping out another cigarette against the tabletop, fingers pressed against his temple. 'I haven't been feeling well lately,' he says simply.
And Dean realises there will always be a canyon between them, a dividing crack brimming with the misunderstandings and misconceptions Dean bears with regards the finer nuances of Cas' depressive episodes, but he hates that Cas so easily resorts to using it as a crutch to explain his drifting, his lack of enthusiasm and commitment to their relationship. Often he thinks maybe there's a medium ground, between the low-lows and unpredictable manic states where Cas is still in love with him, uncharted territory they have yet to uncover.
Cas' hair is dull and dirty, face pale and drawn. The blinds haven't been pulled in days, throwing warped patterns across the walls that Cas will sit in suffocating silence and decipher in wide-eyed fascination. Dean recognises the lows a lot more easily these days.
'I mean, what's going on with us,' he's saying, voice dipping in discomfort, feeling petty and ashamed that he felt need to broach the topic, that his insecurity far outmatched the confusing, dulled mesh of emotion Cas is forced to endure. He waves his hand uselessly between them, an indication to Cas, should he have forgotten, that he is currently speaking to the man he once claimed adoration for.
Cas is shifting in his seat, reaching across the coffee table for his phone, the blue light emphasising the deep hollows of his cheeks, the pits beneath his eyes, and the lack of light therein. Fingers tap-tapping across the screen the only sound, an uneven rhythm Dean's matching against his heart beating violent in his chest. Cas still has the phone clutched in a tight fist when he stands to address Dean, eyes still wandering, jumping from point to point in the room. Not once does their journey allow him a momentary look at Dean's face, and Dean's musing that maybe if they had made that connection, the conversation would have proceeded differently.
Cas models a perpetual state of agitation, clothes rumpled, hair a disarrayed mess, standing, hunched like a predator across an obstacle course of second-hand furniture. Blue-white ice chips glinting in the deep cavities of his eyes, Dean still can't find it in him to quench the barest instinct of attraction to a being so far beyond his understanding, something ethereal.
'Nothing,' Cas is saying cautiously, voice rising at the end in subconscious questioning. His shoulders relax slightly, the threat of electric storms in the atmosphere of this abruptly too tiny room does not go unnoticed by either occupant.
'Nothing. Really, man?' a disbelieving echo, 'Are you fucking kidding me?', and the urge to indulge in a drink is pushing it's way to the forefront of his mind, but he's been sober for five years, discounting a hiccup here and there, usually preceding an incident with Castiel and his volatile temper.
'You think this is normal?' a vague sweeping gesture indicating their surroundings, a movement Cas follows lazily, posture relaxed into a slouch, already mentally checking out from the argument, much to Dean's increased agitation.
'You think this how normal people live?' he's spluttering, composure draining with every word, genuine confusion as to whether or not Cas has experienced much of his life existing as a 'normal' person, wary now, fully experiencing the sensation of walking on thin ice, and this could go either way.
Cas is taking moments to dissect the accusation, his face relaxing, creases woven into his skin thinning out, throwing himself back into his hunched position, praying at the altar of self-abuse, cigarette candlestick glowing in holy worship. This is his withdrawal from the conversation, only the illusion of high-ground exists under these circumstances, and they are both equally at fault.
'Normal people?' he questions eventually, smoke seeping from between his lips, eyes fixated on the glowing point, a burning beacon in the dim light. He's blinking slow and sensual, and Dean feels that magnetism having it's effect, his feet carrying him closer to the sofa, manoeuvring himself to be in Cas' field of vision, not that it matters, not that he ever looks.
Cas is bating him, he's fully aware. Cas wants to hear him assign a title to this haphazard thing they've cultivated between them. Five years spent wrapped in the intensity of each other's company, Cas had met his parents, for fuck sake, but he still remains reluctant to confine what they've managed to contain as a solitary 'term'. Doesn't know whether it's due to his own insecurity, or a calculated decision to not force commitment on Cas; flighty, runaway Cas.
'You know what I mean,' he's sighing, a tone of apology, but lacking the verbal sentiments, and Cas huffs out a laugh around the damp filter pressed between his lips. 'Try, 'normal couples', he's saying, reaching to remove the cigarette from his mouth, 'or how about 'partners', peeling himself from the sofa, making his way towards Dean, stalking like a predator, 'Sweethearts, he continues, ticking each title off on his fingers as he perseveres, determined, eyes rolled up in feigned concentration.
Dean's flashing him a warning glare, but it's implications are lost. He's closer now, within arm's reach and closer still, slightly shorter than Dean, eyes dipped to fully observe his mouth, strictly forbidding eye contact. 'If you're feeling brave,' he saying, fingertips playing staccato along Dean's shoulders, breath hitching, 'You could try 'lovers''.
And Dean is very nearly lured to the 'X', Cas dragging his teeth along his bottom lip in his exaggerated pronunciation, holding the 'S' as he leans close to Dean's mouth, eyes flickering open for only a split second, but the lack of warmth and cruel intention seen there is enough to make Dean re-evaluate the situation, his refusal to indulge being a circumstance Cas is rarely face with.
Dean's retreating to the safety of the kitchenette, wringing his knuckles and palpably furious at Cas' diversion attempts.
'We're not talking about me, Cas,' he's saying, waver in his voice; process of elimination leaving a wounded Cas staring at his feet. Dean's licking at his teeth again, deep inhale through his nose, keeping his temper in check; a violent hand-me-down from John.
Cas glances up, eyes fixed on Dean's throat, too cowardly to venture further; and for the first time in weeks, there's a heat in his eyes, warm and wounded and at a loss for how to navigate the delicate topic, and Dean doesn't think he's devious enough to use this to his advantage.
His faces fall away, all the falsities and avoidance, and Cas looks entirely lost and too small among the fallout. He opens his mouth, but reconsiders, a slight shrug indicating his resignation to silence. And Dean huffs out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding, excited at the prospect of Cas confessing, but realising an apology is not forthcoming, he's losing the will to continue the argument.
His entire life, Dean feels he's been denied things, vaguely remembers pleading with his mom as a child, petulantly demanding her attention, stubborn insistence that the addition of a baby brother would just be an unnecessary nuisance for both of them; but inevitably, along came Sam, who wormed his way beneath Dean's skin in the way only an irritating little brother can. He's recalling an argument from his late teens, pleading uselessly with his father, begging for an opportunity to work at Uncle Bobby's garage, John instantly silencing him with his booming declaration of 'Enough!', explaining in a patronizing, parental tone, why a job at the agency would be a far more lucrative opportunity; how it would be a good idea for Dean to start learning some responsibility. And More recently, Cas.
Something he loves, but something that does not love him.
Not any more.
Tick-Tock.
Holding on to Cas is no more effective than trying to hold the ocean in his hands. Both vast and blue and unbridled.
In hindsight, the idea of trying to contain a force of nature within four walls was a terrible decision.
'C'mon Cas,' he's saying, voice soft, wounded, 'Castiel,' he corrects, a rarely used formality between them.
Castiel is chancing a glance up, painfully slow, a sandpaper drag of focus along his body. And Dean hates himself for sounding so pathetic and needy, so desperate to hear Cas say something redeeming.
He's aware he very rarely uses the 'L' word, it's usage had been limited to a question Castiel had posed to him during their first few months together, a phrase that became a recurring 'thing' for them. An 'A-okay' signal.
Cas, who despite his own actions had a very limited tolerance for the emotional procrastination of others, noticing Dean's own apprehensiveness with regards any topic that strayed too far into 'relationship' territory, had challenged him with the deceptively soft question, 'Do you love me?'
Dean poses it now, a little more barbed, a lot more relying on the response. Cas tilts his head up, settling into the old comfort of that intense eye contact, and Dean loathes the way it coils in his stomach, tunnel vision with a deep blue ending; the weight of Cas' stare equivalent to the bends.
He's shifting his weight, adjusting to the discomfort, to the lingering silence Cas has yet to interrupt; his brows scrunching, eyes squinting in fury, appalled to have his own weapon turned on him.
When Cas does deign to offer him a response, it's in barely restrained anger, eyes closed off, disconnected once again from the scene around them, he's struggling for an even tone, saying, 'I need some time,' nodding to himself as though the request is perfectly reasonable, not like Dean's waiting for the hangman to pull the lever, he's considering, saying, 'I'm going to go to Gabriel's.'
Big brother, Gabriel Novak, a man who seemed to exist in a constant state of manic indulgence, a polar opposite to Castiel, although both were prone to the same methods of avoiding the reality of responsibility and restraint.
Dean himself had very little patience for Gabriel and his antics, found his personality thoroughly grating, but the first morning Cas had refused to move from the bed, curled tight in the foetal position, eyes watery and vacant; Dean had panicked, flicking through Cas' mobile and dialling Gabriel, the first Novak he happened across, attempting to remain calm and explain the situation.
'Cas can't get up, I don't know what's wrong'.
Gabriel had arrived at the door, only a little flustered to his credit, a blush high on his cheeks; shoving his way through Dean, despite the apparent disadvantage of his height.
Standing, arms flung open among the settling dust of the latest argument, his eyebrows climb to his hairline, expectant and unimpressed, awaiting explanation, and indication as to where his brother might be.
Dean had led him silently to the bedroom door, irrationally intimidated by this pocket-sized stranger he'd only ever encountered in Cas' brief retelling of bizarre childhood incidents, most of which were initiated by Gabriel himself.
Leaning against the door frame, arms folded, hooded-hazel eyes tracing Cas' vulnerable form curled quiet among a nest of sweat-soaked sheets, Gabriel only spares Dean a passing glance, before his attentions refocus on his little brother, reassessing the situation, a calculating look on his face.
The shades are still drawn, a rogue beam of light cutting through the darkness, painting an abstract masterpiece across the plains of Cas' back. Sheets tangle in a damp mess around his hips, clutched between his fists, white-knuckled and clammy. He is naked in both a metaphorical and physical sense, and the judgemental glare Gabriel sends Dean's direction indicates that those blossoming bruise-coloured kisses along his shoulder blades might as well be footprints in snow for their lack of subtlety.
Gabriel doesn't turn to address him, demanding 'And who are you?' of the dark depths of the bedroom. Dean, unaware of just how much of his personal life Castiel allows his family access too, simply offers his name, terrified that this detached trance is his fault. Gabriel, however, seems satisfied by the response, eyes (that most certainly aren't the electric blue hue of Cas') softening only slightly at the introduction. He doesn't bother with the formalities himself, instead nodding towards the effectively paralysed form of his little brother, limp and immovable, saying, 'Listen, Bucko, you gotta give me some time alone with him'.
Dean had dutifully returned to the living room, so intensely distracted by Cas' behaviour, the difficulty of communicating with someone so wholly vacant, the panic of being unable to wake him that morning, that he cannot find it in himself to go about his day like he would any other, remembering to turn his phone off, but not before dialling in for leave, citing a 'family emergency' as his reason, the impact of which is not lost on him.
The day passes in a blur of stressed pacing, and by late afternoon, Gabriel has yet to make a reappearance, his soft murmuring audible from the back room. Cas' responses are limited and low, throat filled with steel wool, voice grated and harsh. Gabriel's monologue continues well into the evening, the slice of sunlight previously illuminating the room gradually fading to shadow and vanishing entirely. Dean finds himself relocating to the door way, emotionally drained to the point of numbness, fighting back the feeling of utter worthlessness for the sake of checking-in on Cas' well-being.
Gabriel sits on the edge of the bed, twisted to rub a comforting hand along the ridges of Cas' spine. His voice is a quiet rumble in the stillness, Cas' face still shrouded in shadows, it's not immediately apparent whether or not he's even awake to hear Gabriel's quiet reassurance.
It's an intimate moment shared between brothers, and Dean has never had the honour of touching Cas like that, a soothing, familiar gesture; in contrast, theirs are limited to violence and lust and extremes that Castiel does not seem capable of when curled and exposed on the bed, crumpled in on himself like burning paper withdrawing from the flames.
Gabriel's removing himself from the bed, fingertips trailing along the length of Castiel's exposed arm, impish features twisted in unhappiness, gesturing for Dean to lead the way to some place more private, somewhere Gabriel can interrogate him and try and make some sense of the situation.
Gently closing the bedroom door behind him, the protesting creak obviously not enough to disturb the semi-conscious Castiel, Gabriel is immediately measuring up against Dean, his smaller stature having no negative influence on his imposing nature. 'Listen, guy. I don't know anything about you, and Cassie in there is in no state to be vouching for you,' and so unlike his brother, Gabriel maintains hard eye contact throughout, breaking it only to warily eye the door between them, as though Cas, overhearing, would heave himself from his cotton cocoon and accuse his brother of coddling him.
His eyes shift around their surroundings, catching on Cas' coat flung across the back of the sofa, his tie hanging from the handle of the storage cupboard; he doesn't bother questioning the lead-up, the prologue to Castiel's current state of unresponsiveness, instead, prying his phone from the pocket of his jeans, click-clacking away at the keypad with an inconsideration and lack of urgency Dean would later come to understand stemmed from the fact that Gabriel was not unaccustomed to these intrusions in his own life, uncomfortably familiar with Cas' self-destructive routines.
Phone to his ear, placing a hand over the mouthpiece, he's saying to Dean, 'He can't stay here, man. I need a hand getting him out to the car', jutting a thumb over his shoulder, silently suggesting Dean get a move on while he finishes out his call.
Dean hovers at the door frame, unwilling to crack the bubble of silence that seems to have descended here. Cas is folded like elegant origami, eyes staring blankly at the opposite wall, their colour unidentifiable in the blanket of darkness; his only movement the imperceptible rise and fall of his chest.
He's ringing his knuckles in concerned distraction when Gabriel returns, slapping a hand against Dean's shoulder, only vaguely threatening in it's unspoken warnings. He manoeuvres himself through the doorway, passing the 6 foot, stone sentinel Dean had become, an obstacle in his own apartment, watching the scene unfold before with the kind of fascinated disconnect he often finds himself drifting into while watching TV, an unreality existing for his own morbid curiosity.
Gabriel's hunched by the bedside, carefully negotiating Castiel's puppet-like limbs, heaving him into a seated position and rubbing at his back, quiet mumblings of reassurance, leaning too close together for Dean to decipher any individual words, but Cas is nodding, face devoid of emotion, eyes staring but not seeing; gazing far beyond the limited reality of Dean's shitty apartment.
Gabriel's hauling him to his feet, sheets pooling in a mass of folds by his ankles, and if his little brother's nudity bothers him, Gabriel shows no indication, laying a palm on either side of Cas' face, staring hard into eyes that peer right on through.
Without looking to Dean, he's barking orders again, nodding his head at the spread of sheets across the floor, saying, 'Get that will you?'. Dean, still unsure of his status with this pint-size powerhouse, slips into old habits of wilful obedience, draping the off-white sheets around Cas' shoulders with a cautious reverence that Gabriel's sharp eyes do not overlook, 'My girlfriend said she'd pull the car around,' he's saying to no one in particular, and Dean's holding the bedroom door open, Gabriel gently ushering Cas through; a linen-wrapped, shambling zombie and Dean's wondering hazily where all the fire and fury from last night had disappeared too.
Had Castiel blazed up and burnt out silently, only inches away from a slumbering Dean, from an emotional rescue, choosing instead to dwindle in secrecy.
The Car that screeches to a stop by the entrance is sleek and black and boasts a wealth and class Dean can't imagine Gabriel dabbling in. The driver, a stoic woman, eyes like burning coal, arms draped in thick gold loops and chains; remains resolutely silent, watching the scene with an abstract curiosity through her rear-view mirror, saying nothing of the aggressive treatment Gabriel inflicts on her car, flinging the door open, deaf to it's screeches of protest as he delicately lays his baby brother across the expansive back seat, pushing back the clinging strands of hair from skin pale and clammy.
Gabriel's turning accusing eyes on Dean, lingering in his peripheral, saying, 'I don't know enough about you too to give you shit over all this,' face crinkling in discomfort as he looks for the right choice of words, scratching idly at the back of his neck, eyes searching anywhere and everywhere for the answer.
'If this is going to be a thing,', emphasis on the last word, the accompanying air quotations, and Dean's not sure whether he's referring to last night's adventures, or this morning's state of vacancy, but he nods obediently. Gabriel seems satisfied with the slight gesture, continuing artlessly, saying, 'You gotta learn to work with him, man'.
It's ambiguous enough that it ticks several boxes on the 'overly-concerned big brother check-list', and Dean should know, he himself has indulged it several times to interfere in Sammy's personal life; but as the car pulls away from the curb, he finds himself silently resolving to be far more effective than just acting as middle-man to what became a reoccurring trend within their relationship; Cas' darkening moods, Gabriel's willingness to abandon his own routine and immerse himself in Cas' stormy disposition, eager to offer assistance.
There has always been something deceptively tender in the relationship between the two brothers, Cas seeking a comfort there that Dean seems incapable of offering.
Tonight is no different, Castiel slamming the door behind him, the kitchen clock tick-tock metronome to the beat of his footsteps as he storms down the hallway.
Dean, exhausted, throws himself onto the sofa, cradling his head in his hands, hair bristling against his palms; wondering how to make this work, speculating that the only non-functioning aspect of this well-oiled machine is whatever is beating away deep beneath the cosmic hollow nestled in Cas' chest.
Cas' phone, abandoned in his urgency to leave, vibrates occasionally against the tabletop, Dean too weary to check the caller ID, even now, reluctant to invade Cas' carefully maintained privacy.
Hours go by, as told by the ticking clock, and Dean finds himself occupying a space between memory and reality, fondly entertaining memories of a time when he and Cas could bear function as a unit.
When his own phone rings, it's well into the AM, eyes blurry and unfocused as he attempts to pick out the letters of Gabriel's name against the blinding back light.
'Gabe?' he's croaking, confused, presuming their interaction had been limited to their Cas-centric rescue operations.
'Dean,' and he sounds panicked; Dean heaving himself forward to the edge of the sofa, fully alert now, unused to hearing Gabriel out of sorts.
'Dean, what did you do?!'.
In hindsight, he thinks maybe he should have recognised this as the precursor for worse to come.