The last thing Dean expected was to have a calm dream.
After nights upon nights of horrible, vivid memories of all the horrors that happened, he got used to bad night's sleep. Resting turned into a realm where the voices he silenced in the day could scream and yell at him, their cries amplified in the world of the dreamers. Every time he dozed off, his conscience screamed at him, lamenting the back pains from all the guilt weighing down, while his suppressed feelings of remorse, sorrow, and anguish bemoaned their imprisonment, threatening to break through the thinning walls Dean built to combat them and burst out in an explosion of insecurity.
But tonight was different. Tonight there were wails, no moans, no feelings of despair. Even though he had even more reason to toss and turn and be tortured at the hands of his own emotions, all his abusers were nowhere to be found. They left, vanished, disappeared.
And so, Dean stood in the middle of a park, facing a playground. He watched little children, many accompanied by their parents, zip around the enclosed mulch area, all smiling and laughing. They climbed on the monkey bars, and they twirled on the merry-go-round. Some swung on the swing set, competing to see who'd swing highest before launching off and seeing who could leap farthest. There were kids in the sandbox, building castles, and kids on the slides, some going down and others fighting gravity to get to the top. Then on the fields, children played tag and threw balls, their jovial laughter filling the air as they ran atop the brittle green grass.
It was pleasing, calming, comforting. He didn't understand how that could be.
He wasn't suffering anymore? He was cured just like that? More death and isolation than he could even imagine before somehow resulted in some snot-nosed brats having a ball at a stupid playground?
It bothered Dean, it bothered him a lot.
Although a treat of cheerful visions should have been pleasant, he didn't like it. The relaxation made him sick, and the air of joy made him bitter. He couldn't enjoy it, he wouldn't let himself. Not after what happened.
Dean kept staring, jaw locked, lips pressed in a firm line. None of the kids wandered his way, whether because they could not see him or because his aura of angst and displeasure warned them to stay away. He assumed that, from the way they acted, he was jus invisible to them (There's always that one kid who runs up and asks what the fuck a creeper's doing standing around, he thought).
He recognised the place, remembering parts of the park with closer observation. It looked a little different now but he'd been to this park before, but his memories wouldn't let him think back far enough. His memory wouldn't work at all, in fact, a huge block separating Dean from his memories. Even more recent ones—more terribly recent ones—came up blank, only basic information available as the rest remained under lock and key.
That aggravated him even more.
He groaned as he pushed on the wall, willing it to break, but the thing just wouldn't budge.
"Well this is annoying..." Dean mumbled sourly. He wanted this long-awaited 'good dream' to just end before he kidded himself any more with these stupid happy thoughts.
"You deserved a break from the nightmares."
Dean blinked, chills rippling down his spine at the sound of an oh too familiar voice. Gravelly and low, like pebbles rolling over one another in the watery palm of a creek; that was a voice he hadn't heard in a long time, a voice he thought he wouldn't hear again.
He whipped around, eyes widening when he saw one of the mightiest to fall, one of the ones he missed the most.
"Cass?" The word came out as a gasp, even a bit frightened.
Dean stared into a pair of brilliant blue eyes, shining and pure, like the Heavens themselves. They were calm, like a tranquil pond, and he knew that who he was looking at was 100% Castiel. His vessel remained intact, repairing following the deathly underwater explosion without a single sign of injury. His hair still shined a dark chocolate brown, light stubble still shadowed his jaw, and his eyes still had rims of light violet. He looked worn, tired, possibly exhausted. But that didn't stop him from smiling, chapped lips curved ever so slightly upwards. Without his trench coat weighing him down, Dean could see his slim black suit, which complimented his smaller, scrawnier frame. True, he didn't look the same without his coat, but it was still Castiel. And his eyes still glistened with a profound warmth and intensity no other could dream of pulling off.
"Hello, Dean," He said, tone even and cool. Solar beams reflected off his eyes, giving them an ethereal glow as he lifted his head, "It is good to see you."
Dean was caught between a hundred feelings at once, all of them ploughing him down like a rogue lawnmower. Part of him was angry, in a rage, wanting to scream at the angel for being such a child and getting himself killed. Another wanted to do nothing more than break down and cry, half tears of happiness that Castiel was back, and half tears of sadness because this was all just a dream. And then there was a part of him so overcome with happiness that he wanted to run over and give him a (manly) hug, ushering him back into the terribly broken family.
There were so many things he wanted to do that he couldn't do a single one, frozen in place, mouth opening to say something but not a word of joy, outrage, or relief coming out.
It's all a dream... He reminded himself; don't get your hopes up...
Castiel, after several moments of silence, tilted his head, a bit confused by the other's lack of response. Typically, Dean was overzealous in reacting, so why was he just standing there?
Maybe it was too soon to come back. Maybe he shouldn't have come back right after Bobby's death. Maybe he should've just stayed in the lake because the Winchesters didn't need his help anymore.
But no, he knew that was a lie; without others the brothers wouldn't last. They were strong boys—two of the strongest ever to live—but they had too much resting on their shoulders to bear along. And now everyone was going, from Ellen to Jo to even Bobby, and, frankly, all they needed was a guardian angel to help them.
And maybe, just maybe, that guardian angel could redeem himself as well, and prove to Dean that he meant all he said before the Leviathans took over.
"Dean?" He said again, voice sprinkled with concern.
"How are you back?" Dean asked. He spoke quickly, voice gruffer than usual. There was a good chance that all of this was one big delusion, a new form of torture his mind set up that could possibly inflict more damage than the heinous nightmares. But, then again, this could be Castiel back from the dead. The angel has walked into his mind and dropped into his dreams before; what's to say he couldn't do it again?
"A miracle," The angel answers softly, "That is the only word I can think of to describe it. In other words, I'm not sure."
"Yeah, and for just how long have you been back?" Suspicion and distrusted added an acrimonious singe to his words.
"Not soon enough to better help you," He said lowly.
He emerged from the lake drained of most power, and by the time he had enough energy to reunite with the Winchesters, Bobby laid dead in a hospital morgue while Sam and Dean mourned silently in their motel room, both on the verge of tears and barely able to hold it together. He watched them go to bed, first Dean snuggling up to his unpacked knapsack on the box-spring, and then Sam who, after more worrying and corralling escaped tears, dozed off at the table, uncomfortably slouched in his chair. Though he felt compelled to visit Sam as well—Sam, the boy with demon blood and the boy currently haunted by the devil himself—he did not. His focus was Dean before all else, Dean who he owed everything to, and Dean whose stability crumbled with each passing moment. The tossing, the turning, the slight muffled sounds quivering in his throat... He needed a break. He needed to be spared the guilty, nasty feelings for at least one night.
"Yeah," Dean hated the venom that rolled off his tongue.
"I brought you here for a reason, Dean," Castiel said, taking a single step forward. With one arm, he gestured over to another area of the field, thin, bony finger pointing at an old scruffy man in a baseball cap and a little boy in a grey jacket and jeans tossing a baseball back and forth. Dean looked where the angel pointed, stiffening when he recognised the duo.
That man in the baseball cap was Bobby, a much younger Bobby, playing catch with an equally younger Dean. This was the park where Bobby took him while John was out, this was where he learned to play catch, this was...
"Are these my memories?" Dean asked, staring strangely at his younger self throwing a weak over-hand.
"One of your more pleasant ones," Castiel said, now at Dean's side, hands folded behind his back.
Dean glanced down at him, and he in return looked back up at Dean. Neither of the men spoke, conveying more emotion and communication through a mere gaze than either could do with words.
Dean figured out what Castiel was going with this, he was doing something nice, something to make up for his past actions, but he also paid respect to one of the team's greatest members, one he trusted just as Dean and Sam did. They lost someone, and he wouldn't let that go unnoticed. But at the same time, he didn't want Dean's mourning to be laced with agony, he wanted the wounds to bleed but still heal, and stitch together cleanly and nicely so they wouldn't just rip open when the next tragedy struck.
And, mutually, Castiel wanted his respects for Bobby properly paid. He may as well give one of the man's adopted son's a shred of grace in his little homage. It was the least that Bobby deserved, and the least that Dean deserved, too.
"You didn't have to do this," Dean finally said, tempted to look back at the memory playing but unable to break eye contact.
"It is the least I can do," Castiel replied, very serious and very sincere.
Another long pause ensued, only this time the two looked at the flashback presented to them, silently enjoying the fond memory while also enjoying their long-missed company. It felt like they'd been apart an eternity, but now that they were together it was like nothing ever happened.
Too bad it's all a dream...
Dean suppressed a flinch at the thought. It was just a dream. It was just a dream but it felt so real, too real to be one. No, this has to be the real deal, this had to be it.
Because I swear if I wake up and lose him or anyone else again...
"Dean."
"Yeah, Cass?"He turned to gaze at the angel again.
"I would like my coat back, if you don't mind," He said, that slight smile returning to his face.
"Hmm," Dean let out a little chuckle, then ruffled the angel's hair, messing up the already dishevelled locks of soft brown, "Wouldn't have it any other way."
Castiel made a quiet noise of discomfort, tensing up at first, but calmed down as he adjusted to the tousle, adding it to his dictionary of odd human gestures (this one under "affection"). Then he met Dean's gaze again, smiling face absolutely stunning.
Dean took one more look at the breath-taking blue before closing his eyes for a moment to blink...
"Dean."
...And when he opened his eyes, Castiel was nowhere to be seen. He wasn't standing in a playground, caught in his own reminiscences.
He laid on the rock-hard motel mattress, sprawled out, covers tangled around his legs like a fleece serpent. He still had on his clothes from the other night, fabric reeking of the burgers they hustled on the way home and the hospital where they spent so much of the night. Hovering over him was Sam, rubbing his neck with a disgruntled air to him. His long golden brown hair frayed this way and that, and his dark olive eyes only half open. The melody of "Paint It Black" drifted in the air, playing from the cheap radio alarm clock on the night stand.
"Dean, wake up," Sam yawned, tapping at his brother's shoulder, still half asleep.
"SAM!" Dean practically jumped up, sending Sam peddling back several steps. The younger Winchester blinked, jogged out of grogginess by his elder's shout.
"The hell, Dean?" He grumbled, glowering.
"Dammit, Sammy!" Dean shook his head. God, his stupid brother had to wake him up in the middle of that dream? Out of all the dreams? He let the nightmares play through but the one night he has a nice dream, a good dream, a dream with...
"What? It's morning," Sam pointed to the window, sunshine cascading through the musty panes.
"Screw that," Dean snorted, rolling over. At first, he just thought of plunging his face into the pillow and hoping he'd fall back asleep and resume his dream, just as little kid logic dictated. But he stopped when he noticed something.
His knapsack was open.
"Did you go through my stuff?" He yelled, snatching up the bag. Dean reached in and pawed around; making sure all was accounted for.
"What? No," Sam mumbled, "Why the hell would I?"
Pistol, switchblade, salt, bullets...
Something was missing.
"Where is it?" His voice bounced off the walls.
"Where's what?" Sam wandered over.
"You know what!" Dean slammed the knapsack on the ground, landing with a clutter.
"No, I don't, Dean," This wasn't looking like a good morning for either of them, Sam getting the butt of Dean's verbal abuse, "What?"
"The trench coat!"
Sam's eyes fluttered, "Wait, you sleep with that thing in your...?"
"SAM SHUT UP AND TELL ME WHERE IT IS!"
"I DON'T KNOW!"
"WELL THEN HELP ME FIND IT!"
"DEAN, JUST CALM DOWN!"
"I'M PERFECTLY FREAKING CALM, SAM!"
"Um..."
Both the boys ceased their bickering at the sound of a new voice, their ears perking when they detected someone at the entrance to the bathroom. The brothers turned their heads, both hit by the same strike of shock when they saw who was in the doorway.
It was Castiel, back to normal, and back again. He appeared just as he did in Dean's dream, this time with the beloved trench coat on. It completed him, just as his presence completed the boys, filling the widening void of loss with much needed love of an old friend.
"Neither of you sound calm," He said, oblivious to the situation, "Is everything alright?"
"Cass," Dean couldn't hold back the impulse, not this time. One moment he was on the bed, the next he had his arms wrapped around the angel, squeezing him tightly. It alarmed him how he lost control and, of all things, created one of those dreaded chick flick moments; but he didn't care. This was real, he could tell from the scent of lake water and pine all over his skin, and he wasn't letting this get away from him. Emotions were explosive things, and every now and then a firework could go off, and this was a perfect time.
Castiel squirmed at first, knowing that sudden acts of human contact wasn't usual for Dean. But he went along with it, eventually returning the hug by awkwardly curving his hands around Dean's side, unable to reach for anywhere higher the way the man held him.
"Cass!" Sam shouted, shooting up and walking over. He refrained from joining in a group hug because it was just far too early for cheesy afterschool-special moments. Plus, Dean needed a moment.
"I missed ya, buddy," Dean said airily, overwhelmed with the estranged sensation of relief.
"I missed you as well," Castiel replied, "But I do not see why you were panicking before. You told me I could have my coat returned to me."
"Yeah, I did, didn't I?" He laughed.
"Ahem," Sam coughed, reminding them that, no, he had not left the room. If this kept up, though, he'd just leave to avoid anything possibly scarring and come back when the two were done with their 'reunion moment' and check them out at noon. These were one of the things he only missed to an extent.
Dean let go, stepping back and brushing off. How long was that hug exactly...?
"Right," Dean nodded while Sam rolled his eyes, "We're glad you're back, Cass."
"It is very good to be back, but I feel as though I'm repeating myself now," He said, "Are we going to rest a few days or fight the Leviathans? I presume Bobby gave you the lead before..."
"He did," Sam held up a folded piece of paper, the one he transferred the information scrawled on his palm to.
"Excellent," Castiel nodded.
"So are we gonna wait around here all day or go out and start killing some evil sons of bitches?" Dean said.
It was the first time any of them genuinely grinned in a long, long time.
A/N: When I am in a bad mood writing Destiel always seems to get me out of the dumps. Odd because these two can be depressing as hell sometimes. Anyways, implied slash is implied but never explicitly stated? Aha, what if this actually happened, what if.
Thank you very much for reading! Leave a review! I hope I'm getting better at writing these guys because I can't seem to stop and have lots of other ideas. Yup, thanks again! ~CQO