Castiel watched Dean pace the length of the claustrophobic cabin. The hunter would stalk the short distance from one wall to the other, pausing shortly only to peer out the window to the dark, blank canvas that was the outdoors. It was impossible to see anything out there; the shadowy storm clouds having swallowed the moon a few hours prior. Nevertheless, Dean persisted in looking in a futile effort to check on the state of his Impala—fretting that the raging winds and heavy rain would somehow shatter the windscreen or scratch the paint.
Cas rested his cheek against his fist, his elbow digging into his thigh. He listened to Dean muttering various curse words, each one more vulgar than the last as he had more time to stew over his own restless thoughts. Cas had come to the realisation that Dean knew just as well as he did that the car would be fine after having suffered far worse than bad weather in the past.
Truthfully, the car wasn't really Dean's main concern.
The hunter was simply fuming, and sought to use any distraction he could to keep himself from snapping and saying something he probably shouldn't. But as Dean fastened his pace and clenched his fists, Cas recognised that his composure was bound to break at any second with what was sure to be a violent outburst.
And worse still, Cas was sitting directly in the firing line with nowhere to go.
Not that Dean would dare allow him to leave were he to try. After all, Castiel had escaped and hidden himself here and had been found barely a few days later. It was near impossible to run from the Winchesters and not get caught. Though, considering how little time it took, Cas began to ponder the idea that maybe, deep down, he had wanted to be found. There was only so far he could go before feeling the edges of loneliness and the quiet onset of homesickness.
For the last few months he had come to think of the bunker as his home and had even found use for the bedroom Sam and Dean had fixed for him. He had no need for the bed, but tended to use it anyway as he sat and watched television. And he would, in the privacy of that room, shed his coat and hang it up on the one lonesome hanger in the spacious closet. He would take off his shoes and tuck his socks into them, leaving them neatly by the door as he settled into the space he liked to call his own.
It was where he was most comfortable.
And then, over time, Dean seemed to find his way to Castiel's room; sitting together for hours on end watching Netflix whilst Dean snacked on chips or beef jerky, both of them steadily drinking beer. And Cas found that with Dean's frequent visits the confined four walls of that room became more comfortable still. It started to feel even more like it was his, and he would long to return whenever he was away—because he knew Dean would be there.
He liked sitting shoulder to shoulder with Dean, listening to his commentary whenever they watched something stupid or boring, and then watching Dean still, silent, and enthralled whenever they watched something good. Eventually it had become almost like a routine of theirs: one of them would come home after some time away on a hunt, and they would meet in Castiel's room. Cas would take off his coat, tie, shoes and socks and put them away in their rightful place. Dean would have already kicked his shoes off somewhere in the hallway, leaving them there for Sam to trip over. Then he would flop down onto Castiel's pristinely made bed—swiftly messing up the sheets—and would set up Netflix whilst he waited for Cas to join him.
They didn't even need to utter one word to each other. They each knew what the other wanted.
And after a few weeks of this, Dean settled himself there almost in a state of permanence; falling asleep beside Castiel and curling into him—sometimes with his head resting on Castiel's shoulder. Eventually he barely ever slept in his own room. They never spoke about it; they never needed to. Castiel never felt the need to question why Dean chose to stay there with him, simply because he so desperately wanted Dean to stay, no matter the reason. Most nights Castiel couldn't help but gaze down upon Dean as he slept, though he oftentimes realised that there was something dangerous about it—as though he was falling into something that he had no way to get out of. That he'd be irreversibly changed and forever struck by Dean if he happened to stare for just a little too long. But there was something about Dean that endlessly fascinated Cas; something that he could never quite put his finger on. But it made it near impossible to look away.
There was something about Dean that always left him longing even though Dean was already there beside him, and Cas could never explain it.
All he understood was that he needed Dean, and was constantly in awe at how lucky and undeserving he was to have him. And how nothing seemed to matter more than him.
Castiel would let Dean sleep each night, secretly pleased each time he moved closer or held him.
It was easy. Peaceful.
Cas always cherished those moments.
And now Cas had irrevocably left all of that behind.
He had always dreaded the inevitable day when he would have to leave. The dismay had never been more specific than that: all the details as to who, what, when, where and why unknown; having yet to come into existence. But the sensation had remained all the same, and, eventually, had proven true—for here he was in a rundown, desolate cabin, destined to journey as far as his tired legs could carry him.
As far away from Sam and Dean as he could bear.
Dean paused abruptly, startling Castiel to attention as the hunter turned his menacing glare in his direction. Finally the illusion of restraint had dissipated, exposing the true and honest rage within. Dean was far from forgiving, and Castiel had little hope that he would be any closer to understanding. It wasn't in Dean's nature to simply accept the things that escaped his control—Castiel included. And he lacked the patience needed to comprehend the reality of who or what was right in front of him; even if they or it were standing before him, pleading desperately for forgiveness.
When it came to Dean, you had to talk fast or not talk at all—and for Cas, even after all was said and done and everything had already slipped into the realms of the past, that sense of guilt wouldn't leave him. And somehow, someway, he always found himself shattering Dean's hope and loyalty. And for that, Castiel could never be sorry enough.
Especially for doing it once again: leaving after Dean had told him not to.
"What the hell were you thinking, Cas?" Dean demanded an answer, "taking off like that…"
"Dean—" Cas started.
"No, you weren't thinking," Dean interrupted. His shoulders shook in a quiet rage, the tremors travelling the entire length of his arms to his hands which were still clenched tightly into white-knuckled fists. He ground his teeth together, tightening the sharp edges of his jaw, and his eyes flashed murderous, the usual beauty of soft green fading into unsettling shadow.
It had been a while since Cas had last seen Dean this livid. And he had been the reason why back then, too.
"Dean—" Cas tried again warily. He remained seated on the edge of the cot, elbow still pressed into his thigh, but he lifted his cheek from his hand and tried to hide how afraid he really was. It was torment enough having to leave the bunker, worse still to leave behind his friends—his family, and admittedly maybe something more than that with Dean—but to look into Dean's eyes and to see the reflection of his own betrayal was more than he could endure.
"I asked you not to," Dean barked, "actually, I begged you not to. Begged. Like a dog. Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?"
Castiel opened his mouth to speak, lip quivering.
"That's fucking humiliating, Cas. I needed you and you left me," Dean resumed his pacing, the tremors steadily growing into quakes. Castiel could see Dean's skin redden as heat rushed to his face; as if his blood was literally boiling. "Tell me you weren't thinking. Tell me you were just that stupid."
Cas' fear stuttered in his chest, and he blinked purposely, baffled by Dean's request. Why would Dean want to hear such a blatant lie? A lie that implied that Cas was more ignorant than he was arrogant, when, oftentimes, Cas thought the opposite to be true.
"You weren't thinking. I didn't want you to go but you weren't thinking and you left," Dean ground out, his voice hitching slightly at the end. He ran his hand roughly over his face and through his damp hair.
Dean had burst through the door with his hair soaking and clothes dripping, wet from the storm outside that had caught up to him not long before he had pulled up outside the cabin. And Cas had stood, shocked, staring wordlessly at the state of him—his shirt clinging to his chest, his expression cutting and terrifying, but somehow oddly alluring too.
Quite honestly, Cas had been initially struck not by Dean's anger, but instead by how dangerous and attractive he looked.
Somehow the sensation that Cas sometimes felt below the belt had a way of finding him even at the worst of times—even now as Dean's infuriation intensified.
As Dean pushed his hair back, Castiel couldn't help but be distracted. His heart was still racing, reminding him he was afraid and guilty and ashamed, but there still came a pang of lust for the hunter. And though he knew now was not the time, he took a brief moment to regard Dean as he stood before him. Suddenly Castiel could hardly remember what daft idea had driven him to leave in the first place.
"You can't even lie for me. Wow," Dean remarked through gritted teeth, furious yet somehow unsurprised at how Castiel dared to be so awful. The immense fear struck Cas again as he cast his eyes to the floor, mortified—he resented himself for doing this to Dean. And for allowing himself to become so easily unfocused when his care and attention was needed most. "You know… sometimes you make yourself so damn easy to hate," Dean grunted, shaking his head in disbelief as he finally resumed his tense pacing, "yet I freaking like you anyway. Like an idiot."
"My departure wasn't without reason, Dean," Cas whispered finally, frowning deeply, his tongue still tied and head still pounding.
"You always say that. About everything," Dean sighed, "and I get it. You think you're doing the right thing—"
"I am doing the right thing," Cas interjected, desperate for Dean to understand and to believe him, and maybe even forgive him. Though from Dean's unchanging expression it appeared Castiel's hope for that was simply wasted.
"Did you ever stop to think that maybe I'd rather you just did the wrong thing?" Dean asked, stopping once again to peer out the window. There was now a vein starting to protrude from the skin of Dean's forehead as he struggled to reel in his anger.
"Why would I do that?" Cas felt more lost than ever, and, like he so often did, felt as though he was failing to understand a very simple concept. It was a feeling that continued to alienate him from the Winchesters—from all of humankind for that matter. Honestly, he sometimes felt completely dim and useless.
"Oh I dunno… maybe because I asked—begged—you to," Dean looked at Castiel. His eyes hadn't lost that dark and lethal edge, but for just a second there flickered a certain vulnerability. A quiet sadness. Something heavy and burdened that had become suffocated by the hostility. There had to be more that Dean wished to say but couldn't. Or wouldn't. But Cas could see it nonetheless—though unfortunately he was ultimately perplexed by it and the sight of it removed all the right words from his vocabulary.
"I didn't have a choice this time, Dean," Cas explained hastily.
"No, you've always got a choice," Dean corrected him, "and I think maybe you just made the choice you really wanted to."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You wanted to leave." Dean's accusation hit them both abruptly, leaving them both silent and still and stunned. And evidently they both wished it could be taken back. They both wished the words had never been uttered. But only one of them knew it wasn't true, and Cas opened his mouth to say so but Dean stopped him. "I… I get it, okay? Life here isn't… it isn't exciting. And the bunker is, well, it isn't Heaven. But I tried, you know? To make it a home. Or at least enough like one…"
"That's not true," Cas murmured gently, standing up gracelessly. He half reached towards Dean who, in turn, took two tentative steps back away from him. Castiel withdrew his hand.
"So that's what you think," Dean exhaled. It came out almost like a laugh, but it was completely void of humour. He peered up at the ceiling and blinked purposely. His lips tightened into a firm, thin line.
"Not that you didn't try," Cas clarified carefully, "I meant that it's not true that I wanted to leave. Leaving was actually the last thing I wanted to do."
Dean made the sound again, but it was somehow emptier than before, "Right. Because you know what? Nobody made you do it."
"I know that," Castiel agreed timidly. "I did it to protect you. And Sam."
"That's not your job," Dean argued. It was clear that he was frustrated, having told Castiel time and time again that his obligations didn't include the sacrificial extents he put himself through in an attempt to keep the brothers alive.
Castiel had to disagree. That was entirely his obligation—a duty he served himself and intended to see through. Were the Winchesters to die, Castiel could never forgive himself. He swore to himself that he would sooner die than watch Sam and Dean perish. Which made leaving them so imperative. But that didn't make it any easier.
When Cas failed to offer a response Dean shook his head again, his chest deflating as he came to understand that he sounded like a broken record. There was nothing he could say to change a mind that was already made up. As much as it hurt, and as much as he wished he could, Cas could not give in to him. Castiel couldn't go back to the bunker with Dean because, if he did, then he would be selfishly jeopardising their safety.
"Alright. Okay… I'm done, Cas. You want to run away and leave me? Fine. You want to look me in the eye and let me down? Fine. I won't stop you. I can't."
Every part of Castiel ached to argue, to explain, to apologise, and to submit to him. But he forcefully bit his tongue and nodded his head gravely. His blue eyes were tainted in grief, his every instinct suddenly conflicted so strongly that he almost made to follow Dean out that door. Castiel's heart was pulling him toward the hunter, but his mind was persuading him to stay where he was.
It was for the best.
Dean opened the door to the storm, and the harsh wind ripped the handle clean from his hand and near sent the hunter to the floor as it smashed against the wall with a loud crash. Heavy rain gushed in through the open doorway, the wind making it more like a dense mist that very nearly drenched Castiel as he rushed forward to close the door. The hinges resisted at first, the wind too strong, but Cas didn't need to exert much energy to force it shut.
"Perhaps you shouldn't try to drive in this kind of weather," Cas suggested. He placed a hand gently on Dean's shoulder though the hunter had already steadied himself and was standing solidly on his own two feet. And then Dean shrugged off Castiel's hand and drifted to the opposite side of the room, wanting to put as much distance between them as possible.
"No, no. I'll be fine. I'll just, uh, I'll call Sam and tell him I'll be a while. I'll drive slow," Dean said and dug his phone from his pocket.
"Don't be ridiculous, Dean. You can't see a thing out there."
"Oh so now I'm being ridiculous? Pot calling kettle black, don't you think?" Dean grumbled. He focused on his phone, his hands shaking as he found Sam's number and tried to call him. Cas watched on and slowly seated himself on the edge of the cot again. "Come on—" Dean grunted, shaking his phone and trying once more. He held the phone to his ear, his expression becoming more aggrieved as he couldn't get through to his brother.
"The signal might be poor here, now that I think about it," Cas murmured.
"Thanks, captain obvious," Dean groaned, unceremoniously shoving his phone back into his pocket and turning his back to Castiel.
"The storm should pass in a few hours," Cas said, trying to sound hopeful for Dean's sake. If Dean hated him then perhaps Cas would find it easier to watch him go. At least then he could find comfort in knowing that Dean didn't want him anymore. That all that begging for him to stay was a thing of the past; a hollow sentiment that no longer applied. Then at least Cas could remind himself that he couldn't go back to the bunker when he was no longer welcome there.
Deep down though, Cas knew that the door to the bunker would forever be open to him. Though he didn't deserve it. He was trying hard to force himself to forget that there would always be a home waiting for him.
Dean sat down with his back to the wall, his knees near pressed to his chest. He hung his head low and crossed his arms atop his knees. All his previous rage had withdrawn to his core, presumably settling there in wait—it could never truly pass. Not when it came to Castiel, at least.—now the hunter appeared small, maybe even numb.
Castiel couldn't be sure what was worse: Dean's wrath, or his grief.
"You can take the bed if you want. I have no use for it," Castiel offered and stood up, gesturing hopelessly to the newly vacated space.
Dean refused to answer at first and didn't lift his head, but then his voice finally came as a quiet, almost indiscernible whisper, "I can't sleep."
"I could always assist with that," Cas reminded him. He lifted his hand. He could quite easily knock Dean out for a few hours: giving him the rest he needed but couldn't obtain on his own. Though Cas didn't expect Dean to accept his offer now when he had always turned it down in the past.
"I'm good," Dean grunted.
"The offer still stands if you happen to change your mind."
"I won't."
"Even still," Cas mumbled. He stood there, his shoulders slumped and his arms hung loosely at his sides. His trench coat suddenly looked two sizes too big, and it felt like it too—as though Cas were suddenly wearing another's clothes. The body he'd grown accustomed to over these past few years felt awfully like a shell he was trying and failing to fit into. It felt wrong to be betraying Dean like this.
"Cas? Were you unhappy? In the bunker, I mean?" Dean asked tersely.
"It was the happiest I had ever been," Cas admitted. He knew he ought to lie, if not just to make Dean eager to leave him behind. But it hurt enough to run, let alone to try to lie as to why he was doing it.
"Then why?" Dean looked to him, his eyes desperate.
"I told you… to keep you and Sam safe."
"That's bullshit," Dean said quickly, "distancing yourself from us doesn't make our lives any safer. More the opposite, actually."
Castiel shrugged weakly. It was his turn to pace now as he stepped from the door to the back of the cabin and to the door again. But there was no resentment driving him like there had been for Dean—he was just restless and conflicted. This could very well be the last time he would ever see Dean. If he was lucky then he'd get at least a few hours with him, but there was always the chance of the storm clearing even sooner, and then Dean would be lost to him forever.
Cas was struck by pain at the very thought.
"Look, Cas, we can still make this work. I was bugging you… coming into your room all the time. I can give you your space, alright?" Dean said, still trying to reason with him.
"You weren't bugging me," Cas corrected him, "I appreciate our time together. I like when you come into my room."
"Well then I'll do it more often," Dean offered easily.
"That isn't the point, Dean," Castiel sighed heavily.
"I'm making it the point."
"It doesn't work like that," Cas shook his head dejectedly, "if only it were that simple."
Dean laughed miserably and dipped his head again, burying tighter within himself as he tried to retain his pride. It became evident to Castiel that Dean didn't wish to beg again, but he was already becoming desperate enough to do so. Cas was unintentionally humiliating Dean all over again, though he never asked Dean to fight for him. He never asked, but he knew he didn't need to. Because Dean was going to do it anyway—which made it Castiel's fault.
"Please, man," Dean whispered finally, "I need you, okay? That's never changed. I need you and that's all that matters."
"We have to think rationally," Cas murmured, clearing his throat of the lump that was beginning to form there. Cas had left without saying good bye for this very reason: Dean made it impossible to go. Dean wasn't someone he could say good bye to. It hurt too much. And maybe he was just selfish enough to end that pain by going home.
He had tried to keep Dean from stopping him.
"When have we ever been rational thinkers?" Dean pointed out.
"That's exactly why we ought to start now," Cas reasoned.
They both fell silent again. The wind continued to rage outside, making the cabin whistle quietly as the heavy gusts slipped through all the fine cracks in the windows and walls. The window panes shook with every deep crack of thunder and the lights flickered, threatening to throw them into darkness at any minute. Though Cas wasn't afraid. The cabin walls could cave in on him and he wouldn't care—if it weren't for Dean that is. Cas could endure any kind of pain, no matter how much or for how long, just as long as Dean was safe. Even if that meant Dean was only safest when he was away from him.
Dean was shivering, though he was making a noticeable attempt to hide it from Castiel as he shifted on his spot on the floor, masking his tremor as plain discomfort. Castiel saw right through him and wordlessly stood, shrugged off his coat, and offered it to Dean. The hunter refused to take it and turned his head away as though he couldn't see Cas standing right in front of him.
"Why do you always have to be so stubborn?" Castiel sighed and knelt down, carefully draping the coat over Dean as best as he could.
"We've been over this, Cas. Pot calling kettle black," Dean grumbled. He seemed resistant at first, leaning further back against the wall with nowhere to go, but eventually he accepted the gesture in stoic silence.
"You keep saying that as if I know what it means," Castiel frowned.
Dean couldn't help but chuckle—genuinely this time, with the faintest flicker of admiration gleaming in his eyes. "There you are, Cas," Dean smiled gently, before the edges of his lips turned back into a saddened frown. He pulled the coat closer, burying his arms into the material and then nestled his chin into the collar, drawing in as much warmth as he could. Before Castiel could make sense of what Dean meant, or try to ask the hunter to clarify for him, the lights abruptly blew out, finally leaving them in total darkness just as Cas had predicted.
"The storm feels worse now," Cas commented, "I sense it'll only get rougher still."
"Feels?" Dean asked. Castiel suddenly felt Dean's hand on his arm; his fingers carefully grazed the material of his suit jacket and then gave his wrist a soft squeeze.
"Well, yes. I can feel it in the air. I suppose as a human you can't, really," Cas replied sheepishly, "which is why you depend on your… what do you call it? Weatherman?"
"I swear… sometimes it's like you know everything and nothing at all," Dean said.
"What do you—?"
"You've got to come home, Cas," Dean whispered. His hand was still grasping Castiel's wrist.
"I told you why I can't," Cas sighed regretfully.
"Everything and nothing at all," Dean repeated and then finally let Cas go.
Castiel's wrist suddenly felt very bare and cold and unprotected—he very much wished Dean had kept hold of him, even if just for a little while longer. With his hand holding him, Castiel could, for a moment, feel as though they were tethered to one another; that where Dean went Cas would always follow; that such a simple touch could make reality itself disappear even for just a second.
Castiel reached out and placed his hand on Dean's shoulder in the dark. He hoped that the sensation Dean's touch brought to him could also be given in return. Maybe then Dean would well and truly believe that Cas never wished to go—that Castiel was nothing but truthful when he said that he always appreciated the time he and Dean spent together. That he would miss him.
"I don't understand," Castiel admitted, "everything and nothing at all?"
"Come home," Dean said.
"Dean?"
"Come home, Cas," Dean said again, "you didn't want to leave? Well don't."
"Dean."
"No, you listen to me," Dean said, this time grabbing Cas by the shoulders and pulling him in closer. "I'm not leaving here without you. I meant that the first time I said it, and I still mean it now."
Cas could feel more than the storm that was raging outside. He could feel Dean. He could feel the heat rising under Dean's skin, the beating of his heart as it began to thrum more rapidly inside his chest; he could even sense the hairs on Dean's arms as they stood on end. Something was shifting. Changing. There was something about Dean that Cas had often felt before, but now it came to him more strongly than ever, and Cas couldn't understand why.
"Don't you get it? I love you, you dumbass. I need you because I love you," Dean said.
Castiel was startled.
Love was a word he had heard being thrown around a lot ever since he fell. And for the longest time the word itself held little to no weight. It was just a word. It was something one said to another, but Cas had never understood why or what it really meant. Humans said a lot of things, but nothing else was quite the same as the words they used for love: they said need, want, desire, passion, and devotion—but in the end they all come back to the word 'love'.
And finally Castiel had come to realise that it was important, even if he didn't understand it.
But then, without knowing it, the word started to become something more to him. There came to him a faint fluttering in his chest that he couldn't explain, and an invisible tether that kept pulling him back to Dean. Sometimes when he looked at Dean he felt something so utterly indescribable, but so very divine. And slowly, Cas couldn't help but to start applying words to the sensation, and strangely he found that they always fit.
He felt a desire for Dean, a true and most passionate yearning to be with him. He felt a want so strong that he oftentimes couldn't help but to selfishly take; never having left Dean before now without some lingering and uncontrollable intention to return.
He needed Dean, and apparently Dean needed him just as much in return.
And eventually Castiel came back to the same word he had never understood for all those years.
Love.
Maybe, just maybe, the word didn't just matter, it wasn't just important… it mattered to him. He felt it for so long but never believed that love—real love—was in him. Until now. Now he couldn't begin to fathom how he hadn't believed it all along.
Because he loved Dean too.
"Dean," Cas breathed. He drew in nearer to the hunter, his hands seeking him in the dark—and because he could sense him, his touch simply found him.
Dean's hands gripped the material of Castiel's jacket at the shoulders, holding tight as though he was always going to refuse to let go, were Cas to ask that of him. But Cas wasn't going to ask. He couldn't. Though he still knew that he should.
"I love you, Cas," Dean said quietly, his breath hot against the skin of Castiel's cheek as he leaned in closer. "You have to come home."
"I should leave because I love you," Cas told him, feeling so disastrously torn.
Dean's lips carefully grazed Cas' in a near kiss. His hands pulled at Castiel's coat; desperate not to let go.
Castiel's head was swimming, and both Dean and the storm that continued to rage around them became overwhelming. There seemed to be hardly any reason left within him. All the strength it had taken him to leave in the first place was breaking, leaving him tired and vulnerable to all his own desires and selfish ideas.
Dean wasn't someone he could say good bye to. Even when it meant everything to do so.
Dean's lips pressed more firmly against his; his kiss full of hopeless need and eternal promise and unconditional love. His kiss was his final plea for Cas to make the wrong choice. It was his last try to keep the man he loved from leaving him. And it was taking everything to keep Cas from giving in.
Dean's hand moved to gently caress Castiel's cheek—warm skin to warm skin. The very energy of Dean radiated from his touch, making Cas feel utterly and irreversibly weak.
Finally, with all previous arguments rendered senseless, Castiel kissed him back.
Thanks for reading, guys! Please comment any requests or story prompts you might have for me :)