Author's Note:

This is very short Destiel ficlet that I wrote up and decided to post on a whim. It has not been beta-ed, but I've tried my best to format things correctly, check my grammar, and all that jazz. However, if you see some sort of typo or glaring mistake in my prose, feel free to drop me a line. If the response to this is encouraging I might continue with it. We'll just have to see

This scenario takes place sometime between 7x2 and 7x17. I imagine that Emmanuel began implanting himself in others' dreams without realizing it and in that space he was able to remember who he truly was.

(See end for more notes.)

It just wasn't a whiskey sort of evening.

Dean came to this conclusion after downing and then promptly vomiting up a couple bottles of the stuff.

After his initial indulgence, Dean recalled flopping onto one the motel's single beds. His face had been pressed into freshly laundered pillow cases, but they'd still smelt stale. His mind had wandered and tripped over passing thoughts. There'd been slick black pools of leviathan and headless corpses and inexpertly tied ties. At some point he'd heard the slam of a door.

Sam had entered their shoddy motel room, swept past the unsightly oilcloth curtained window, and bullied a near unconscious Dean into the bathroom. It had taken Sam a couple of tries to prop Dean upright against the bacteria rich toilet bowl. Eventually he'd been successful. He'd then proceeded to open Dean's grumbling mouth and shove his pointer and middle finger as far down his brother's throat as was humanly possible. It was not an overly pleasant experience for either Winchester sibling.

Once Sam was satisfied that Dean would avoid alcohol poisoning for the time being, he guided his brother back over to the closest bed. Dean slurred insults at Sam, but the younger brother refused to take the bait by offering a response. It was late. He was tired in more ways than sixteen and it just wasn't worth a drunken shouting match. He covered Dean with the starched and rose emblazoned motel duvet and turned off the bedside table lamp before climbing onto his own sunken mattress. He could hear Dean mumbling even still and said a little internal prayer that there would be no repeat puke performance during the night.

Bile burned at the back of Dean's throat. He'd thrown up plenty of booze, but so much of it had already hit his bloodstream by the time Sam had arrived. He felt restless and heavy at the same time. His eyes drooped, but his back ached from where Sam's elbow had been pressed into it. It had been the only way to keep him upright for a while there. Dean blinked a few times in the semi-darkness and felt himself drifting. It was a cool minute before he realized that his view was no longer of their moldy motel walls.

Rather, it was a bright and true-green pasture Dean saw. There were shrubs and flowers lining the wide clearing he was standing in. Thick trees blocked his view of anything beyond the immediate. The sky above him was crystal clear— the blue of early day-trips in the impala with his father and toddler brother. The wind blew sharply, but not unpleasantly. It was a beautiful day. The park was unfamiliar and this concerned Dean.

His dreams were normally re-runs: repeats of his greatest hits and conquests or, more often, a series of brutal and unrelenting nightmares. Sometimes he rehashed old failures and mistakes. Sometimes these horrors mutated into entirely different beasts. Sometimes his memories of hell mixed with reality in the pursuit of un-matched terror. But, regardless, there was always a blue streak of recognition. His dreams were always familiar and this dream was not. He couldn't even identify pieces of his experiences that had perhaps been sculpted into something new. It was all fresh out of the packaging.

He wasn't alone though. A man stood at the far end of clearing in outdated attire. He held in his hands a large spool wound with string. The string stretched upward, seemingly defying gravity, and Dean saw it tugging at the edge of a multi-colored kite. The kite bobbed and fluttered in the strong wind. It never fell or faltered. It just kept flying.

In anyone else this scene might have been a calming one. It only put Dean on edge. Something was off. Something was here. And then Dean saw him.

Castiel. On the opposite end of the field from the faceless man sat an angel in a trench coat and a sloppy tie. Dean froze for a second. He wondered if it was all a trick. Was he sure he was dreaming? This wasn't so out of the ordinary. Cas had appeared in his dreams on a regular basis for some time. Occasionally those appearances had actually been Castiel attempting to contact his subconscious. Other times, it had just been dream Cas— a marble carved memory. Dean had only just made the decision to approach the form of his friend when he suddenly found himself standing beside the very bench his angel was hunched over.

There was a moment of silence and then Dean sat down too.

"I know it's not you, Cas. It can't be you"—Dean found it necessary to clear his throat—"I saw those bigmouths rip you from the inside out."

Castiel did not turn to look at Dean, but kept his head downcast.

"The eyes of humans often perceive reality at a less than perfect rate."

"So, what?" Dean huffed, "you telling you me you're alive out there? You're sitting in some diner eating a cheeseburger and waiting for us to figure it out? Well, congratulations. You're wasting your time. We ain't looking."

Castiel lifted his head and there was sadness in his features. He stared at Dean, his gaze intense. Dean met this prolonged glance with a clenched jaw.

"You're angry," murmured Cas.

"You're damn straight I'm angry!"—and Dean was yelling now. He hadn't wanted to yell, but he couldn't help it. It all came boiling out of him—"You betrayed us! You betrayed us and then you went away. You left. You walked into that goddamn lake and all that came out was your dirty coat! And I'm not dealing, Cas. I used to deal. I used to be able to take this stuff in stride and I'm losing it over here. I'm cracking. I'm probably 90% Jack Daniels at this point and crossing my fingers that Sam'll lend me a part of his liver when all's said and done. And you know the worst part?"

Dean lost a little steam.

"I might be able to forgive you for all the shit you've put me and Sammy through. I just might have it in me. But you wouldn't even hear it! I can't even forgive you, you son of a bitch!"

Silence. Cas didn't move. Dean slid his hands down his face and took a deep breath.

"I could fill a book —twenty books— with the stuff I don't tell Sam. I can't tell him these things."

Dean paused. "I could tell you. I could tell you if you weren't a pile of angel dust. But I can't even pray to you now, can I? Nobody hears it now, Cas. Nobody."

Dean could feel moisture welling up behind his eyes and he swallowed hard to stop it. It was ridiculous to cry, he thought. Ridiculous. He hadn't had anyone to confide in for the majority of his life. It made no sense to miss that luxury now. The wind ran through his hair and picked up the edges of his plaid shirt. He thought it might have gotten colder, but he wasn't sure.

"If I could go back, Dean—"

"But you can't. You can't go back."

The two shared another hard look.

"I'm sorry." Castiel looked to be in pain as he spoke, as if the inadequacy of the words he chose was physically affecting. "I became… I became what I always despised. And I did it at the cost of your friendship and the lives of thousands and you have to know, Dean— It is my biggest regret. My biggest guilt. I deserve much worse than I've been given. I should have to atone for what I've done. I should have to pay, but I know nothing will ever cancel out the destruction and the pain I alone have been the cause of. Nothing can reverse mistakes… or bring back what I've lost because of them."

"But, that's the kicker," Dean scoffed, "You didn't even lose me! I'm still right here! Waiting! You dick!"

Cas smiled in a half-broken way and before Dean could process what was happening he felt the angel's arms close around him in a fierce hug. It took a second, but then Dean wrapped his arms around Cas in return and buried his face in the lapel of that familiar tan coat.

"I miss you," Dean mumbled into the fabric, so quiet it was almost inaudible.

"Please come back."

"I can't," replied Cas. "Not now."

"This isn't real is it? Any of it," Dean asked, maintaining their embrace.

"I don't know."

Their hug was now stretching past a reasonable length, but neither of them had the heart to pull away. Dean could hear Cas's breath coming in shorter and shorter bursts and he could feel a knot begin to twist inside his stomach. Far on the other side of the meadow the nameless man began to laugh with uncontained glee. His kite was spinning and spiraling through the air, performing a series of acrobatics that should have grounded it. It kept flying despite this.

Because they were still hugging, Dean didn't have to look at Cas when he said what he said next.

"There's a lot I never say. I've been pushing crap toward the back of my skull since… well since I can remember. I just shove it down, you know?"—Dean shifted slightly under the weight of Castiel's arms, but he did not retreat—"I don't think about it and I don't let it be a part of me and I drown it with liquor and women and just about any other vice I can sink my teeth into. And this is one of those things I don't talk about. And I'm pretty sure this isn't even real. And I'm pretty sure you're about the only person I could ever say this to. So I'm gonna say it. I may not have another chance, right? I—"

The words caught in Dean's throat.

Cas pulled out of their hug and looked at Dean in a way that made him feel utterly transparent. He could almost sense Cas boring holes into his forehead and rooting around in his brain. And that's when it hit Dean like a wall of paved cement. Words were hard. Words didn't ever come out right. Not even Cas could manipulate them to his ultimate will. They always left something to be desired. Actions though— actions were almost scrutable on occasion. So, he looked at Cas and let go of every barrier between him and the things he'd been squashing since birth. He just felt. He just let himself feel something for once.

He leaned forward to touch his forehead to Castiel's and Cas responded with minimal surprise at the gesture. Their noses slid against each other as they hesitantly crossed a line into unmapped territory. They stayed there, just like that for some time. It was a contented, but charged sort of contact. Their mouths hovered near each other, but didn't touch. Dean could feel the warmth of Castiel's breath pass over his slightly parted lips and slowly —painfully slowly— he moved forward to close the remaining space between them. Each movement was equally terrifying and exhilarating.

And then their lips made contact for the very first time in just about the chaste-est kiss that Dean could ever recall being a part of. It was short and soft and when they pulled their heads back Dean heard Cas quietly gasp. This was what he'd been missing. Was the hole inside of him really so easily filled? He figured there was only one way to find out for sure.

He pushed his lips against Castiel's with a new found fervor and Cas responded enthusiastically. It was sloppy and frantic. Dean's mouth opened hungrily against Cas's and their top teeth clinked together. Cas clumsily reached his arm up Dean's neck and into his hair, tugging gently. A little moan escaped Dean's throat and hummed against Cas's lips as he felt the shaking fingers of the angel trace circles on his scalp. Slowly they found a way to fit themselves together and as new and unfamiliar as it all was, Dean couldn't remember ever feeling anything better. He bit at Cas's bottom lip. He traced his tongue over the indention his teeth had made and felt giddy.

There were long kisses that seemed to burn and ended in huffs of shortened breath. There were little kisses, like the first, to act as pauses and silent confirmations. There were kisses placed over eyelids and cheekbones and foreheads. There was a moment when Dean wondered if angels could get hickies and soon proved that, indeed, they could. Their mouths began to blur around the edges and a group of heavy clouds rolled in. These formations seemed to be made solely of static electricity and when their rain started to fall it tasted like warm cherries and pastry.

Castiel's lips felt like rough cotton. His neck smelt of detergent. The sound of the rain seemed distorted in Dean's ears.

Lightning struck the man with the kite. He continued to laugh. His kite did a barrel roll. The rain did little to weigh it down.

"This isn't goodbye," Cas whispered against Dean's jaw.

He felt himself being forcefully pulled from Castiel's hands. His eyelids trembled and shut against the increasing downpour.

Dean opened them to a motel room with plasticized curtains and yellowing floral bedspreads.

He had a headache. His mouth tasted even worse than when he'd fallen asleep. Sam was in the shower and Dean could hear the spray of water against tile through the bathroom door. He wanted to go back. He closed his eyes and tried to conjure up the clearing, but it was no use. The location, once unknown to Dean was becoming that way again. Every move Dean made served to erase a little part of the vision. He tried to shut out reality. Reality was hard.

That place had been so easy. So had those moments. So had kissing Cas.

So had kissing Cas.

And remembering the pressure of those lips and the soft scrape of that stubble sent Dean upright with a jolt. His desire to… do that wasn't something he admitted to himself. He always tried desperately to dismiss his feelings as being of brotherly intent. His stomach and groin often told him otherwise, but that wasn't overly difficult to disregard. He cared about Cas, sure. He wanted Cas to be around as much as possible. When Cas had been alive he'd caught himself considering calling the angel to him for more and more frivolous reasons. Sometimes he'd allowed himself to fantasize about what life with Cas would be like. Traveling in the Impala with Cas. Watching movies at Bobby's with Cas. Arguing over radio stations with Cas. Sharing motel rooms with Cas.

It would be different than living with a brother. It would be undoubtedly different. But that didn't make his interest… that didn't mean… did it? Dean lay on his back with the cracked motel ceiling above him and sifted through those intentions, opening them up for scrutiny. It hadn't been a fluke. Just recalling the dream sent a certain sort of warmth to his abdomen.

He wanted that.

Had he always wanted that?

Something smushed up against the back of his skull told him he had.

A million excuses flooded to the forefront of Dean's mind, but for the first time ever he chose to dismiss those things instead of his initial impulses. Maybe all of this was true. Maybe he was… something else— and that was okay. Maybe he didn't know himself as well as he thought. It didn't really matter.

Cas wasn't a phone call away anymore.

Dean let himself shut his eyes. Castiel was still swimming there, closer than he'd ever been before and yet forever far away. Dean didn't know what to do. So, he did what he always did when he was at a loss.

He prayed.

He prayed to an angel who couldn't possibly hear.

And miraculously, above all odds, the angel heard.

Additional Notes:

This fic is loosely inspired by Act1, Scene7 of Angels in America - Part One: Millennium Approaches by Tony Kushner. Funnily enough that scene has little to do with Angels and more to do with shared dream space and the nature of revelation. The title of the fic is lifted directly from that scene as is a line in the work itself: "…there was always a blue streak of recognition."

AiA is one of my absolute favorite plays and I would recommend it highly to anyone who has ever taken an interest in writing. It's quite the masterpiece and is surprisingly literary for a piece of drama.