Author's note: This was written as part five of the Christmas present for a dear friend of mine, which consists of fics written based on prompts she wrote for me. It's set in the midst of episode 4 of season 5, "The End," when Castiel waits for Dean by the side of the road. I don't own Supernatural, but I do love writing about it. Enjoy!
"I'll just—wait here then."
Castiel slowly lowered the cell phone to his side and looked around. The pavement next to him was damp with the remnants of a rainstorm from earlier in the day. Mist swirled its way slowly across the ground, twining its way around the many obstacles in its way, the trees, rocks, and Castiel himself included. It was cold, but he did not feel it. There were many things he did not feel.
But there were some things he did.
At that moment, as he gazed as the silent phone in his hand, he felt an odd sense of bereavement. It was not unusual for Dean to hang up in the middle of sentences, but for some reason this time was different. He hadn't wanted Dean to hang up. And no piece of information in the vast library that was his mind could explain why.
Castiel didn't like not understanding things.
He clenched his fist tighter around the phone as he released his breath into the night. It streamed out from between his lips in a misty haze, evaporating into the air. He watched it go, until the last molecule of his breath was invisible even to his eyes. He understood that. He understood why breath did what it did, where it went, how it changed, everything there was to understand.
He didn't understand why Dean made him feel.
There was something about Dean, he had decided long ago, that was markedly different than any other human he had known. Granted, he had never known a tremendous number of humans, but Dean was different. There was something about him that always drew Castiel's eyes, that made him want to just sit and watch and see what Dean would do next. Dean was unexpected. Dean was different. Dean was real.
Nobody had ever seemed so real to Castiel before.
Even before Castiel had ever set foot on Earth, before he first asked Jimmy Novak for his consent, he had been fascinated by Dean. And it was hard not to be—Dean was indeed fascinating. He wasn't bound by the rules of either side. Neither the good nor the lawless held any attraction for him, but he preferred to live by his own set of rules for life. And Castiel couldn't help but sit and watch him run, dumbfounded and amazed at the same time.
Dean was an enigma and a warrior and a delight all rolled up into one.
He exhaled again and watched the mist drift upwards toward the stars. Dean was a puzzle to him. From the first moment, Castiel had always been drawn to him, as if he couldn't help it. He had believed that Dean would be one who could see him, hear him. He had been wrong. He had felt a sense of loss, and regretted it immediately when he realized his voice had caused Dean pain. He hadn't meant to hurt him.
He would never mean to hurt him.
When he at last stood before Dean in the flesh for the first time in that barn on that stormy night, it had taken every ounce of will to not cry out as Dean held the knife that stabbed through his flesh. It didn't cause him pain, certainly, but the fact that it was Dean, his Dean, who held the knife, hurt more than anything he had yet experienced. But why was he always his Dean in his thoughts?
And why did that make him feel a throbbing ache in the center of his chest?
More and more often, Castiel had been noticing himself regarding Dean with a sort of a possessive pride. Despite constantly reminding himself that pride was a sin, it hadn't abated. If anything, it had gotten worse. Perhaps, Castiel thought, it was because he had raised him from Perdition. Such actions do create a bond, and a profound bond at that.
But perhaps their bond was rooted yet deeper still.
Dean had always thought that the hand print on his shoulder was due to the fact that Castiel needed to grab some part of him to drag him forcibly from Hell. He believed the raised scar had been caused by the violence of his removal from the pit. He was wrong. Castiel had pulled him out, it was true, but not in the way Dean imagined.
Not dragged, but cradled.
When confronted with a soul so bent and cracked and tarnished and still so precious, Castiel hadn't been able to help it. He had folded his wings, reached down, and gathered him gently to himself. As he wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close, one hand on his shoulder, Dean's head had lolled forward and made contact with Castiel's chest, just over his heart. In that moment, Castiel knew Dean. Every flaw, every wrinkle, every smile, every tear, every gunshot, every battle, won or lost, every moment, remembered or forgotten.
And Dean was beautiful.
He had not held back an awestruck smile as he looked down at the battered face and pulled him closer to his chest. "Come," he had whispered in the depths of Hell as he brushed one tentative finger over a bloody and bruised cheekbone. "Come and live." And so, with the man who was to be the protector of the Earth clutched tight in his arms, Castiel had arisen.
It was hard not to love someone whose soul had been laid bare for you from the first, he reflected as he stood there in the dark.
Perhaps, Castiel thought, he had never had a choice.