ii.
Dean turns his head in Nadya's direction, but her face gives away nothing. She glances at him briefly but doesn't bother to offer an explanation unprompted. She doesn't even look interested in giving one prompted, if Dean wants to be honest with what he reads off her.
"Is there a point in asking you how long I was unplugged?"
"No."
Oh, well. Back to assessing the changes it is, then. From large and a bit industrial, kept for exclusively meal-making purposes, the kitchen has, with no context so far, morphed into something ripped straight out of a family friendly cough syrup commercial or whatever it is that an Ikea catalog has in its extremely pricey rustic section for fucking losers. Now, the former nearly cafeteria wonder made space for a relatively small table with only two chairs in the heart of the room. Along the yellowish walls, there's a row of homely and bright wooden counters, accompanied by the obligatory hanging cupboards, retro looking stove and fridge in a really shitty pastel blue, fucking both, a too small sink and–
"Nad, for the love of fuck, why the china closet?"
Nadya, most likely processing the nickname and assessing Dean's fucking damage, looks at him bewildered in a Castiel-like manner. Dean kind of wants to beg her not to do that.
To Dean's endless surprise, she clicks her tongue in absolute disgust.
"You know what, I always hated kitchens like these," she comments. "My first husband, he thought it's more traditional this way," she adds, giving Dean a deep, meaningful look. "He thought that when you put a woman into that warm, soft kitchen, she stays there, becomes that."
"I'm glad you said first. That implies you kicked him in the ass."
"More or less. Joke's on him anyway, I still don't know how to cook," Nadya says as she pulls the chair away to help him sit down."
Dean stops her. It just doesn't feel right, this whole thing. "Thanks, but you don't have to baby me here. I can help around, just tell me what needs to be done."
"You look weak, you should sit down. I'm almost finished and if I asked you to fold napkins that would honestly be like babying you."
"Oh, come on," Dean groans, giving her a really pensive look. "Anything to get my mind off shit."
"Fine." She sighs. "Make the table, I'll go get the cart. The cloth is in the low drawer, you already know where the porcelain is," she decides and attempts to leave him to his own devices.
"The cart?"
"Yeah, the one with fancy looking covered dishes? And vignettes?" she adds with sarcasm that for a moment strikes not only her voice but also her face.
Immediately, she contains both with flawless artistry and disappears behind the tall fridge.
Only just as she opens it, Dean realizes that, obscured by the damn thing, there's another door, probably leading to whatever was left of the real kitchen and pantry. Taking one more smarter look around the pulled outta Lucille Ball's ass nightmare, he also notices that the doors leading to the dining room are closed.
This is the first time he even acknowledges them because they were always wide open.
Which is interesting because Dean's bathroom aside, there is a rule not to close any doors in the house. The thing about doors is that if Castiel doesn't want them somewhere and feels like keeping things (Dean) in, he just cancels the fucking doors.
He marks that problem up for later. It's not like scanning every single room for exits has any point in the house where you're always found.
Dean gets the tablecloth from the heavy drawer (really solid wood, that. Someone's pulling all the stops with the love nest scenography), then puts it in place, feeling like he's sprinkling a mountain of fire with a watering can.
As he decides the strategy regarding plates and silverware, Nadya comes back with the cart in tow. Turns out there really are vignettes. Turns out also Castiel apparently is going to be eating today, since there's one mystery plate for him as well which, what the fuck.
"Why is this fucking thing closed? It's never been closed. Is that what the extreme makeover is about? A distraction?"
"We can't go in there anymore."
"It's the goddamn dining room, Nad."
"This is the dining room now," she says, pointing at the stupid table. "We literally can't go in there. Something pushes us away. Like..." Nadya tries to explain, but the discomfort on her face and the too long pause make it clear she has no words to describe whatever is going on regarding the door.
He decides to make it easier for her and he cuts in.
"Lemme guess, magic?" Dean asks, knowing the answer and feeling very, very tired.
"Yes." She nods, visibly relieved. "I don't know anything else, but even if I did, I wouldn't be allowed to tell you."
"Okay, I get that. I'll take it from here. You should go. Tell everyone to go to their rooms and not come anywhere near here under any circumstances. I have no idea what's about to happen, but I can't have anyone on the line of fire."
"Dean, I have to set the dishes and serve the food, you can't be doing that. This will affront him."
"Yeah, I can. If Lord Bitch comes complaining, tell him it was my direct order and if he has beef with that, my face is always open for hitting and suggestions," Dean says, as hard and final as he can. "Besides, I bet he carefully picked those pretty counters with a dream of fucking me on them in his mind, so you don't wanna be here for this, either."
Nadya cringes. "I really can't."
Her tone makes it clear that, god, she wants to.
"Jesus, tell him I asked for a baby boost herbal cocktail or whatever. Go get those herbs. And a chicken. Scratch that, chickens." Dean can see he's almost there, so he throws in an extra to convince Nadya she really should be as far away as it gets. "By the way, you think there's any option to dance the fuck tango with getting him to repeatedly bang his stupid head against a cupboard or something?"
They both contemplate the counter set in uncomfortable silence, considering the possibilities. Dean is genuinely sorry for whatever visuals Nadya is currently having. He's having them too. His empty stomach is begging him for a permission to throw up with anything, even itself.
"I'll pass the message on. I'll get the fucking chickens. But I'll say you threatened me with doing something stupid to yourself, so know that if he asks, and he does ask, this will come back to you."
"Good," Dean smiles. "Now scram."
Nadya sighs, nervous and deep, but she goes.
He stares at the table, at the precious porcelain everything and he decides that if Castiel thinks this is a fucking game, a fucking game he will get. Dean puts the plates on a heap close to the center of the table, but closer still to his chair, minimally out of Castiel's reach, if it's his hands and not psychic powers or some fucking tentacles he wants to use to grab them. Same with the labeled lidded trays and the silvers he just throws on a haphazard pile. And the stupid juice jug with both glasses, yeah that goes on his half too.
After making sure none of those can be reached from the chair on the other side, he sits down and waits, forcing oblivious innocence on his face. Gotta throw a little Stepford into this Springfield shit.
And grow a beautiful, beautiful garden of this is so not what I wanteds in Castiel's head. He wanted one for Dean after all, fucking didn't he.
Things can bloom wherever they want. And no god has a say in that.
The feather rustle comes, unmistakable and obnoxious, somewhere behind him. Dean is too alert all the fucking time, in a permanent mode of expecting things to happen. For once, he doesn't startle when the sound reaches him and is about to be followed by the inevitable. Because it's gonna follow.
"Hello, Dean."
And look at that, it did. Ten points for Deanffindor or whatever.
"Yeah, yeah, I heard you. Now sit your ass, your bowl of souls and babies' blood is gonna get cold," he groans.
Dean can't see if Castiel is in any way offended or even affected. But, since walking past him he has the nerve to put a hand on his arm and kiss his cheek in lieu of a more entitled greeting (seriously? He just fucking washed himself now he's filthy again), he's probably not.
Didn't even look at him, doing that. Like Dean's a trophy taxidermy to pat out of habit, a good luck charm. In this particular moment Dean isn't even sure which aspect insults him the most, but to not waste any time on thinking about it, he just goes with fucking everything.
Castiel takes his seat and if he notices the table setting power move, he doesn't comment. This time his eyes do land on Dean, which is annoying, so Dean is kinda glad he went with everything, after all. Still hunched awkwardly in pain, he looks up to meet his eyes, shooting pure unfiltered empty nothing instead of daggers.
Castiel's unreadable expression shifts into something soft and sad, like he's in any way capable of hurting when he sees Dean like this. He snaps his fingers again and all the nausea, stomach pain and headache disappear as if they were never there. Dean feels himself going a bit limp as the long held strain escapes his body. He breathes out and in long, hard and thirsty for it because he finally fucking can. But if Castiel expects Dean to churn his butter in gratitude, he'll have to go without.
"Better now, love?" he asks, low gravel of his voice so gentle as if he was trying to cradle water in his hands, maybe a bit contrite somewhere far, far beneath, but just about the result of his action, not the action itself.
Because he thinks that if the pain doesn't exist anymore, neither does the trauma. Again.
And it's just fucking unreal. Abstract. Because he can't, simply fucking can't, be serious right now. There are a few things Dean would like to say, but since they're not his priority and it makes no difference whether he says them or not, he leaves it be.
"I have some questions, Castiel. Would you answer them? Dinner time chit-chat and all."
Castiel lifts his brows in surprise as if Dean casually calling him that was an offense.
Well, offense away, bitch. That's the whole point.
"Of can always ask, Dean."
"The hell is this?" Dean gestures at the table. "The fuck is that?" he points at the door.
"This is dinner. You need nutrition and I am making sure you will receive it. Keeping you company, too. I didn't safehouse and marry you so you would end up sitting here all alone, obviously. It seems to affect your mood. You were lonely for so long, I won't let this be. I made you a promise, haven't I."
This is not the thing that is affecting Dean's mood and the husband of the year can shove that narrative where the sun don't shine, no lube. Preferably right now.
"That?" Dean repeats, literally pointing with his finger at the door like a child.
Castiel turns to look at the door, as if genuinely and deeply curious about why this stupid innocent thing troubles Dean so much. Then he looks back at Dean, probably wondering what's wrong with him this time.
"You didn't like that room," he explains plainly. "You were telling me it's too spacious, too alienating, too ornate. You absolutely hated the piano, you wouldn't shut up about it. I carved something more intimate and tender, to help you accept this place as your home."
"Carved," Dean echoes in disbelief, taking in the entire wooden extravaganza once more.
"Yes," Castiel confirms affectionately, a small smile crawling up his stupid face, lighting his eyes with something that Dean can't name but fucking really wants to punch. "Appliances aside, I made everything here myself. For you. I have a lot on my hands, but your comfort is worth sparing some time on carpenting. You helped make homes for so many people. I want to give you the same."
Dean doesn't even remember what comfort is and he prides his memory for being really fucking good. "My what?"
"You've lost so much. I know you liked that place so much more than any filthy motel excuse for a kitchen, more than any excuse for a life that you were forced to lead," Castiel says and Dean has a problem making the connection regarding what secret place he is even talking about. Castiel is very good with exact locations. Unless he doesn't want to be. Dean's confused and, frankly, annoyed face unfortunately inspires Castiel to not shut up just yet. "Can't you see I'm doing all of this for you? Before, I wasn't strong enough. And I'm responsible for your losses. Both Sam and that place in Cicero. I have to bring this peace back to you and I'm really trying, but you... What's your problem, Dean?" he asks, gentle but exasperated. Tired, maybe. Definitely disappointed.
Dean on his end feels like he's been thrown into an alternate dimension because Castiel's act looks just that convincing and fuck, maybe he even believes that, but it doesn't change the truth that nothing of this is close to what he's really doing and what he's really doing has nothing to do with Dean's comfort, nothing to do with his happiness, and nothing to do with making things up for him. The only common denominator perhaps is the bit about Castiel's strength. He really fucking enjoys being strong and in control, now doesn't he.
The only information of actual value is that now Dean knows Lisa and Ben are a sore spot for his jealous God, so he needs to be extra careful around that. Noted.
"Oh, that's interesting," Dean says, wanting to hit a sugary sweet note, but getting out something terribly uneven and far from collected instead. Well, shoot. "I'm so touched in all my soft places, honey. Without my consent, as usual," he comments, tone successfully paler. "Now can you just fucking explain why is the dining room door locked? I thought we had a rule that explicitly says this house is meant to be open not just for you, but also for me."
"You're changing the subject, Dean."
"No, I'm not, you gaslighting asshole? You are! Literally you are the one bamboozling away from the original topic." Dean sighs, soul heavy and worn and just tired. "What's behind the door, Castiel."
"No," Castiel says, eyes sharp, tone clipped.
"What do you mean: no?" Dean barks.
"You have forfeited any rights to this room, Dean. Whatever I have placed there is none of your business. To me your safety is much more important than your need to pry. The faster you accept this, the better for you."
Someone fucking thinks the case is dismissed, huh? Well, no. Not today, ugly bitch, not today.
"Okay!" Dean says full of vigor as he gets up and marches straight to the door.
As he is just about to touch the knob, a surge of power sends him flying backwards right to the poor table, he thinks, but no. Looks like not this time: the table is spared, Dean not so much.
Castiel catches him flying and doesn't even budge under Dean's weight, which just never stops being weird.
"Oh, you sweet quick, quick little thing," Castiel coos petting his arm and kissing the top of his head as he holds him bride-like and vice-like. "Will you ever stop being the first to walk into the fire, Dean? There is no one to save there on the other side, there's just harm. Here you can rest. You're supposed to rest."
First of all: what? Secondly: no. Thirdly:
"Yeah okay, put me down."
"I don't think so, Dean," Castiel huffs amused as he carries him back to the table, to Dean's chair, but instead of putting him down, he takes the chair himself and promptly, hands too strong and too unrelenting, makes Dean sit down in his lap.
"This is humiliating," Dean groans while he can still be coherent about this. "You made your point, now let me down. I don't want to sit so close to your dick when I really don't have to."
"I know that and don't worry, this is just dinner here, although I think I personally enjoy it much better this way. And considering how your alternative is for me to temporarily decide where your legs are going to take you, I think you will agree that this really is nicer. Isn't it nicer, Dean?"
Castiel's body is too close, too present, too overwhelming. There's a weight crushing Dean's chest, causing heart to stumble, ripping memories from the back of his head where he buried them deep and far and forever. Castiel's hot labored breath is all over his skin again, his mouth is too close to his eyes, his chest obscures everything he ever knew and he feels him moving between his legs again; like a snake, like something evil, something hungry, something old. Castiel's arms around his waist break him like baobab branches. He can't.
"Please," he whispers. "Castiel, let me down," gets out even quieter.
Behind him, Castiel stills and freezes. Dean feels him let out a devastated breath. Castiel kisses his neck chastely. Dean still cringes.
"I'm sorry," that dirty mouth whispers back, still touching him. "I promised to give you time. I promised to give you space... It's just so hard for me to have you and not have you. My hands never stop yearning, Dean. They love you so much, they let you go too many times, and I just don't know…" He sighs, full of pain and being a psycho fuck. "But it's alright."
No, it's not. Doesn't even have a chance for alright.
Castiel puts him down, evacuates the chair and has him sit again, alone this time. Dean silently watches him return to his own chair on the other side that will never, ever be far enough.
To be completely honest, right now Dean isn't exactly sure what Castiel said anymore, but the general gist he gets, so there's that. He was too busy stowing his crap and having his heart and lungs work like evolution intended. That didn't quite work and back in his chair, solo, he's still reeling, knuckles white as he's clutching the table's edge for purchase.
This is stupid. He shouldn't be acting like this, he's been through so much worse and he absolutely hates being betrayed by his body like this. He's been to Hell, this should be nothing. Doesn't look like nothing, doesn't feel like nothing. Fuck. He grabs the jug, he grabs the glass and forcing his hands to be still, he pours himself a glass. He will take whatever to wash away that raw, dry dying from its throat, whatever underworld joining rules that apply be damned. He drinks.
"Dean," Castiel's soft voice reaches him from eons away, from underwater. "I can calm you down, if you need."
"You can fuck right off," Dean grits through his teeth. "You can't calm me down, you fucko. The only thing you have left to do is to finally lobotomize me once and for all, so either do that or knock it off, okay?!"
"I wouldn't do that to you!"
"The hell you wouldn't," Dean spits. "All the things so far you said you wouldn't do, you've done, so just cut the crap."
Castiel lifts both hands in surrender.
"I've prepared a surprise for you, for later. I really think that you will like this one," he changes tactic, sadly in reality cutting none of the bullshit.
"Which country, Pizarro," Dean says flat and dry; the orange juice didn't do anything — death is still in his throat, present and burning.
"None of them," Castiel assures, defensive. "I promise this is going to be a pleasant surprise. Besides, I think you've been punished enough for today and that your transgression was not severe enough to call for a lesson like that."
"Oh, but keeping you waiting with the Eucharist was," Dean smiles hateful and dark.
"It's not that."
"Tell that story to somebody else, church boy," Dean snaps. "You know what? I'm beginning to understand why Lilith wanted none of that crap, why she left. Why Eve ate the fruit. You really are like your deadbeat daddy and like his first failed sandman."
"What do you mean?"
"You haven't unlocked that part of the story and you aren't going to because there is no point, you wouldn't understand. Now, can we eat if we really have to? Do you even have to eat?"
"Have to? No. But want to now, with you."
Clearly already having had assessed the distance between his greedy monster hands and whatever severed baby head lies beneath the lidded tray, Castiel rises from his chair and gets himself the silver and his plate. He lets it all slide without a single word. Such a poster fuck for benevolence.
Dean gives Castiel's plate a curious look and he's very fast to regret that decision because what he sees is a gigantic, Sam-sized, slab of meat cooked so rare it's closer to being freshly killed than cooked at all, still bleeding too profusely for something that has any right to be out of the grill. Dean hopes this is not human meat.
Not wanting to see Castiel devour this, whatever it is, he focuses on his own tray and he discovers a rather bland portion of fried poultry, with a side of potatoes and a salad. Fucking salad of all things, God dammit. This is an affront against everything he believes in and still sees as holy. He doesn't want to bother digging for his thing checking out what kind of atrocities made their way there, so he just fucking asks.
"Am I going to find some stupid pomegranate seeds there or are you not that hopelessly literal, huh, Hades?"
"Don't be silly, Deansephone," Castiel strikes back. "You've been eating here already and I don't need a pagan loophole to have you stay. And before you ask, there is no pagan loophole to get you out, so I really think the best choice for you is to accommodate and learn to–"
"Yeah, no, dr. Strangelove. You really do not get to put me and the word choice in one sentence. I would greatly appreciate it if you fucking stopped. Can you fucking stop?"
He doesn't expect an answer, so he just digs into his plate and feels glad that he doesn't at least have to look at Castiel's face anymore. Eating his portion of bullshit, he reminds himself of the little promise he made earlier today.
"By the way, Castiel, I have an announcement: I want to make a soup."
"Soup?"
"Yeah, man. Soup." Dean shrugs. "Is this kitchen shit working or is all of this just a stage prop exactly like your mercy?"
"No, Dean. All of this is perfectly operational. Including my mercy. Why would you want to make soup? We have skilled cooks that provide everything you might need or want here."
Yeah, uh, Dean has this really powerful and annoying craving for a Coca-Cola ever since the stomach pain wore off, but he doesn't see one standing here?
"I always prepared it for Sam. It used to calm me down, gave me a feeling I'm doing something useful and helpful, you know. My mother used to make it for me, too. It's a nice memory, a nice tradition. I want to keep it in the family. I want to make soup for everyone here." He leaves out the but not for you. "Can I make the soup?"
Castiel seems to think about it for a moment and he smiles, proud. "Yes, of course," he says delighted and he can go fuck a barb-wired baseball bat for that. "It looks like you've really learned your lesson today, haven't you, Dean? Tell me what you need, I will have everything arranged."
Is Dean supposed to bark at that or what? Is he a Good Boy?
"Yeah, you better get a pen and a piece of paper and write that down, I'll tell you what I need."
"I have a vast memory, Dean. I will remember. If it's important to you, I surely won't forget it."
"You forgot how to be a decent person overnight."
And that was kinda important for Dean.
"Oh, really? Which night was that?" Castiel asks conversationally, more curious than bothered.
Dean can pinpoint exactly. He can draw a graph with all the neat little arrows. He can answer all the whys, except of the biggest one.
"When Crowley-"
"Do you not tire?" Castiel cuts in, bored. "How many times will I yet hear Crowley before you stop?"
"When you saw what he's done. You knew how important they a-" Dean manages to stop himself in time, hopefully careful enough not to raise Castiel's hackles, "but all you did was to come back with a grand scene of swooping my ass into your arms of salvation and laid the exact same or else on me, just with glitter hearts painted on it. That's where I start counting. Every single thing that happened next - Sam, Ellie, your bestie Balthazar," Dean enumerates, then shrugs. "I didn't even have it in me to be surprised because the guy I knew as Cas was a lie. So that thing? Canceled." He smiles, bitter.
Castiel grimaces at him, he loses interest in his bloody steak plate and his gaze hardens, zeroed in on Dean. But it just adds to Dean's fire instead of putting it out. He sees red now. Next time he opens his mouth, he just can't shut up.
"Before that, you were wrong, you were naive. Even if you were desperate, now it doesn't matter. I don't care. But what you did was pulling full on psychological warfare on me, using innocent people I love! Using innocent people I had to leave, because in the very end I was enrolled for your campaign, just didn't get to know about it. Why did you even bother nagging at me to stand behind, then stand down, if from the very start I was dancing exactly like you needed me to? And you know what? Fuck that, too. You can do with me all you want. Maybe I had it coming, maybe I really owe you my life as you think I do, but to them you had no right. No right to add to their horror and use it as leverage if you could have stopped it, if it was all about your goal and if you planned to fuck Crowley over since day one."
When was the last time he even got to say so many words? No wonder his throat is tired.
"That is rich, Dean," Castiel snarls, all that patronizing softness washed away, true colors showing. "Weren't you the one to decide their lives for them? Weren't you the one to demand me to erase the very memory of you from the hospital and the whole cul de sac? Weren't you, most of all, deciding their fates when you showed up sad and lonely and whimpering on that little doorstep and begged to be taken in? Didn't you know what always happens to those that come close to you? Didn't you, sweetie? Even Sam let you know, reminded you, but prey tell, you did what?" Castiel smiles, sinister and powerful, every note of his voice worse than ice. "So maybe, just maybe, since you at that point at least understood you don't know how to yield right, that you don't know how to stop barking and biting hands that are much, much bigger than yours, you shouldn't have crossed that woman's fucking doorstep, Dean!" Castiel thunders, throwing his fists at the table, making both Dean and every single plate jump.
And there Dean has it: clear and bright like the sun rays in the face of God, all the rustling of Castiel's Jimmies, all his squirmy worms of wrath.
He also has the baby cry again, yeah thanks for that, asshole.
Inside of himself, he tries to coo it into comfort, hums some Zepp, things he doesn't need thinking for. On the outside, he loses his shit and his shit's shit. He out-yells the crying, the holy rage, the bullshit, the everything.
"You do not get to put this on me! You evaporated on me when I was at my lowest! When I had no one! When I thought you could be the only one to understand me, to know what I've been through, but you didn't even say goodbye. You just went to suck on the grand lollipop of power. You didn't need me anymore, not until I became useful for you again. Did you remember my face or was I just the vague concept that built your empire of excuses to become this? Did you even remember my name when it was not a tool? I remembered yours for that whole year and it kept spinning in my head like a fucking curse! All this time you were the only friend I've ever had and you kicked me to the curb. Lisa was to me what you never even aspired or tried to be. And maybe she's just human, but she loved me more than you just like to think you do. She didn't have to! She benefited nothing from me! I was a mess in her bed, I was a mess in her kitchen, I was a mess raising her son and everything I touched after eight p.m. smelled like whiskey! She deserved so much better, but she was there, she was patient and kind, she was something you will never understand. And I wish I wasn't in so much grief for that entire year. I wish I wasn't hollow. And just a word from you, dropping by to tell me Sam's not dead, at any fucking point, woulda helped us both so much. I loved her with all I had but that wasn't enough. Now I'm the guy that hit her and, again, you know what? If you never left I would never be in her doorstep in the first place, gardener's dog! Were you there with your doorstep open? Fuck you!"
God, that sounded like three combined Emmy culmination point speeches for like five different liberating movies. He's glad that he at least remembered the fuck you for a wrapping because it would've been a waste of air without it.
The clank of silver against the porcelain is the loudest one Dean's ever heard. It sends a chill down his spine just like his father's bottle hitting the table wrong. He can read that all too well, the stages of anger in put down objects, its sizes. His fucking augury, if he has one.
This? Now?
Dean knows the distance between Castiel's seat (which he is now vacating) and Dean's bones is the only liminal space before a luxury edition of a smackdown.
This isn't fury - fury never self-contains, and Castiel does, now. He doesn't fly to Dean's throat, he just walks there, quiet. The tiniest move of his wrist and all the shit on the table slides until it hits the ground.
His hands don't squeeze him fury-hard as they manhandle (godhandle?) and lift Dean, but they hold like they own him and that's worse, somehow. Turned around to meet him face to face, he sees nothing in Castiel's eyes but his stern focus on efficiency.
He weighs Dean for a moment. Calculates his trajectory, whatever.
And then Dean's shoulders and upper back slam into the table so hard his spine keeps ringing in tune with the static in his ears. He thinks he's being pulled a little further up the table. Yeah.
And now he can't see the chandelier anymore. It's all Castiel, that white suit, surrounding him with arms and legs, trapping him in branches. The ice from his eyes falls into Dean's chest. He can't breathe.
"Do you listen to yourself? Sometimes?" Castiel asks. "Do you even know what your own point is between one nonsense and the other or are you just going loose on hormones and spill whatever ungrateful crap your tongue happens to bring to you? I'm sorry I didn't hold your hand while you were raking leaves and whoring around with Lisa Braeden while crying, but I was busy ensuring you would have leaves to rake and a body to enjoy your grief and treason in! I was there on the frontline so you could have your picnics and your pity parties. I fought and gambled with things that weren't mine to keep this world Apocalypse-free! You know all of this was because of you, so don't you dare imply that I didn't miss you or I didn't care. I can't believe your fucking audacity, Dean," he groans, shaking his head and grimacing at Dean like he's a bowl of shit. "You have exactly what you wanted. You have me. You have my undivided attention. The certainty I will be there when you go to sleep and when you wake up. And all you do is reject me. Am I not good enough yet? Was Lisa all that better?" he snarls through gritted teeth. "To make some light for that love I know you harbor, to give it to me instead of burying it down, is that too much I ask for, Dean?"
Bombarded with this, Dean waits. Until he's sure no more words are going to fall. Until he can't keep it in anymore, though he tries.
"You didn't ask me, you just took it. Even though I kept giving. Even though you knew I couldn't say no to you. I have you, you got that right. I have you fucking and burning me in my sleep because you don't think I deserve to be waken up to sire you. I gave you everything. My yes, my bones, my brother, my life with Lisa, every single pound of my flesh. But I'm ungrateful? You created a scenario for raping me because my yes please god fuck me in the ass with all you got wasn't enough for you." Dean needs a moment now, to get his breathing in line. He doesn't have that kind of time, judging from Castiel's face. "Why did you do that, Cas?" he whispers broken and small because he just doesn't even have it in him to care. He takes Castiel's hand into his own. Shocked, Castiel lets him. He places that hand on his thigh, drags it around the skin to make him get it, make him feel what he's done. "Why?"
In front of his eyes, instead of an answer of any, even violent kind, Castiel's face in quick succession crumbles into all four out of five stages of grief and that…. That's something that has Dean's alarm bells ringing.
Castiel's other hand goes to his forehead again and Dean tries to scoot away, even if it means falling off the tab-