Dean stood in the doorway and watched Sam tighten the chains around Castiel's torso. The angel seemed so small there in the singular chair in the middle of that enormous room. Under the bright lights the trench coat practically swallowed him, turning him into this defenceless, almost pitiable victim. Like he were entirely undeserving of this kind of treatment. As if their efforts to keep him from escaping or from causing either of them any more harm was unwarranted, and actually quite cruel. Dean even considered removing the chains and cuffs, if not just to take away the distress of seeing his friend like this. But realistically he knew the idea was idiotic at best and suicidal at worst.
Castiel couldn't be trusted.
But it seemed as if Cas knew Dean wanted to trust him. Castiel looked to Dean pleadingly, trying to manipulate him and undermine his better judgement—like he recognised himself as Dean's biggest weakness. Whether he understood how that came to be was a question upon itself, and Dean was determined now to find out for sure. He withdrew from the doorway and took careful steps into the room. Sam was circling Castiel with holy oil as an added, and probably necessary, precaution; the cuffs and chains and warding were expected to hold up—at least for now—but neither of them were willing to take any chances. It was risky enough for an apathetic angel to be loose with them in the bunker, but riskier still for him to end up anywhere in a world from which he didn't originate. There was no telling where he could go or what he might do had he the opportunity.
Sam set the jug of holy oil aside and stood upright. Dean fished a lighter from his own pocket and held it up for Castiel to see, waving it back and forth slowly. "We light this? You'll never get out of here," Dean warned him. He flicked the lighter open and poised his thumb in preparation to use it if need be.
Castiel stared at them and remained stoically silent, his lips pressed into a firm, thin line. For only a second he tilted his head to the left in mild amusement, and Dean swallowed hard against a lump in his throat. Castiel wasn't worried. He was confident at worst, and indifferent at best. Either way, he still felt no inclination to speak.
"You know who you are, don't you? You know why you're here?" Dean started.
Castiel didn't acknowledge him. His eyes looked directly into Dean's, yet they remained empty. Unfeeling. Startled, Dean realised that Cas' earlier attempts to manipulate him had nothing to do with letting him go… he just wanted to mess with him. To manipulate him just because he could. Because he suspected—accurately—that it would hurt the hunter, perhaps even more than what any physical attack ever could.
"Dean—" Sam cleared his throat and gestured for Dean to follow him out of the room.
Dean frowned but trailed after him, closing the door between them and Castiel though there still remained the possibility that he could hear them. After all, he was a celestial being; it was hard to distinguish what his limitations were, especially now when he had never been tainted by weakness before. They walked to the end of the hall and then stopped. Sam ran his hand down his face and rubbed his jaw, lost in thought as he turned to his older brother. And then he was angry.
"What were you thinking, Dean?" Sam asked him abruptly.
Dean stood his ground whilst Sam again shifted from foot to foot. He should have suspected that Sam wasn't so much troubled than he was furious, considering the goal had been clear all along: Get in, get Mary, and get out. They had agreed early on that they would avoid tampering with these alternate worlds wherever they could. After all they had been through, they knew by now that it was never wise to touch what they didn't understand. And where other worlds were concerned, they didn't need the Winchesters to intrude and change the natural order of things.
It wasn't their place to change what had to be outside of their control, and so they set out only to retrieve their mother and bring her home where she belonged. Sam had expressed time and time again the dangers of time travel or world hopping, and of jumping from timeline to timeline and from place to place. He had babbled endlessly about the postulations around chaos theory… the whole kill a butterfly and trigger a storm nonsense that Dean had stopped listening to not long after the spiel started. Whenever Sam had resumed his tirade Dean had feigned some kind of interest but hadn't really been taking in a word of it. He hadn't felt any need to at the time. Because he wasn't so concerned with the state of worlds that wasn't his own—they were alternate dimensions for a reason. They'd come into existence as a product of a decision never made or a road not taken. Maybe there was even a world in which he'd be happier, yet Dean had already rejected the idea, knowing that here—this world. This sad, broken, little world—was home. All he had wanted was to save Mary. Everything else, as far as he was concerned, didn't matter.
And then there came Castiel. And suddenly everything was different. Everything changed.
"What you did… that was outright stupid. We agreed not to mess with this stuff, remember? As soon as portals started opening I told you why we couldn't interfere," Sam continued, his voice steadily growing louder and deeper.
Dean nodded plainly and stared at his feet. Sam was right. He had been stupid. They had come up with certain rules and had agreed to follow them. He understood why it would be wrong to break them. But this was different. And he didn't feel ready to apologise for it.
"I told you not to touch anything, and then you go and drag an angel back into our world. After what we've already come to know about cosmic consequences… don't you think there will be some after something like this?"
Dean felt a tightness in his chest that refused to alleviate. Each breath in seemed shallow and cold and he was very quickly unaware of anything else. For all he knew, Sam could have still been rambling, and Dean was just too lost to hear him. And it didn't seem to matter, anyhow. Dean understood plenty, but the threat of repercussions, whilst serious, didn't scare him the way they should.
"Are you even listening to me?" Sam asked, affronted.
"I dunno. Maybe," Dean mumbled.
"Got anything to say?" Sam persisted.
Dean shrugged his shoulders noncommittedly and tried to count the number of thin cracks in the tiles below his feet. Arguing seemed an exhausting idea, and he wasn't in any condition to participate. Tentatively, he touched the bridge of his nose with his fingertips and winced at the sharp pain, but he supposed it wasn't broken, just badly bruised. As for the back of his head, well, from what he could tell the bleeding had stopped shortly after getting into the Impala. His biggest concern was actually the state of his neck—he hadn't yet had the chance to inspect his skin in the mirror. He couldn't be sure whether evidence of Castiel's hand remained imprinted around his throat. He hoped not.
"Dean!" Sam barked finally, his patience had begun to wane.
"I don't know, Sam. Alright?" Dean muttered, shrugging again, "It's…" He swallowed hard before trying again, "Cas."
There was a long, heavy silence before Sam finally let out a dejected sigh. Dean looked up to meet his eye and saw that Sam's expression had softened considerably. There still loomed the dread of what more there was to come and where Dean's decision could possibly lead them, but, little by little, it was being buried beneath his sympathy. Sam placed a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Dean got the distinct feeling of being more like the little brother, and though this wasn't the first time, he was still a little taken aback. He'd gotten so used to being the big, protective brother, mother, and father to Sam that it still felt foreign to him whenever their roles somehow became reversed. Even after all these years, and after all they had been through, Dean never thought he was someone worth taking care of.
"I get it," Sam said.
Dean laughed quietly. Sadly. Sam knew of the pain, but not of the extent. There was no way he could—not when his love for Cas differed from Dean's. His love was familial, a kinship; a best friends who would conquer the world for one another kind of love. Their love was sitting across from one another over open books, Sam with his third cup of coffee and Cas only halfway through his first. It was talking aimlessly for hours on end, Sam asking questions on science and history and philosophy, and Cas asking questions on literature and media and sociology.
And maybe Dean's love for Castiel had never really been reciprocated. And Dean decided that was fair. Though a part of him believed it weren't true. It felt false on his own tongue to say that there hadn't ever been something—Cas hadn't understood many things, and probably hadn't felt everything there was to feel, but Dean just knew that Cas had felt that kind of love. Deep down maybe… Or maybe not so deep after all.
But now Dean would never know for sure. He could never ask.
His—or their—love was different. It was a 'conquer the world for each other or die together in it' kind of love. Their love was sitting side by side in front of the muted TV, together sipping beer at the same pace, not quite touching at the shoulders but eventually at the ankles as they inevitably knotted together. It was the comfortable silences on long drives to nowhere; Castiel's favourite songs from Dean's collection playing on the stereo. It was in the way they cared for one another when they each refused to—or simply couldn't—care about themselves. It was in shameless, lingering looks and in secret wonderings. And in a bond so real and so profound Dean felt like he could almost see and touch it. Because it was a sensation so solid in his chest, he could hardly deny the possibility that he really could were he to just reach out and try.
Sam couldn't 'get it'. Though Dean knew he would try. And he didn't blame him for not understanding. Yet he was still left with a sense of loneliness. Isolation that near robbed him of breath. He had little doubt that Cas would feel it too, were he still alive to feel anything at all.
Dean cleared his throat and touched his nose again. It seemed easier to distract himself from the emotional wounds by tending only to the physical ones. He looked to the ground again, and concluded that there were nineteen miniscule cracks in the tiles—and probably far more that were too small for the naked eye to see.
"Maybe we can reason with him," Sam suggested.
"Didn't exactly seem willing to debate before though, did he?"
"Well… no. But maybe he'll be more open to it now? I mean, he isn't the same, but there's got to be something there. Like, our Cas and this Cas are made from the same mould, right?"
"I don't know… maybe, I guess," Dean allowed, but he remained doubtful. That hour he had spent pretending had long since passed. But he wanted to go back. To see him again like time had rewound, or had been rewritten entirely.
"There's got to be something he resonates with," Sam decided. He turned to walk back the way they came but Dean grabbed his arm and stopped him.
"I should talk to him first. Alone," Dean insisted.
"Are you kidding?"
"No?"
"Are you stupid?"
"Maybe?"
"Are you suicidal?"
"Yeah?"
"Dean," Sam groaned, exasperated and fretful.
"We've got him locked up like he's in Guantanamo," Dean pointed out, "what's he gonna do? Huh?"
Sam slowly shifted his weight from his left foot to his right and then back again. Dean let his hand fall away from Sam's arm. Already he was edging his way back down the corridor, knowing Sam wasn't going to try and stop him.
"Okay. But whatever he says, don't let him free," Sam warned finally.
With Sam's permission, Dean hastened his pace and reached for the door handle. "Yeah, like I'd do something that stupid," he scoffed but made a face when Sam wasn't looking. He hadn't any need to be honest. They both knew that Dean wasn't so much himself anymore—or maybe he was actually more himself than he had ever been; it was a little hard to tell when his life had never been consistent for long enough a time to make an accurate assessment. What was really the default setting for him? Near constant grief? Or the sparse moments of clarity and contentment in between?
Dean stepped back into the room and let the door creep shut behind him. It closed with a quiet and final click, and suddenly it was just the two of them. That same sense of entrapment was already starting to return; like Cas was the predator and he was the prey. The chains around Castiel's upper body, from where Dean stood, seemed less like a trap and more like a short leash that, with a little force, was bound to get longer—inch by inch.
"Don't look at me like that," Dean said, "I'm not the enemy here."
For a moment Dean didn't expect Castiel to speak, considering he had hardly said ten words since they had met. But then Cas tried to lean forward in his chair and the chain pulled tighter around his torso. Were he human, he undoubtedly wouldn't be able to breathe. "For someone who claims not to be my enemy, you sure made a point of stripping me of my power and taking me prisoner," he said, his voice low and menacing.
Dean blinked. Castiel's point was admittedly valid, even if he had ten arguments to overthrow it: one being that Cas had been the first to throw a punch. "Don't take it personally… think of it as a precaution," Dean replied. He dragged a chair from the corner of the room and placed it directly across from Castiel, with a reasonable distance between them. He sat down and waited.
This time Cas was unwilling to speak. He stubbornly leaned back in his chair and the chains eased off his chest.
Dean sighed heavily and dipped his head before addressing the angel. "Cas—"
"Castiel," Cas interrupted with a hiss, correcting him.
Dean looked up, startled. "What?"
"My name is Castiel," he clarified.
"Does Cas offend you or something?" Dean frowned.
"It isn't my name," Cas stated plainly, "you've already taken me captive, there's no need to demean me further."
Dean nodded faintly and his hands gripped tightly onto his knees. He was inexplicably cut by this. "Right. Castiel. Do you know where you are?"
"What exactly do you mean? Do you mean this room? This place? This world?" Castiel sounded sarcastic, but Dean couldn't help but think the question was a genuine one.
"All of the above," Dean insisted, feeling hopeful.
"You ask as though I should already know the answer," Castiel again tilted his head to the side.
"Well maybe you should," Dean said, his hope deflating, "it's Earth. This is the bunker. This room—"
"Is a cell. That much I gathered on my own," the angel interrupted, "though judging by the devils trap on the floor, I suppose it isn't designed to contain my kind."
Dean retrieved the lighter and used it to gesture to the wet ring of holy oil, "Nah, but that is, so don't get any ideas."
"Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I believe it has to actually be lit to be of any use to you," Castiel challenged him.
Dean forced a brief smile and pocketed the lighter. He didn't wish to use it and they both knew it. Dean was unwilling to build that incorruptible barrier between them—he didn't want to see Cas through that horrid curtain of flame.
"So you don't recognise Earth?" Dean asked.
Castiel hesitated and diverted his gaze, "I do. But so much time as passed."
"How long?"
Castiel looked up, and his stare was piercing, "Too long."
"Well, that's ominous," Dean muttered and cleared his throat. "You come from a world in which my brother and I were never born. And it has been destroyed by a war between the God Squad and Team Satan, right?"
Castiel was silent and still.
"But here? Sam and I were destined to end the world. To be dress-ups for your brothers, Michael and Lucifer. To be the vessels that bring on the apocalypse. Except we changed it. We… and Cas. Our Cas. We changed destiny and saved the world."
"Destiny can't be changed. It can't be rewritten."
"It can. We did it," Dean told him.
"So you think my world is in chaos purely because nobody tried to change it?" Castiel asked in disbelief, "two entire armies? And the few humans that remain? And no one tried to escape fate?"
"I couldn't tell you. It isn't my war," Dean said. "Where's God in all of this?" He wondered.
Castiel squirmed indignantly and the chains rattled, "He was…'occupied elsewhere'," he muttered, "according to Michael at least."
"Michael is there?"
"He is leading the angels in the war against demons," Castiel explained dismissively, "where is God in all of this?"
"Occupied elsewhere," Dean said, "and I know that for certain."
"How? How could you know?" Castiel spat.
"I met Him," Dean shrugged, "He came for The Darkness. His sister."
"And before that? Where was He?" Castiel demanded to know. As he spoke, he leaned ever closer until the chains began to slip free. As Dean had predicted earlier, the short leash was becoming longer still, inch by inch.
Dean warily stood from his chair and circled Castiel, remaining on the outside of the unlit ring of holy oil. He stopped at Castiel's back and hesitated a moment before stepping inside the circle. Castiel continued to shift as he tried to look back at him, and he repeated his question, his tone growing more aggressive each time he asked and Dean didn't answer. The chains slipped again and Dean quickly grabbed them and pulled them back. As he worked to tighten them, his hands brushed against Castiel's. Dean felt empty.
"Where was He?!" Castiel shouted. He sounded so desperate, the words almost like a broken cry.
"Not here," Dean answered finally. He left his hand there against Cas' skin for a few moments longer, "He didn't care, Cas…tiel. He decided it was a mess we made and should clean up ourselves. He granted us a few minor 'miracles' and that was that."
Castiel scoffed and dipped his head sadly. The angel fell slack and Dean finished securing the chains before stepping away. "The fact that he granted you anything… it's…" Castiel fell silent, his eyes glistening and dejected. It became obvious to Dean that Cas and Castiel both had held so much hope for their father. They had both believed in His goodness. Their faith, though tested, had held strong despite each thread of hope breaking.
"It's not fair. I know," Dean said, sympathetic. He slowly sunk back down into his chair.
There was a long, heavy silence and Castiel didn't move at all. Though Dean tried, he couldn't meet his eye. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and resisted the temptation to stand and walk right up to the angel, and to put his arms around him. Dean couldn't think how he should try to console him; assuming he should even try at all.
"If it means anything at all… God brought you back a couple times. Well, you from this world, anyway," Dean said eventually.
"Why?" Castiel whispered hopelessly.
"I guess God knew I needed him," Dean said gently. He looked to the floor, but here there weren't any cracks there to count.
"Then what do you need me for?" Castiel asked.
Dean took a deep breath in and stood to pace, "You look like him."
"So?"
"He's dead," Dean said. It sounded too final. And so very wrong. And he suddenly realised he hadn't said it before. Where Sam had voiced the truth of it time and time again, Dean had held it in with bated breath. The words settled over them both, yet acceptance and release still evaded Dean—instead he felt more aggrieved. He shook his head, swallowing the words down as though he hadn't said them at all.
"I don't understand," Castiel admitted, "you stopped the apocalypse. What use would he be to you? What use am I?"
"I…" He stalled. 'I love him' Dean thought, but didn't say. "He was my best friend. It isn't about how I could use him. Or you. It's just… I miss him."
Castiel looked at him again with that same intrigue and confusion that Dean had often seen in Cas. The same head tilt and furrowed brow and slightly puckered lips. For a moment, the wildness faded from his eyes, leaving them an innocent and honest blue. And only for a second, Dean swore he recognised a flicker of sympathy—but this quickly passed; so swiftly in fact that Dean believed he may have imagined it.
"You know what? Never mind," Dean uttered.
It was all too much, and Dean left for the door and didn't look back. His heart was racing and he felt incredibly weak at the knees. All sensation left his face as his skin went cold. His chest heaved with quick and faint breaths. Dean brushed past Sam who called to him and tried hopelessly to follow at his heel, and went into the kitchen.
"Dean? What's going on?" Sam asked, "What did he say? What did you do?"
"Nothing," Dean dismissed him, focusing on the contents of the fridge as he sifted through it looking for beer. When he found none, he moved to the cabinet, trying to remember whether he had finished that bottle of whiskey or not. He quickly found the bottle that was roughly half full and tucked it under his arm.
"Dean—" Sam said knowingly, eyeing his brother cautiously.
"Seriously, Sam, can you quit shadowing me?" Dean muttered and walked to his bedroom. Sam followed.
"I thought we agreed you'd try and lay off the drink since—"
"Since what?! Are you really going to say it?!" Dean turned on him.
Since Cas died. They were both thinking it. Though at the time of the 'agreement', Sam had never specified the reasoning behind his request—he hadn't needed to.
Sam looked at him and stood frozen in place, and Dean closed his bedroom door between them. He couldn't be sure, but he thought Sam finally walked away a few minutes later as he couldn't hear him out in the hallway. His brother knew when to leave him to his own troubles. Dean opened the bottle and tossed the cap aside, knowing he wouldn't be needing it with only half a bottle to drown himself in. He settled himself on the edge of his bed, his room dim aside from the one bedside lamp he left switched on, and took to drinking steadily.
This continued long into the night, the bottle emptying as each hour passed until he set the finished bottle aside. The room seemed to have blurred edges as anything and everything lost its detail, his heavy lidded eyes passing over them with disinterest. It was all his but none of it seemed to matter anymore. It was his home, yet it felt too cold and empty when it was one person short. His hand fumbled for the light switch and he clumsily shifted further back onto his bed and lied down. He stared into the dark abyss above his head and idly considered the prospect of it falling down on him—in a way, it very much felt like it had already.
He'd seen Cas in that war ravaged wasteland, but it wasn't Cas who had come home from there. It was someone else entirely. And Dean realised he now felt further from letting go and saying good bye than ever before.
