A/N: I just realized, I completely forgot to put in the disclaimers the last time! I must have been too excited... obviously, I don't own Supernatural. I just hope to entertain.
Also, thank you so much for the follows & favorites & review! They are all appreciated like the words special guest star Misha Collins on the screen... And you know that's a lot of love :) So here's chapter two!
2. But I Have Further to Fall
"You should have listened to me, Castiel." Naomi said. Castiel didn't answer because he couldn't meet Naomi's eyes without seeing the shadows of the thousand green ones that he'd watched, that he'd killed. The mind was a fragile thing – even that of an Angel. Also because what she said, it was the truth, wasn't it? That Castiel should have set aside his hatred, his fear – should have listened to her when she'd come to look for him, desperate. Dean had been willing to listen. Dean, but Dean hadn't been the one who had to kill and forget and still march on, hide the blood, in the name of the father who wasn't there.
Still, Castiel should have known better.
"I know." Castiel finally said when Naomi seemed to be waiting for an answer. He dropped his head. "You weren't lying."
"I've never lied to you, Castiel." Naomi said, voice soft. Castiel looked up. He saw none of her true form – just what she must have looked to the humans all this time. Her vessel was a tall woman, elegant in the way she held her body. Her face, Castiel found, was very expressive. She was looking at him with all the sorrow of a thousand years, in the silence of the desert and the moon. Castiel couldn't guess what she was thinking. It was almost as if she pitied him – for being a mindless soldier, a puppet, a tool.
"I'm sorry," Castiel said, because that was what she expected. Because he had been used against all of his brothers and sisters, a weapon.
"I know." Naomi said. She looked over Castiel's shoulder, searching. "You didn't bring Dean." It wasn't a question, but Castiel answered it anyway.
"You told me to come alone."
"Yes. Good. Dean can be," Naomi flickered her eyes, looking for a word. A word to describe Dean – Castiel knew there was no such thing, because Dean defied definition, was full of contradicting things that made him dizzy. He'd know – he'd been trying all these years. " … difficult." Naomi settled on that. Castiel nodded. It still made him shudder to remember how easy the lie had come. Just like riding a bike, Dean would have said.
I swore I'd never lie to him again, but I did, because I don't know what you would do to him, so, "this better me important." Castiel said, mustering up what little solemnity he had left. Naomi looked at him, maybe amused.
"Yes, it is, Castiel. It's very important. I found a way to unlock the Gate."
Naomi's words stopped him cold. Every feeling that had been sizzling inside him – annoyance, fear, anger, doubt, guilt – were washed away so quickly that it made his head spin. In their place, surprise and wonder, a breath of hope rushed in. Castiel looked at Naomi, unable to say anything. Naomi looked pleased by his reaction, nodding silently, but there was that sorrow again. Castiel suddenly realized why she had asked to see him.
"It wasn't easy, but Heaven wasn't meant to be a fortress to keep the Angels out. Our father has left a way."
"What is it? Why do you need me?" Castiel asked, fearing the answer he already knew.
"Well, according to the tablet – to lock the doors of Heaven, there has to be a final sacrifice." Naomi's lips twitched in a trace of a smile. "So, it only makes sense that there has to be one to unlock it, as well. The ultimate sacrifice."
"Does… are there…" Castiel faltered, hearing his fear confirmed.
The sacrifice. The only reason Naomi would be telling him, well, didn't she say it had been his fault? Didn't he admit it had, that he'd been the one to strip all his brothers and sisters of their home? Something cold and sharp struck him at the throat. Naomi was about to ask him something.
It wasn't just fear that he was feeling, though. He felt guilt. For leaving again, for leaving Dean but it wasn't like he could do much for Dean, anyway. A part of him – the same part that made him pick up a demon's blade that first time in the Green Room at the end of the world – whispered that no, that wasn't all, Dean would be – Castiel stopped there.
He also felt an acute sense of relief, and a faint hope. Because if anything – this was redemption, or something close. For all the sins he committed and all the times he came back to earth again and again, maybe it was so he could do this. Not to fix it, he could never fix it, but maybe help somebody else make it better. So many feelings, rampaging from his head to feet, that Castiel almost missed Naomi's answer.
"No, there are no rituals like before. It's simple. Gate of Heaven can reopen, for all Angels, by an Angel's Sacrifice. Only one." Naomi fixed him with a penetrating stare that was so similar to her surgical tool that Castiel flinched, intrinsic and ingrained fear fluttering. She said, then, "you have to do it, Castiel."
Castiel had thought she would ask. She didn't ask, made it a statement. It made no difference. Naomi drew in a breath, like she was preparing to give a long speech about sin, redemption, and justice. She didn't need to.
"Yes." Castiel said, suddenly devoid of feelings. They seemed to have left him as quickly as they had come.
"Excuse me?" Naomi asked.
"Yes, I'll do it."
I serve Heaven, I don't serve man – and I certainly don't serve you.
Castiel heard his voice from a lifetime ago, and wondered if he'd been wrong. Wondered why Naomi was still looking at him like Castiel was a tragedy, amusing and pitiful. Castiel cleared his throat before his feelings could return.
"What do I do, then? Do I have to… do it with an Angel Blade?"
"No," Naomi said slowly, drawing out the words. Then she said, "I am not asking you to kill yourself, Castiel."
Castiel wanted to ask her what she meant. Sacrifice, she'd said, and Castiel was ready for it. Borrowed time, as humans would say. It seemed like a small price to pay.
And maybe that was the point. It was too small a price. Castiel frowned, a ghost of a thought dancing near the edge of his mind. He thought of something, he just didn't know what it was. Naomi opened her mouth, maybe to explain, but an alarmed look crossed her face. She blinked and went still like she was feeling for the first raindrops. Then she looked up at Castiel.
"Someone's coming. I can't stay." Naomi said, words stumbling out fast.
"Wait!" Castiel stepped forward. He grabbed Naomi's sleeve before he realized what he was doing. "You have to tell me what you mean. What do you want me to do?"
"Castiel, I…"
Castiel just looked at her, fixing her with an unblinking gaze. He didn't let go and she didn't make him. Castiel wondered, briefly, how he must look to her now. A human wearing a mask of an Angel, holding down what couldn't be held down, a pathetic…
Then, with a drop of the world around him, Castiel realized something. He felt his hand fall, lifeless.
"Naomi, I can't."
"Castiel, it's your…" Naomi looked irritated, and she kept checking over Castiel's shoulder like she was waiting for a bomb to go off. Castiel cut her off with the realization he'd just had.
"I can't, because I'm not an Angel. He took my grace. I'm… human."
He said it, the word Dean won't say. It didn't make him feel anything. Naomi widened her eyes like it was the last thing she'd expected him to say.
"No," Naomi said, with a quick intake of a breath, another nervous glance. "No, Castiel. That was Metatron's mistake. He thought you wouldn't be, but you are. You lost your abilities, but it doesn't change who you are."
For once, Castiel found himself staring at Naomi, wanting to believe – wanting so badly. The words slid like honey over his ears. Naomi, for once, wasn't looking at Castiel like he was dead already. She looked sincere.
"Our father made us different. Before he made any of the humans. You were born an Angel, Castiel, and nothing is going to change that. Metatron knew you were the only one who could break the lock, but he didn't…"
"What?" Castiel cut the steady flow of Naomi's words. Naomi just looked at him. A second, a two, and she sighed.
"You're the only one who can make the Sacrifice."
With that, the wind rustled and displaced the air, one second she was there but then a blink later, only empty space. Castiel couldn't see her wings. It just looked like she blinked out of existence.
Castiel wondered what it meant. He was nothing special. Not powerful like the Archangels, not loyal like thousands of his brothers. Not smart enough to outrun the King of Hell. Not brave enough to listen when it counted. Why did she say – why was he the only one? Castiel blinked, tried to think of something that he had, that other Angles didn't. He tried to imagine what his Father would have…
"Cas?"
Castiel turned before he was aware of anything else. It was an instinctive reaction. That ridiculous name Dean had given him – as if the one second it took to add tiel was too cumbersome for him. At first Castiel had thought it disrespectful. Then he'd grown to like it, the way they said Cas like he meant something. Then Dean told him he was family, the way Samuel was Sam and Robert was Bobby – Castiel had become Cas.
Castiel turned and the answer was staring back at him. The one thing he had, that other Angels didn't. The one thing that would be a Sacrifice.
"I thought you were going to…" Dean made a face, a ridiculously distorted one that he sometimes made when trying to convey his dismay, and Castiel had to fight through the rock in his chest to breathe out. Air tumbled out violently like it was marching into battle.
Dean took a step forward when Castiel didn't answer – Cas, what's wrong? – and Castiel took a step back.
For the first time, Castiel wished he'd never met Dean's soul in those darkest pits of Hell. That he'd never appeared to him in that abandoned warehouse, that he'd never laid eyes on him. That he'd go back to being a soldier, a proud and faithful warrior of God. Because for all the brilliant colors the last few years had dropped in the palette of black and gray, he'd give it all up if he didn't have to face this. Because for all his brothers and sisters, lost homes and pain raining on them like God's wrath, this was the one thing he couldn't do.
One day, some day, an Angel will Fall for a man. Love them as you love me, God had said, and one day you will. You will Fall, you will believe again. And the man who made you live again, and again – he will be the last Sacrifice. He will be the only Sacrifice that will matter. Because he made an Angel question his faith, made him believe again, made him kill and cry and love.
I have to kill Dean.
The thought hit him like a mountain and he stumbled, he fell, fell deeper and deeper. Castiel looked up and she was standing there behind Dean. When he thought it again, slowly, knife slicing his skin, Naomi nodded. Yes. Dean is the Final Sacrifice.
"No," Castiel murmured, blinked, she was gone.
"Cas?" Dean had his eyebrows furrowed now. He glanced behind his back to nothing, made to grab Castiel's arm.
"I'm fine."
Castiel heard his voice speak, distantly. He saw Dean tug at his coat but didn't feel it.
Come on, Sam doesn't need flowers, Dean was saying. Castiel heard it but all he could think to say was No, no, no, so he said nothing at all.
Castiel told Dean he was fine. Just dizzy from dehydration – he'd forgotten to drink, new at being human and all. Dean raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything. He was suspicious, but after a long and tired look – like everything about Dean was these days, worn at the edges – he let it go. "Alright," Dean said. It sounded like tentative trust and came down like a guillotine. Castiel didn't meet Dean's eyes.
Naomi appeared to him as he turned a corner, two floors down, into an empty corridor smelling uniformly like chloroform.
"I can't." Castiel said as soon as he saw her face. Naomi furrowed her brows but didn't look surprised. She breathed in, preparing a speech. Castiel had experience with those – what her eyes could convey, because she'd always been so sincere. She'd always told the truth even as she ordered him to drench himself in lies. Naomi, she had always believed in what she said and that made everything worse. Especially when Castiel knew what she was going to say, also that he was going to agree. On everything except for one.
He didn't want to hear it.
"I'm not killing Dean." Castiel hissed before Naomi could get anything out. She shushed him with an annoyed look. A young nurse was walking down the length of the corridor. Castiel took a breath, Naomi glared at him and they waited in silence as the nurse walked past. She gave Castiel an odd look, quickened her pace. Didn't spare a glance at Naomi in her inconspicuous nurse uniform.
As soon as she disappeared into the elevator, Castiel opened his mouth to let the heat out but Naomi was quicker this time.
"You have to, Castiel It's one human and all Angels. One human, and we can all go home."
It's not just a human. It's,
Castiel wanted to yell, but she wouldn't understand. She wouldn't understand why a human off the street would be any different from Sam or Dean. They were just humans to her, expendable. But wasn't that why Castiel was the only one? Because he was the only one who understood. Now he finally understood why Metatron chose him, cut out his grace but it didn't make him feel any better. Castiel wanted to find Father now, more than ever. Find him and demand an answer. For all the work, for all the hope that one day an Angel might look upon a man as he will Him, and then to be a Sacrifice. Why?
Now he really did feel a burn in his throat, a desperate thirst in the middle of a desert, as he watched Naomi speak without actually listening to her.
"It's fair, it's more than fair. You're failed us more than once already, Castiel. You've massacred – "
Stop, Castiel said weakly. It never made it past his lips. He was aware of all his sins, of course he was. Yet for all the things he'd done, the blood he'd spilled – for the only chance at redemption of his corrupted being, he could never bring himself to do it. He would rather leave himself forever contaminated in this endless pit. It wasn't a calculation, that a Man's life was worth more than a home of an entire host of Angels. Not rational. Not logical. He was done with logical. It was simple – Castiel closed his eyes.
It was just that he couldn't.
He realized that Naomi had stopped speaking. Maybe she had asked him something.
"I can't." There was only one answer anyway, whatever the question had been. A short silence followed his words, hollow as a newborn world. His soul, now that he had one, sunk a little bit lower. Got a little bit darker. And then.
"Well, then I'll just have to teach you again." Naomi's voice pierced deep into his skull. When Castiel opened his eyes, the corridor was empty again.
Run, run away from me.
Castiel yells, with his eyes. Always night in this room. Metallic walls with their sleek smell of death, metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Splatters, pleads, dies. Again and again and again. It is so familiar.
The silhouette, tense and cautious but so pathetic, even the long shotgun balanced on his arms. Because it isn't enough. Shadows dance by the invisible light and a drop of water dives into the ground somewhere, making him jump. Castiel watches the silhouette. One foot after another, ever so cautious. Ever so fearless. Not enough. When he suddenly appears by his side – not enough. Castiel watches, yells, stays silent. Break, and those green stare back at him with such ferocity it makes him angry. It has always made him angry that he can't see fear in them. Even as they say, Cas, please, no – not fear. In a violent flame of practiced anger Castiel twists and hears the joints grind and scream – that scream. Ten thousand screams he's heard, ten thousand times he's died. Ten thousand and one, he's killed. It takes just one drop to spill the blood in the bucket.
Castiel raises his arm. There is a blade in his hand, and he knows exactly what to do as he stares down at the man in front of him, shivering in pathetic agony, pain so great he can't even speak. Can't even make a sound to plead, but there is no fear. Castiel thinks, again, that he doesn't understand. He wants to make him afraid. Lights explode, world sinks into darkness. Wind rustles and knocks out a breath, except his own, the air shudders with his voice and the universe bows to his Will. Except, except this man has never been afraid. Angry, resentful, confused, frustrated, bewildered, but never afraid.
It's so familiar that Castiel almost misses his arm swinging down to deliver death, to draw blood, to poison his soul. The tip of the blade grazes the skin on the man's neck and he finally makes a sound, a choke or a cry, enough to make Castiel pause.
He is grabbing Castiel's arm. His right arm is broken into tiny little pieces. It lies lifeless on the floor, in a distorted angle that should not be possible. His left arm, though, it grabs Castiel and if anything, the grip becomes tighter. Not to push him away, because he does not fear, he only mourns.
Castiel sees sadness in the unending depth of green.
"Cas," he speaks. Castiel pauses, doesn't breathe, frozen in a brutal overload because ten thousand trials, this has never happened before. The blade still hangs on the skin of his neck. Drops of blood hang on it as he keeps breathing, pained, slow, but alive. Castiel draws the blade back a little without thinking. He doesn't like to see blood. After an eternity, he is still not used to it. A fraction becomes a gap, becomes a breath. Becomes horror as he – he remembers the next words.
"I know you're in there." The man chokes. Castiel blinks.
"We're family. We need you." His grip becomes tighter, becomes desperate, and blood rolls from his face. From his eyes, takes a form of crystallized pain. Castiel doesn't move because he knows, he knows the next part and before he knows it he is speaking. Stealing the line, completing the memory.
"I need you." Castiel says. Something breaks. "Run away from me." This time, the words make it past his lips and Castiel lets go of him. He – Dean – falls down and something crunches. Castiel reaches out to heal him but remembers that he is not an Angel anymore. His hand hangs useless in the air, in an empty room, the Blade gone – Dean gone.
"Well, that was disappointing." Naomi says. Castiel finds himself in the room again, the white room that smells of death, death of a soul he does not have.
"I'm dreaming." Castiel suddenly realizes. A sharp relief splashes over him. It wasn't real, Dean wasn't there.
"How else could I reach you?" Naomi sighs. She gets up from her desk, makes her away around to Castiel and he steps away. He wishes he would wake up, if he just knew how to do that.
"I'm not killing Dean, Naomi. You can't make me." Castiel grates, stepping back and hitting the chair. Naomi doesn't come any closer. Her face changes then – from frustration to something else. Curiosity, almost, like a scholar facing a particularly challenging hypothesis.
"Well, then." Naomi says. Castiel doesn't like the lightness of her tone. It makes him nauseous with deep-rooted fear – drilled between his eyes with a metal gimlet. "We'll start small. Work our way up to it. But don't worry, Castiel. We'll get there."
Castiel feels his heart fold in half. He wants to say, that will never happen, but he doesn't know if that's true. Opens his mouth and air comes out. Naomi smiles. She wants to say something. She's so sure of her victory, is almost excited by the new challenge. She opens her mouth –
"Cas – Cas!"
Castiel felt his body shake. His eyes flew open, took in the mushy white in front of him. Bed sheet. His head danced in the edges of dream and reality. For a second the white became the room, the suffocation, and then the bed again. A hand shook him, a little gentler this time. Castiel raised his head, then his upper body, from where it lay sprawled on a bed – Sam's bed. Castiel distantly remembered sitting by Sam's bed, head exploding with all the words he couldn't say and he must have fallen asleep at some point. The flowers that Castiel had bought stared back at his face, solemn. They didn't have blue chamomile, after all. Castiel grabbed the first blue flower he spotted, paid with Dean's card and almost forgot it at the counter. Had to go back halfway up the stairs – because he was not taking an elevator. If Naomi showed up, he wanted to have somewhere to run to. Pointless, he knew, but it was better than trying to run out of a moving elevator and crashing the whole thing to the ground. Then Castiel, a former Angel of the Lord, would have died in a burning heap of metal in the base of a hospital building.
Castiel remembered coming back to the room, murmuring something about blue, Sam's eyes should have been blue, and plucking the whole thing in the empty vase next to Sam's bed. Dean had hesitated, asked what the flower was in his gruffest voice and Castiel had found that he didn't know. He'd forgotten. And honestly, that should have scared him more than it did, but Dean had shrugged and let it go so Castiel had just sank down in an empty chair next to Dean. He'd watched Sam breathe in and out, peaceful even behind the blue and purple festival of colors on his face. He'd listened to the clock and tried to count the seconds. He didn't remember how far he'd gone before he passed out.
"Dean." Castiel murmured, as an answer. The hand pulled away, leaving him a little light-headed from the shaking. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, spotting tiny purple and red swirls in his vision.
"You okay?" Dean asked for the fourth, a hundredth time that day. Castiel forced his eyes to look at Dean squarely. His back screamed as the muscles suddenly jerked awake, and he had to suppress another scream from bursting out. Because, no, he was not okay and he was opening his mouth but instead of a scream – a lie came tickling out like a well-practiced decanting of wine, blood red.
"I had a nightmare. About… about my brothers and sisters. Falling." Castiel added the last word almost like an afterthought. Dean wanted to say something but had no idea what he could say. What did Falling feel like to an Angel, anyway? To those who could always fly? Maybe if Dean lost his arms and weren't able to drive the Impala anymore… Dean stopped his thought there. It was too sick, even as a speculation. He shook his head slowly, wondering what to say.
"I'm sorry, Cas." Dean murmured, feeling ridiculous. For a moment Cas looked at him like he wanted to ask, why are you sorry, because that was something Castiel would say,but silence reigned on. Eventually Dean had to look away first. Sam, lying pale and all faded colors, a peaceful expression on his face. His hair had grown longer in the past few months. What with the trials and all, Sam had just let it grow out of control. Not that he would have gotten a haircut even if all the monsters had taken a break for a year, but still. Sometimes Dean had the urge to just reach out with Ruby's knife and cut the locks out himself. He was sure the damn thing would just grow back instantly if he did it with a normal pair of scissors. Maybe when Sam was asleep. In fact,
"Maybe I should cut it out." Dean said, felt Castiel startle beside him. He realized he must have sounded completely out-of-blue, and maybe faintly murderous. He couldn't bring himself to care.
"What?" Cas choked out. He was definitely more edgy today. Dean glanced at him sideways, and piled that to the things that needed to be thought about. Then promptly pushed the whole mountain away out of sight.
"Sam's hair," he explained instead. "Look at that hair. It's ridiculous. Maybe if I just…"
"I don't think it's a good idea, Dean." Cas sighed. Dean noted that he sounded relieved. Dean resisted the urge to ask him are you okay, because seriously. That was not getting them anywhere. Instead he carefully slid a mock-indignation onto his face.
"Why not? Maybe he'll wake up if his hair was threatened. Or he won't… but he'd still have a half-decent head."
"Sam will be angry." Cas said, and because it was true, and because it was Cas who said it, Dean let out a chuckle. Cas looked suspicious at his humorless humor but didn't say anything. It was becoming a thing with them now. Either one of them would be doing something strange and the other one just, not saying anything, pretending not to notice. The whole thing was like a play. Dean asks Cas, what's the name of the flower? Cas, I don't remember. Dean shrugs and doesn't care.
Except he did. He didn't really care if the blue thing was a rose or a sunflower or whatever, just that Castiel should know. He shouldn't be forgetting things. It was freaking him out, which was why he wasn't going to think about it.
Dean scratched the back of his neck and thought about what he was going to do. A million things came screaming to his mind. They screamed and demanded his attention, like friggin' pre-school kids, voice lapping over each other and tearing Dean's ears like salt to a demon. Dean kicked them all to the side. Faces of Sam and Cas and Kevin and the Angels, Demons, Crowley. Not to mention the people in the entire planet, and the supernatural cockroaches that still lurked and waited to spill blood from those people. Or suck out the soul, devour the intestine, whatever. Dean pushed them all aside because he couldn't think about them all right now and he had no idea what came first, second, third. If he had a million brains he'd just assign them one problem each.
He didn't find breathing room in the tight place he'd cleared out in his head, but found something else far more imminent than all the problems of Heaven and Hell.
Dean saw Cas stifle a yawn furiously, like he didn't know what to do with it, and it made him laugh. Yawning was contagious, though, and his laughter got swallowed by the huge yawn that spilled out of him.
"You know what," Dean said lazily, following the steep fall of the yawn. "We won't do Sam any good if we just sit here and watch him sleep. Or get him flowers." Dean added, and Cas glared at him. How he'd missed that glare. Dean chuckled lightly.
"I say we go back to the Batcave, get some rest and… and figure out what to do. Maybe do some research or something." Dean finished, hoping he made more sense than he felt. Cas looked at Sam, then at Dean, and nodded slowly. A sudden wave of haggard exhaustion washed over his features, and made him look all of his years. However many that was. Yeah, they definitely needed to clear their heads. Maybe all of this wouldn't look so daunting in the morning. Maybe he'd know exactly what to do first, then second, when the sun splattered gold again and maybe Sam wouldn't look so pale in the promise of daylight. Dean pushed himself up, hearing bones creak, and shook off the pins and needles. Cas followed and it was strange to see him so clumsy, almost knocking over the chair in his haste and wrapping himself in a cocoon of cords attached to the machine.
"Whoa, easy there." Dean murmured, holding out one hand to steady Cas and the other to keep the machine from rolling away. Fortunately nothing was pulled. It still beeped cheerfully in steady rhythm, because no matter what the doctors said, nothing was wrong with Sam's heart. Dean pushed the thing gently back to its position, helped Castiel step over the complicated veins of hospital cords and fallen needles, felt too tired to laugh when Cas bumped into the door on the way out. He just asked, you okay and realized only too late that he'd decided not to ask that anymore. Cas said I'm fine. Yeah.
Barely a word was exchanged on the way back to the bunker, or the Batcave as Dean had called it. Dean was tired and Castiel was preoccupied. He was wondering how long he would be able to resist. He wanted to say forever, but humans were fragile. It took Dean thirty years in Hell to break. It might take three for Castiel to crack like a porcelain doll. Three years, three months, three days.
Dean had rolled the windows down and the wind from the motion dashed by them. It wasn't fierce, warm and a little wet like the summer that was coming. The road was mostly empty but for a few cars that passed in a blur and occasional red and yellow lights from the buildings at the side. The inside of the Impala was dark, almost black, and Castiel couldn't see the creases in Dean's expressions like before so he chose to look out the window instead. He watched as a neon sign spelling BAR whirred past. Wondered what drinking would feel like now, in this frail human form. He didn't know how much this body could hold down, but guessed that drinking the liquor store was probably not a good idea. Except it really seemed like it was. If all the liquid in his body turned to alcohol, maybe he could drown the dreams in it. Maybe he could manage to turn the tip of the blade toward his own body if he was drunk enough, push it down and slice, let the blood slosh if he was fast enough that Naomi couldn't stop him.
"Cas," Dean broke the silence. His voice was rough, gravellier than usual, like smashed pieces of rocks.
"Dean," Castiel answered without turning his head. His eyes were trailing the afterimage of the bright red BAR sign. "If you ask me if I'm okay again, I'll…" Castiel wasn't sure what he would do, probably say he was fine again, so he let the sentence hang. Dean chuckled.
"No, I wasn't gonna ask you. You'd say you were fine anyway."
Castiel didn't answer, wondering if this game of theirs would ever end. Chasing tails, flickering afterimages of a liquor store.
"What were you going to ask me?" Castiel asked when Dean didn't continue. He felt like Dean was hesitating in the driver's seat, just a little strain in his eyes and a line in his mouth, but he didn't turn his head to check. Trees blurred past, darker smudges in the dark night.
"I dunno if this is a good idea," Dean muttered darkly. It went well with the looming trees and the hidden moon, the sultry wind. Dean continued. "But I was gonna ask… you wanna have a beer?"
Castiel turned his head then. Dean was looking at him, not at the road. It looked like his hands had eyes on their own, holding easily onto the steering wheel and twisting, guiding the car in just the right way. Castiel wondered how that could be.
"'Cause I could kill for a beer right now." Dean added when Castiel still didn't say anything. "And I thought I'd buy some, but then I didn't know if you wanted… if it's okay, to, you know."
"Strange," Castiel said, finally, facing Dean and not blinking. "It's like you read my mind."
"Well, I do that." Dean let out a chuckle, relieved. The car slid smoothly to a stop in front of a shabby building, not a BAR but a small store of some kind.
"Wait here," Dean said and got out of the car. The Impala shook a little when the door slammed. Castiel waited, followed Dean with his eyes and wondered how much alcohol it would take for him to forget.
It turned out it really didn't take much, and Castiel couldn't decide whether to be disappointed or glad by it. First sip, a shockingly vivid taste on his tongue that was barley and autumn and oblivion. Castiel hadn't really appreciated the taste of alcohol before. Just the trance that came with. Even that had taken more than a few bottles of whiskey to feel. Now, though. Castiel sat across from Dean in the main study room of the bunker, sipping beer from the bottle Dean had tossed him. Dean was sitting back with his feet up on the table. He had a distant look about him. He was drinking the golden liquid like it was the air he breathed.
Third sip, Castiel wondered if he would have to lie all the time now. Now that he was human, now that barley tasted like bitter bliss. Fourth, closely followed by fifth. The liquid splashed in the half-empty bottle. He wondered why he'd lied, then. Why not tell Dean everything?
Castiel shifted a little in his seat. His limbs were all bent at awkward angles. Eventually he ended up in the same position as Dean, both feet on the edge of the table and crossed at the ankles. Distorting the human body felt oddly satisfying, a relief in the muscles in his back – even though he knew it would just mess them up more later. Dean glanced at him and his eyes wavered like he was remembering something but then the bottle reached his lips again, almost automatic now, and the expression settled and got whiffed away with the smell of alcohol. He went back to staring at the air in front of him. Castiel brought his own bottle to his lips and noticed that his hand was decidedly less steady than a minute ago. He stared at the minute shake, shrugged. Seventh, no, was it eighth?
Why had he lied?
He imagined the conversation that they didn't have. Dean would ask him, you okay, Cas, and Castiel would say, in this version he wouldn't lie, he would say no. Look Dean straight in the eyes and tell him the truth. Naomi came to see me, Dean. She told me I have to kill you…
Why? Even in his imagination, Dean's face was so ridiculously distorted that Castiel had to stifle a laughter. He was feeling a little light-headed now, like he was looking at his own life through a broken pair of glasses. Hadn't realized that his feet were bobbing up and down, up and down. Stopped when he saw what he was doing. He stared at Jimmy's dress shoes and tried to remember what he'd been talking, thinking about. It was hard to keep track of his thoughts. Or the number of sips he'd taken. One melted into another so quickly and before he knew his bottle was mysteriously full again.
Why? Because, because you're the Sacrifice. Because we lost our home and I am the only one who can unlock the door. Because I Fell but I'm still an Angel. Still an Angel, isn't that funny? What kind of an Angel gets drunk after a bottle of beer? Or was it two? Castiel knew why he'd lied to Dean.
Another bottle and he found Dean looking at him. Wordless, but Castiel read the question behind the stare.
"What… what kind of question is that?" Castiel muttered, voice lower even than usual, vowels and consonants sliding into and over each other. It was funny to hear his own voice so messed up, he almost laughed aloud.
"I didn't say anything." Dean said, and to Castiel's frustration, his voice was level and calm, normal. Castiel tried counting the bottles they had emptied together, gave up after three.
"Well, you, you were going to." Castiel said. Then added, because some things he heard even when Dean didn't speak them, "I'm okay."
"Okay." Dean said. "Good. Super. But I think it's time to… yeah, okay."
Before he knew, Dean's arms were holding him up. Castiel didn't remember getting up but he must have tried. Vertical, he decided he didn't like vertical so much. The bunker and Sam's books did a dance and his eyes couldn't catch up. He wondered if this was being drunk, that it was not as glorious as he'd thought. Didn't feel so great.
But he had to say, had to say what he had to say. He tried grabbing Dean's forearm and almost fell over, then realized he was already holding on tight to Dean's green jacket. The world moved too fast around him. He looked at Dean. Dean was still, an unmoving point in the middle of a boiling world.
"Don't…" Castiel started but it came out choked.
"What?" Dean frowned, leaning in a little to hear better. He gave up trying to get Castiel to stand, just held him up in a vertical position. Then he was struggling to adjust his hold, to help or drag Castiel to a bed, and Castiel was stumbling over his own tongue.
"Don't, say yes." Castiel finally got the words out, a little more clearly this time. Sway, then Dean – a strain in his voice. Castiel would really stand up on his own if he could.
"Say yes to what? What're you talking about? Man, this was a bad idea…"
"To the Angel. Dean." Castiel drawled on. Dean paused, and Castiel slipped a little. It was like his legs were suddenly liquid, turned into the beer he'd drunk.
"Who, Michael? Seriously, Cas. Apocalypse is over. Well," Dean paused. "The first one, anyway."
Castiel didn't tell Dean that it was not Michael. Wasn't really a lie, when you weren't even speaking, he told himself.
Dean half-dragged, half-carried Castiel to what he assumed was a spare room in the bunker. Castiel tried his best to keep up the pace, but he kept going the wrong way. Each time Dean was dragging him back, and each time he felt his legs grow weaker.
Castiel thought it again, don't say yes, because now he couldn't follow Dean and slam him into the alley, slam some sense into him. Couldn't stop him, couldn't protect him. Castiel sometimes liked to imagine himself as some kind of a Dean-expert but knew that wasn't true. He didn't know Dean, not really, even after all those thousand hours of watching him. He didn't know when and why Dean had decided to yell yes to Michael those years ago. The look on his face had been dead, that had been the end of the world itself. He didn't know why. He wouldn't know if Dean decides to sacrifice himself this time and he would, Dean would find a way to make Castiel do it. Break the already broken pieces of him. This time Castiel wouldn't be able to do anything. Dean already had that look. The same, but older, more tired and that was why Castiel couldn't tell him.
He thought all this as he fell face-first onto the mattress that smelled of dust and soap at the same time. Dean was saying something but sleep was already squatting on his limbs and Castiel drifted, fell fast. He thought that maybe humans lied all the time because they were afraid. Because right now he was – afraid.