There is next to no chance of Castiel falling asleep. As soon as Meg turns the lights off, he wants to leap up and throw them back on. Damn whatever she thinks is best—or what she thinks he can't do. She's wrong.
"Meg—"
There's a sharp clink of metal against metal, and Castiel can imagine Meg dragging her shiv against the pipes to make the shrill sound. "You're here out of the kindness of my heart," She menaces. "Don't test me. I don't want to throw you out, but I will if I have to."
Castiel could test her. Push for what he wants, because the threat of being thrown out is barely a threat at all. By himself, he's lasted through the night and longer. Much longer. But he doubts Sam or Dean have had that particular experience before, and the he's not really inclined to give it to them now. Besides, the men who attacked them are still out there, searching for them.
It's so frustrating. He can't put them in that much danger (they're already in enough as it is) even he wants to—even if he needs to. Castiel has never been able to argue very successfully against his conscience, and right now it's telling him to settle in for the night, and wait this out. Regardless of what could be happening to Bobby. Of what is happening to Bobby. There's no doubt in Castiel's mind that he is gone, being held captive or worse.
He has to force the thoughts away, they're not helping. They're putting jitters in his limbs and static in his head, and it's so hard to concentrate that he almost misses it when Dean hisses, "Is she serious?"
"I'm right here. I can hear you, numbskull," Meg says from across the room. "And I assure you I am deadly serious."
Castiel wishes she wasn't, and wishes there was any other option now but waiting at the mercy of a hormonal, grudge-holding teenager, but at this point, he doesn't see another. "I'll grab some blankets," he mutters, resigned. It's disorienting trying to move in complete darkness, but he manages.
As he's getting up, a hand scrambles against his side. It's Dean's, Cas is sure, so he reaches out and tentatively places a palm where he expects Dean's head to be. "I'll be right back," Castiel whispers.
The hand stills then drops away. "Yeah," Dean replies immediately, then after clearing his throat, "Yeah, it's cool."
Castiel wishes he could see Dean's face in the dark, as if that would reveal the mystery in his words, but he can't. "What are you thinking, Dean?" he asks instead, almost involuntary in the way it slips out of his mouth without any prior thought. He stoops down, aiming to look at Dean although it's pitch black.
Dean pauses. Castiel thinks he can feel the moment the question sinks in, and Dean becomes paralyzed by either the implication or answer of it.
Meg coughs loudly—blatantly intentional, "Some people are trying to sleep here. Save the romancing till after I'm snoring. Thanks."
Castiel sighs and rises back up to his feet, like most things Meg says, the insinuation shoots right over Castiel's head.
It does not, however, for Dean. "We're not—I'm—he's not romancing me."
"Oh, honey. This is as close as it gets for him."
Dean barks a laugh. "We're twelve, not really the age for that is it?"
Meg replies to him in kind, chuckling, "I don't know. I started pretty early."
"Enough," Castiel commands in the silence. These aren't the things he wants to think about in the middle of the night, bathed in darkness. He can't allow these thoughts to catch him now, or they will capture him and he will drown amongst them.
No one argues.
The darkness echoes with Castiel's footsteps, as he fumbles around, gathering the discarded, threadbare blankets off the ground, and Sam's rattling snores.
"Here," Castiel says has he drops the thin, scratchy linens to the floor.
There's shuffling, then Dean asks, "A little help, please?" quietly, and Castiel crouches down immediately.
Sam is in the deepest sleep Castiel has ever come across. The boy doesn't even stir as Dean and Castiel move him around, trying to maneuver everyone into the blankets and some semblance of a makeshift bed. He just keeps on snoring, and Castiel notices his arm wrapped tight around Dean's side. Through all the pushing and nudging, it doesn't release.
If Dean notices, he doesn't mind, and Castiel isn't going to bring it up. It puts a hollow throb in his chest. Longing maybe, or remembrance—but there was never a time when anyone clung close to Castiel, not like Sam does to Dean. It makes him cold. And in the dark, it almost feels like he's completely alone. Trapped in the quiet.
They settle eventually. All three of them bundled up sufficiently in the confines of the blankets, closely wrapped together like peas in a too-small pod. Dean is in the middle, and when Castiel slides in next to him, he tries not to squeeze in too close, or crowd too tightly. They're just near enough that Castiel can feel the warmth of Dean's side and Dean's hair brushing up against his cheek.
It's quiet. Castiel wonders if Dean actually intends to fall asleep, or if he's even capable, because even as Castiel lies still, back to the cold ground, the dregs of unconsciousness refuse to envelope him. He's alert and on edge, waiting for the next disaster, wondering how long this adrenaline will last before he crashes.
Meg is silent. Castiel is grateful for that.
He doesn't know how much time passes while he stares unseeingly at the ceiling, but after what seems a great while, Dean shrugs beside him.
"I'm thinking a lot of things," Dean whispers.
It takes a second, but Castiel realizes Dean is referring to his earlier question. He doesn't press. The drifting feeling of the night has taken hold of them, and he knows Dean has more to add. He wouldn't have started talking if he didn't, and Castiel feels no need to rush him.
"This is just…insane, you know?" Dean says, and there is an edge of incredulity in his voice. "Things like this don't happen in real life. Kids getting chased by gunmen? Hiding out in an abandoned building? It doesn't make any sense." He sighs, then contiues. "And to me? I don't get it. I'm just some boy—a little crazy maybe, but—"
"No." Castiel hadn't meant to interrupt. He didn't want to cut Dean off the in the middle of whatever great speech he'd devised, but Dean is just…wrong. "You're not crazy. The circumstances are strange, and admittedly extraordinary, but…" Castiel clears his throat, and when he finishes his statement it is with absolute conviction—the sort he hasn't really felt in so long, but Dean seems to bring out of him. "I believe this is all for a reason," he asserts. "There is a purpose. I know it."
"How?" Dean asks, and it comes out less scathing and more desperate. "I'm just some strange kid who has nightmares, and, sometimes, hallucinations. That doesn't sound like divine purpose to me. It sounds like insanity. They don't tell me anything. None of them make sense. It's just images and people, and snatches of conversations that I can't understand—they're not helping anything."
Castiel takes in the information, comparing it to his own experience, but the similarities are almost null. Castiel doesn't see things—nothing but a bright light and the destruction it leaves behind. He doesn't hear things either—it's all more subtle for him. An urging, a hounding. A feeling of purpose and motivation that refuses to let him rest. So maybe he doesn't understand Dean's condition. But he knows they're related, and that, somehow, it ties together.
There is sense in this puzzle. There's just too few pieces to actually make out the greater image.
"I won't pretend to know more than you, Dean. I do not have all the answers." At one point, he had hoped Dean would. The idea of Dean Winchester had been much more imposing than the real deal, yet this boy consoled his fears and worries infinitely more than the broad concept. "What I have is faith. And trust. In you and in myself, and that is enough."
Dean sighs wearily. "I'm not that kind of person, Cas. I'm not like you. I'm not going to trust the mysterious eye in the sky, or whatever 'bigger plan' you think we're part of. We're just two kids. Two messed up little kids."
"That's not true," Castiel says, and he winces, because the words are feeble and weak. "You're wrong."
"I want to be," Dean rushes out, "I want you to be right. I wish this were for some greater purpose. I wish we had some guarantee it would work out in the end, but, Cas, the world just doesn't work like that." He takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is flat and detached. "The good guys lose, and the bad guys get away. You can try hard and still fail. No one gets their happily ever after."
It's so empty. Castiel is struck speechless by the hollowness. As if the person Dean is, the smiling, reassuring, crass boy, has vacated his body, leaving behind a feeble ghost in his place.
"You can't truly believe that," Castiel whispers.
"Hasn't really been much to prove me wrong. This is how it is. It sucks, but that's life." Dean delivers the lines like a well-practiced play, like he's heard them a thousand times and repeating them is just second nature.
"How can I change your mind?" Castiel demands. This desolation that Dean has buried himself in…it must be surmountable. Castiel will overcome it. He's beat his own demons, he's dragged himself on and on, continuously. There have been low points, moments to scrape the bottom of hopelessness, but he has surpassed them. Castiel knows Dean can do the same.
"You can't."
Castiel has to.
The compulsion always thrumming in the back of his head doesn't command it. It's not another involuntary action Castiel can't discern. It's because he wants to. He wants to see Dean smile without shadows hiding in his eyes. He wants to fix this, even if Dean can't see it's broken.
Castiel reaches out, he plans on grabbing Dean by the wrist, maybe the front of his shirt, anything to yank him out of this self-delusionary despair, but it's like his hand has a mind of its own. It shoots forward and latches onto Dean's shoulder instead, tight like a vise.
The silent darkness lasts a single second more, before exploding into searing, white light, spiraling the everything into nothingness.
When the world statics back into existence, the first thing Castiel notices is that they're not in the warehouse anymore. It's startlingly obvious all at once, the cold, dank darkness replaced with the brisk breeze of fall and the sunlight shining contentedly through browning leaves on the trees in the park surrounding them. The second thing Castiel notices, is that he is not alone. Dean stands beside him in the too-bright green grass, eyes wide and mouth gaping. He's an arm's length away, and Castiel wonders faintly, in the mix of all this astonishment, why or how his hold on Dean's shoulder fell away.
They're in the middle of a park, kids running with thin jackets and smiles plastered on their flushed red cheeks. Before Castiel can ask what's happened, one dashes toward them, chasing, presumably after the girl running behind them. Castiel is prepared to throw himself out of the way but…the child runs right through him, like Castiel is made of nothing more than air. It feels like the hollow burn of sticking your finger in then out of candle flame
"What is this?" Castiel demands, anxiety creeping into his voice. This place, it's not…real. Castiel doesn't believe they've just teleported into this sunny park. Even if the leaves are too detailed to be imagined and the children too realistic, it not reality. It can't be. "Where are we?"
Panic twists Dean's face. "This isn't possible," he whispers.
"What?"
Dean spins in a small circle, marveling openly. "The visions—the things I see—they're just, they're just dreams."
Castiel's eyes widen as he understands. Somehow he's found himself in Dean's head. He reassess the scene, committing it to memory and pouring over the details, but if anything, it feels more like a memory than a dream. "This is what you see?" He asks tentatively.
"Not…all the time. It's not always like this. It's usually darker, full of shadows and distorted. And no one," he looks back at Cas, "No one has ever been with me."
"I'm here right now," Castiel says, immediately, because he can feel Dean trying to convince himself out of. "This isn't a dream. It isn't a hallucination." He grabs Dean's hand to illustrate the point. They touch, no passing through and no ice.
Dean shakes his head, but there's less resistance. He's just going through the motions of it.
"Dean," Castiel snaps, "What is it going to take for you to believe? It doesn't get more clear than this. What is so hard to accept?"
"All of this!" Dean throws his hands up, yanking away from Castiel. "What do you want me to think? We're on some mission from God? Seriously? If I said any of this stuff out loud, to anyone, I'd be in an asylum in minutes."
"Does it matter if anyone else believes? It's the truth, Dean. As much as you ignore it, it's not going away."
Dean looks like he's about to snap something quick and cruel, but just as his mouth opens it falls slack, and his eyes travel up over Castiel's head.
Castiel turns around, and if he thought the change from dark, abandoned building to bright, park was shocking, this is a million times worse.
There's a man walking past, through the masses of running children, and even if it doesn't make sense, can't be possible, Castiel knows exactly who he is.
"…Dean?"
They're not clones, not a clear copy, but Castiel can see it, in his walk, in the way he shoves his hands in his pockets, the numerous freckles spotting his cheeks and his vibrant green (like summer grass) eyes. This is Dean. Albeit, a considerably older and more worn Dean, but undoubtedly the same person.
This new Dean passes them and settles onto a bench a few yards away, eyes lost in the sky. He sits heavily, like the weight on his shoulders is dragging him to the ground, and he hunches too, like it's all too much. Little puffs of air swirl out of his mouth then up and away, into the blue.
As they watch silently, another man appears, instantly. It's like one second the bench beside Dean is empty, and in the next, he is there, sitting with his hands clasped in front of him like he'd been there from the start. Castiel jumps, and takes one step back, completely unnerved.
The newcomer is cloaked in an overly large, tan trench coat. He's stiff-backed and blank-faced, with the burning intensity of a storm.
"That's you," His Dean whispers, and it clicks.
That's Castiel's scruffy black hair, his pale skin, his glass, blue eyes. That's him.
But, it's not. The uncanny resemblance is there, but in the same way that Dean is not identical to the older man, Castiel is not the same as this strange duplication. He feels smaller, and weaker, and more human in comparison. Castiel doesn't know where the word comes from (what could this man be if not human?), but the notion seems so accurate, he can't argue against it.
The two men start talking, and even though Castiel and Dean can't hear their words over the distance and the clamor of the playground, they observe, unblinkingly, and don't speak a word.
The conversation starts out calm, just the quick movement of mouths, neither of them really looking at each other, but the older Castiel says something (and Castiel can't tell what it is, it's delivered with the same empty impassiveness as the rest of his words), and Dean jerks around in agitation, snapping something quick and fierce.
Castiel wishes he could make out words, just a few phrases, anything to understand, to grasp what is going on. He thinks in that moment, that he understands Dean's helplessness.
"I've seen you before," Dean mutters suddenly.
Castiel tears his eyes away from the exchange on the benches.
"This you." Dean inclines his head toward the man with the trench coat. "When I saw you get out of Bobby's car for the first time. It all got…" he waves his hand vaguely and squints his eyes, "shimmery. Then there was this you, getting out of my dad's car. It only lasted a second, but…that's when I knew you weren't normal." He laughs quietly. "Not that I can talk. But, it was the first time I'd had a—a vision," he stumbles over the word like it doesn't makes sense coming out of his mouth, "when I wasn't asleep. It really freaked me out. That's why I tried to avoid you. I'm—I was still trying to be normal. Trying to pretend that if I ignored it—ignored you, it would go away." His voice cracks, but Dean just clears his throat and keeps going. "I shouldn't have. I'm…sorry."
Castiel feels his eyes soften. "It wasn't your fault," he says. Dean wanted to protect himself—Castiel understands that. Before he'd met Bobby, he had been the same. Worse even.
"No, I should have—"
"Dean," Castiel reprimands, and he waits until Dean stops avoiding to his gaze to finish, "it wasn't your fault." He holds the eye-contact, trapping Dean in it, because this boy needs to understand that not everything is his responsibility—his burden. Castiel doesn't know how the older version of Dean became so worn down and grim, but he wants to prevent it at all costs.
"Okay," Dean says, "Okay."
Castiel isn't sure he really believes him, or if Dean truly believes it himself, but it's a start. "Good. Now, do you know where we are?"
There's a sag in Dean's shoulders belying his relief at a change in topic, then a quick shake of his head. "Not a clue. It doesn't look familiar, but honestly I couldn't tell you where most of the stuff I see happens. Not usually a lot of street signs around."
Castiel puzzles over this. He still thinks that these visions have a purpose; that they must mean something, pieces in this incomprehensible puzzle, but all he has are more questions. Is this real? Is it…the future? Visions of what's to come? Or what might be? A warning? But Castiel can't see a world in which he looks at Dean with anything less than adoration in his eyes—and while this Castiel is intent, he has none of the warmth.
"Do you get them too?" Dean asks suddenly, focused and intense.
"The visions?"
Dean nods his head, yes.
Castiel turns away, back toward the pair of benches. He hadn't been expecting this conversation now. He'd known of its imminence, but this seems almost too soon. "No. Never."
This throws Dean into confusion. "Than what is it? You believe me, you're different—just like I am, I know it."
"I can't fully explain it…"
Dean purses his lips. "Try."
Castiel sighs, but it's only fair if he at least attempts it. He's never really tried to explain all of it before. Bobby had experienced most of it first hand, and anyone else had written it off in his first few stuttering explanations. But he'll try. "How it was like in Bobby's house," he says slowly, "with the light," the brilliance, the power, the connection, the hope (but he doesn't say all that, he's not trying to overwhelm Dean).
"What light?"
This is why Castiel was reluctant to explain it. "You didn't see it," he mutters, "of course. It's…"
"Yes," Dean prompts.
"…like…your visions," Castiel tries, grasping for a comparison, "except it affects the physical plane, and it's—it's dangerous."
Understanding seeps into Dean's expression. "Yeah?"
"When I am…upset, it takes over. I've…" he swallows thickly, "hurt a few people. It's not intentional. It's not even voluntary, I try to keep away from stressful situations as much as possible, but there's only so much I can do."
"Seriously?"
Castiel grimaces. "Yes." He is not at all prepared for Dean's reaction.
"You have got to be kidding me," Dean exclaims. "I get stuck with the freaky visions and the spaz attacks, and you get super powers. What the hell?"
"Th—they're not superpowers. I don't even understand what happens. I am overwhelmed by—by this light and—and people have died, Dean."
"But not anymore, right? You're controlling it now. Like what you did with those bullies?"
Castiel gapes at him, speechless.
"See, I'm right. You're totally a superhero. Man, that's unfair."
"It's not just that," Castiel snaps, "I've been hearing your name since before I could understand words."
Now, it's Dean's face that drops. "My name?"
Castiel glowers at him.
"Yeah, yeah, okay, my name. But, why?"
"That's what Bobby and I were trying to figure out," Castiel sighs, and he turns back to pair of benches. He notices that the staring between the two men continues even as their words die off. He wonders if they're communicating some way, just between meaningful glances.
With a barely imperceptible sigh, the older Dean turns away. But, the second their eyes part, the vision's version of Castiel blips right out of existence.
"Did he just—"
"Yes," Castiel breathes. The idea of not-human flits through his mind again. He's about to ask Dean if this sort of thing, people disappearing and appearing randomly, happens often in his visions, but the second after his counterpart disappears, the park freezes.
It's like someone's suddenly hit pause on the whole scene. The kids stop dead in the midst of their playing, one boy caught in the action of jumping, another girl frozen in the arch of her swing. Leaves in the midst of falling are suspended in the air. The twisted smile is stuck on the older Dean's face.
"What—"
"It's ending," Dean rushes out, "You're gone, so it's over, Cas—" Dean jerks out a hand, latching out onto Castiel's. It's a good thing he does, because, in that instant, the ground rips out from under Castiel's, and it's like he's falling through it and off all at the same time.
The vibrant fall colors are washing away to gray, and the sunlight has vanished entirely. "What's going on?" he demands, but even as he speaks, his words are ripped away, shredded into silence.
Dean is shouting, but it's like there's interference. The words are cut off and garbled. "Ca—ju—on't—let go!"
Castiel clings to Dean's hand, but as the park fades and the silence looms heavier, Dean is sucked away with the scene into nothingness. All too quickly, Castiel is left, spiraling into the abyss, fumbling after a hand that has ceased to exist.