Chapter Fourteen

Cas wakes up the next morning (or should he say afternoon) feeling just as exhausted as the night before. Noticing that he's awake, Dorian stretches and stands, heading over and licking Cas' face. Usually Cas would chuckle in delight and spend a few minutes lavishing Dorian with some attention, but today he just sighs and turns over in his bed, facing away from his small friend.

He picks his phone up off the nightstand. Taking a deep breath, he checks his messages (of which there are none). Cas closes his eyes with a despairing sigh, absolutely hating the hypocritical disappointment that rises in him at the lack of notifications. It's not like he's particularly surprised; Cas said he wanted space. He needed it. This was a good thing.

Although he can't help but wonder… if it's really such a good thing, why does it feel so awful?

When you've dealt with depression for as long as Cas has, you develop a certain sense of self-awareness. An uncanny ability to predict your own highs and lows, good days and bad. Sometimes you know right when you open your eyes in the morning.

And Cas knows without a shadow of a doubt that this is one of those days.

Cas spends the next hour or so performing the inevitable tossing and turning of those who are too awake to go back to sleep, but too tired to fully start their day. After emitting a frustrated sigh into his pillow loud enough to visibly startle Dorian, Cas resigns himself to getting up. He injects himself with his daily dose of neurotriptyline, momentarily relishing the short jolt of a feeling akin to pain because at least it was something. He gives his closet a brief thoughtful glance and shrugs, deciding that sweatpants and an ill-fitting t-shirt would suffice for today's plans (read: trying and ultimately failing not to feel too sorry for himself). He scrubs a hand through dirty hair, forgoing a shower, currently deeming it "too much work". He almost forgoes cover-up and his contacts as well, but he decides to put those on just in case.

Cas trudges downstairs, his every movement heavy with depression-induced lethargy. It's been a while since he's felt this way to this extent. By some twist of irony, Cas almost finds it comforting. The routine of the emptiness. This he knows how to deal with; it's the rest of the world that's the problem.

How does the saying go? Better the devil you know...?

Robotically, Cas pours Dorian some food – the only item in otherwise bare cupboards – and freshens his water bowl. The small canine munches and slurps happily, seemingly forgetting about his owner's odd behavior this morning. Cas is grateful for this, a prick of guilt stinging him. He had promised himself when he took Dorian in that he would only treat him with love, not flippant dismissals. The small animal is always there for Cas without fail, and Cas needs to be more appreciative of that very important fact.

While Dorian finishes eating, Cas goes into the other room and grabs his favourite toy: a small stuffed pheasant with an annoying squeaker that Dorian loved.

Cas walks back into the room with his hands behind his back, trying to hide the smile that threatens to spread. He tries to act nonchalant, but Dorian has the preternatural ability to detect when a game is about to be initiated. His head snaps up and he hops a little in excitement.

"Where's your bird?" Cas asks innocently, and those are the magic words. Dorian is yapping happily and running circles around Cas' feet. Cas keeps up the ruse for another moment or two and produces the toy from behind his back.

"There it is! Go get it, boy!" Cas says, throwing the toy across the room, a delighted Dorian running after it. He chews it mercilessly, squeaks filling the space, before bringing it back to Cas proudly.

The pair keep this routine up for a little while until Dorian seems sufficiently tuckered out. Cas then lets Dorian just lie on his dog bed, nuzzling his bird.

While the playful romp with his friend makes Cas feel marginally better, the blissful feeling of distraction is fast fading with every passing moment. Cas can almost feel his emotions dragging his body downwards, heavy and burdened.

He feels a bit twitchy, which is new to him. It's not until he catches his fingers twitching towards his phone that he realizes why. He swipes to the right, opening up his messages. His thumb hesitates over Dean's number, but quickly passes it, navigating to the correct chat.

Sent 1:37 pm:

Hi, Charlie. Would you happen to be free today?

Delivered 1:43 pm:

srry cas wish i could but im suuuuper swamped at work 2day! kinda an all hands on deck situation we got goin on here :S l8r this week?

Sent 1:45 pm:

That would be great. Good luck at work.

Delivered 1:48 pm:

thnx! im gonna need it lol :P my break's ending tho so i g2g, but i'll ttyl! xo

Cas fights back his disappointment as he places his phone back in his pocket. Charlie has her own life outside Cas' sphere of problems. Although Charlie is a wonderful help in that area, Cas can't expect her to be able to drop everything whenever he has the slightest issue – nor would he want her to.

Cas could have almost laughed at the irony; for as long as he can remember he was alone

in matters such as these, always repressing and internalizing his thoughts and feelings. Alone was what he knew best, and yet now that he had it, he finds himself floundering in a way he'd never experienced before.

A sudden sense of restless energy overtakes him, and Cas feels the urge to get out of the house, deciding to go for a walk. He briefly debates taking Dorian with him, but with Cas' destination growing ever clearer in his mind, Cas decides it's a journey he'd be best taking alone. Grabbing a hoodie from the coat rack (for coverage rather than warmth), he heads towards the front door.

He's going to go back to the cemetery.

Standing at the threshold of his house, Cas briefly considers whether he's insane for doing this, but just as quickly decides that it doesn't really matter. He feels like this is simply something he has to do. He doesn't feel the need to visit his own empty resting place again, and he's unable to put his finger on why exactly he feels so intent on going. He is, however, growing increasingly restless and some fresh air in withered lungs would not go unappreciated at that moment. So, Cas begins the walk.

At first he tries to let the dull, repetitive rhythm of his feet against pavement occupy his thoughts. Unfortunately for him, his mind is not so easily tamed and soon it is clouded by visions of deep green eyes and freckled skin and the brilliancy of a smile too-rarely seen.

Cas squeezes his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to ward off these thoughts, but closing his eyes brings forth memories of the tactile. Of lips on his. Rough, demanding, exhilarating. Cas snaps his eyes open faster than he had closed them.

Why is he still thinking about this? About Dean?

People stop being friends all the time (not that Cas has any prior knowledge in this particular area), but he knows it's true. He hasn't even known Dean for that long, and half that time was spent as enemies.

So why does it hurt so much?

In an odd way, Cas feels like he doesn't deserve to be hurt. It was he who had ended things, he's the one who said he needed time. Cas could still see Dean's eyes tainted by the heartbreak displayed in them. He's reminded of what Dean had said: You're the one that wanted to be friends in the first place. Cas can't refute that, and he feels overwhelming guilt that he's the one who caused all this.

Cas wonders bitterly why it is that when you try to make a mature decision, to do what's best for you, it always seems to end up hurting someone else.

And God help him, he misses the faux-macho, arrogant, impulsive, infuriating… beautiful boy.

Is that a normal way to think of a friend? Cas doesn't quite know where "beautiful" had come from. The word had spelled itself out in the forefront of his brain and something deep within Cas seemed to reach out and grab it, holding it close, somehow knowing that it felt right. The word wasn't about Dean's outward appearance (or, well, wasn't just about his outward appearance), but about his thoughts, his feelings, his heart and soul. The things that Cas so often contemplated diving headfirst into, wanting to share it all.

But why?

Cas continues to walk up a small hill, the beginnings of the cemetery's wrought-iron gate starting to crest more and more the closer he gets to the top. Every step is a rhythmic reminder of his confusing tangle of thoughts and feelings.

Step. Dean.

Step. Dean.

Step. Dean?

An acoustic melody he'd had stuck in his head lately starts up its loop again without warning. Cas scrambles to place it.

Well I hope that I don't fall in love with you,

Cuz fallin' in love just makes me blue.

What Cas had thought were irrevocably disparate pieces, slot together in sudden, near-violent clarity, making Cas actually stop on the sidewalk, his hand on the cemetery gate.

Cas loves Dean.

If the situation were any less seemingly earth-shattering, Cas could almost laugh about how three little words could so easily change a life. Or two.

Everything makes sense. All the niggling persistent questions lingering in the back of Cas' brain – some deliberately pushed to the back of Cas' brain – suddenly answered.

Why did Dean making a show for the HVF members hurt so much? Because Cas loves Dean.

Why did ending things nearly destroy him? Because Cas loves Dean.

Why, no matter how hard he tried, couldn't he stop thinking about that damnable kiss? Because Cas loves Dean.

All these questions and more are now explained so obviously, and Cas doesn't quite know what to do with this newfound knowledge. Regaining his equilibrium, Cas opens the gate to the graveyard and tentatively walks into it.

Now that the shock of the realization is wearing off, Cas is quickly coming to the crushing conclusion that this ultimately doesn't change anything. It just makes it even worse.

The fear he's been feeling finally attaches to its source. He's never been afraid of Dean, but rather he's scared of getting hurt by Dean. Of getting his hopes up, only to have it all crash down around his ears. The inevitability of that isn't going to change just because Cas cares about Dean even more than he thought he did.

Although what does his current strategy solve? Because Cas is afraid of getting hurt, he makes it so that Dean is the one hurting instead? Cas feels vaguely ill at the thought. It's almost enough to make him want to- but no. He can't think like that. Dean had barely even wanted to be friends with him, let alone more. The kiss floats across his brain but Cas clears away the wisps of memory before they can fully form.

If Dean has to get incoherently drunk in order to show any kind of romantic intention towards Cas, then Cas doesn't want it. Not like that. And if Dean is incapable of anything other than that then, well, he doesn't feel the same as Cas does.

Cas plunks down on a stone bench perched under the shade of a large elm, his head falling into his hands in frustration. He shouldn't want it to work out! It can't work out. He knows that.

His head perks up, suddenly realizing why he needed to come here, to this place. His head swivels, looking for something. Once he sees it, he strides towards it – quickly, so as not to lose his nerve.

Within seconds, he's there. Cas is in the exact spot where Balthazar had died – had been murdered. Most of the thick, black substance masquerading as blood had evidently been washed away. But when Cas kneels down and really looks, he can still see flecks of it staining a few unlucky blades of grass.

He takes deep breaths, fighting the panic attack he can feel brewing in the hollow of his chest. This is why he and Dean can never be together, in any capacity. They would always be on opposite sides of an ongoing war. Always caught in the middle of two worlds where there only used to be one.

Cas had fooled himself before, when he and Dean had been isolated in a world of their own making. Cas thought they could do it. That if they were caught in the middle, maybe they could build something together, a neutral safe haven. Perhaps it was never meant to last.

But then, Cas' eye catches the grave he hid behind during the encounter with John. Without really planning on it, he stands up and slowly walks towards it. He brushes it with his hand, and quickly snatches it back when he realizes that he has no right to connect with the resting place of a person he'd never met and never would meet. But he looks at the ground and suddenly he's right back to where he was that day: scared, barely breathing, all hope leaving him like sands through an hourglass. Dean approaching, ever-closer, dull blues locking with bright greens, pure desperation, uncontrollable relief.

What is it, son?

Nothing, it's… nothing.

It would have been so easy, Cas muses. So easy to say, "There's another one over here." And yet, Dean remained silent, didn't give him away when Cas assumes that every part of him was screaming to do just that.

Cas hates the inkling of hope for the future that trickles into his being.

Having had just about enough, Cas starts to leave, but stops short at the spot where Balthazar's second life had been cruelly ripped from him. Cas sets a knee on the ground and touches the grass with an almost reverent caress.

"Thank you," he whispers, hoping that somewhere, somehow, Balthazar hears him.

Cas wishes that he could properly mourn him, but with a sudden pang of sadness, Cas realizes that Balthazar never had a proper burial, that his body was somewhere in the forest, rotting in a heartless shallow grave.

Cas heaves one last sigh and starts the walk home, somehow feeling both lighter and heavier than before he came.

When Cas reaches his neighborhood, he has a moment of terror when he sees a figure standing at his door. As he approaches closer, though, he recognizes the mop of brunette hair and smiles a little, quickening his pace.

The figure raises his fist to knock again, but Cas interrupts him.

"Hello, Sam."

Sam turns around in surprise, and smiles when he sees Cas. The smile makes Cas' heart pang pathetically as he's reminded of Dean. But, as is so often the way with Dean, Sam's smile is somehow sad and it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Hi, Cas."

Cas sidles by him and opens the door, an excited Dorian bounding up to the unexpected visitor. Sam is delighted and stoops down to pet Cas' tiny roommate.

"Wow, I didn't know you had a dog!" Sam says.

"I've only just recently acquired him," Cas explains.

Cas tells Sam the dog's name, and they make small-talk about Dorian, but it's clear that Sam did not come here for idle chatter.

"Would you like to sit down?" Cas asks.

"Sure. Thanks," Sam replies.

Sam sits on the couch while Cas opts for the chair adjacent to it, not wanting the nervous boy to feel crowded in any way.

"I'd offer you something, but I'm afraid the kitchen is rather bare," Cas says politely, smiling at the boy in an attempt to make him feel more comfortable.

"It's okay," Sam says, chuckling a little. He picks at his fingernails. Cas wants to wait for Sam to work up the courage to say what he has to, but Cas' curiosity gets the better of him.

"Why are you here, Sam?" Cas asks, not unkindly.

Sam takes a deep breath and lets out his next words all in one breath. "Something's-wrong-with-Dean."

Cas goes from relaxed to completely alert in the span of a blink. His posture is rigid in his chair, as if ready to spring into action at any moment if necessary.

"What's wrong? What's happened? Is Dean alright?" Cas demands worriedly.

"I'm not sure. He doesn't tell me anything, so I've gotten pretty good at reading him. He came home yesterday and he was just… off. You know? I don't think he even got any sleep last night. I heard pacing coming from his room."

Cas feels ill, knowing exactly whose fault Dean's pain is. He slumps in his seat, at the very least assured that Dean isn't in any kind of immediate danger. Sam doesn't notice the change in Cas' demeanor and continues on.

"Ever since you guys have been hanging out, he's gotten better. Smiling a little more, like he means it. Not that fake crap to make my dad happy. It was really great for a while, but now it's like he's going back to the way he was. And… I'm scared, Cas. I just want him to be happy."

Cas feels ashamed. He starts to speak, trying and failing to stop his voice from wavering. "I'm so sorry."

At first, Sam looks almost amused. "Why are you sorry? It's not your fault."

"Yes, it is."

The confusion on Sam's face holds hints of betrayal and Cas' heart sinks. "Yesterday… I told Dean I couldn't see him anymore."

"What?! Why? I thought that maybe you- Why?" Sam asks, a desperate edge to his voice. Cas respects that edge, knows it's out of love for his brother and a part of Cas is happy that if he himself can't be there to protect Dean, Sam always will.

Cas takes a shaky breath and tells Sam what had transpired the day before. Cas feels comfortable with Sam. Perhaps not on the same level as Charlie, but comfortable all the same. He tells Sam a very edited version of what he realized today, about his fear of getting hurt, disappointed. He sees Sam's expression soften at that. Sam listens and doesn't interrupt at any point, for which Cas is grateful.

At fourteen years old, Sam is undoubtedly more mature than most his age, and Cas can't help but feel a bit of sadness as to how that maturity came about, about how it was thrust upon him at too young an age.

Cas finishes his tale of woe, and Sam sits back in his seat, seemingly just trying to take it all in. Cas watches the minutiae of emotions flicker across Sam's expression, in a way that is similar to Dean. But Cas notes that where Dean represses and attempts to hide any visible sign, Sam seems to process, moving through them analytically and placing each feeling in a designated box to be examined more at a later time.

"I forgive you," are the first words out of Sam's mouth and if Cas weren't already sitting, he could almost collapse out of relief. It looks like Sam has more to say, though, so Cas stays silent, waiting.

"I… I understand. And I'm sorry you had to go through that, really I am. I know it must have been awful, but are you sure you're doing the right thing? I think… I think there's a difference between protecting yourself and sheltering yourself. Isolating yourself. It's the easiest thing, but is it really going to make you happy? Because no offence, but you're not exactly the picture of joy right now, man."

The last sentence is said in a way so reminiscent of Dean that Cas can't help the small chuckle that bubbles to his lips. "You're right. But I don't know what else to do. I don't know what makes me happy."

"Yes, you do."

Cas tilts his head in Sam's direction, confused. "What do you mean?"
Sam looks to the ceiling for a moment, as if asking for strength from a higher power, before saying, "I've seen the way you look at my brother."

And Cas is floored. He stares at Sam, mouth slightly agape. Has he really been that obvious? A more childish part of Cas wants to refute the accusation, assert that he hasn't the faintest clue what Sam is talking about, but he knows it's useless. Sam is a smart kid; he doesn't deserve Cas attempting to treat him like an idiot.

So, Cas doesn't say anything at all.

Sam takes this as the confirmation it was meant to be and nods slightly. He takes the proffered hint that although Cas won't deny it, he's not ready to talk about it yet. Sam grabs his schoolbag (He must have taken a bus right from school, Cas thinks idly), and grabs his coat. Cas follows him to the door and they exchange slightly awkward, but pleasant goodbyes.

Just as Sam is about to close the door behind him, he pops his head back in.

"Cas?" he asks.

"Yes?"

"I just want you to know that no matter what you're feeling… there are some things that are worth fighting for."

Cas doesn't know what to say to that, so he just nods. Sam smiles, sympathy in his eyes, and leaves. Cas watches him leave from the window and realizes that it has started to rain. Of course it's raining, Cas thinks a little bitterly, the gloomy weather not exactly helping his mood. Cas goes back to the living room and flops onto the couch, listening to the sound of the heavy rain and thinking about what Sam had said. He continues thinking about it, and what that might mean for himself and Dean, and whatever their future holds.

He's still thinking about it, in fact, much later that evening when he hears a knock at the front door.