Chapter 19: And on the Cemetery Breeze…I heard a Song About Belief
"Goodnight, Dean."
His companion laughed, an easy, dry chuckle, "I think the words you're looking for are 'Good Morning'."
They stood in the hallway, in front of their apartment doors, soft pre-dawn light filtering in through the windows at either end of the hall, painting everything in shades of blue. Castiel didn't really want to end this moment. Here they were suspended in time, hanging between now and then and when. Purgatory may not be a place without fear, but it was a place without consequences. Castiel feared that if he willingly left this moment he might break whatever tenuous understanding he and Dean had forged.
"Dean." Castiel wasn't sure why he spoke. He almost regretted it now that Dean was looking at him, expecting something more than his own name.
The silence dragged on.
"I think now's when you say something," Dean prompted, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.
Castiel cleared his throat, feeling the scrape of smoke-damaged vocal chords. He hadn't always sounded like a chain smoker with laryngitis. Cést la vie. "Thank you."
"No problem, man."
"Liar."
Dean blinked, gently surprised.
"The question of whether or not to trust me was a rather significant 'problem'," Castiel reminded him archly, but without condemnation.
Dean chuckled awkwardly, "Yeah, I guess so. I'm – "
"Not sorry at all," Castiel informed him, "And a very curious shade of indigo."
"I thought I was amber?" Dean asked, raising both eyebrows, a mock-serious expression decorating his face.
"Yes." Castiel chose not to elaborate. Dean was many colors. It was one of the joys of being around him. He could see so very many of them all at once.
They stood there in silent, blue, purgatory for a few more moments. Castiel could feel the end of this time bearing down on him and he resisted the urge to hide from it.
"Hey," Dean said, voice surprisingly soft for once, "For what it's worth, you are one of the best people I've ever met." He reached out one hand and rested it on Castiel's shoulder, light at first, then tightening into a gentle squeeze.
Impulsively, Castiel turned toward his friend, they were dangerously close now; not that Castiel had ever truly comprehended the concept of 'personal space'. Still riding the high of burgers and milkshakes and art after midnight, not to mention Dean, just that steady amber presence all around him, Castiel reached one hand up and rested it lightly on Dean's cheek, the pads of his fingers barely brushing skin. "You are fascinating. And blind, so very blind. Thank you for letting me know you."
Having said everything (and perhaps a bit too much) Castiel retreated. Pulling away and sweeping through his doorway and into his sleeping apartment.
Dean watched him go, eyes wide, trying to soak up everything that had just happened, finding there was just too much to take in but still trying, overflowing with it all.
…
Castiel didn't really sleep that morning. Instead he paced the apartment, picking things up and setting them down, re-ordering his universe over and over again, organizing according to some sort of internal symphony. He wasn't really paying attention to what he was doing, more letting it happen as images scrolled across the movie screen behind his eyes.
Finally, two hours after he and Dean had parted ways, Castiel came to a halt. There was no gradual slowing down; no gentle decline in his mania; he just stopped in the middle of the living room. Something told him this project was complete and he was ready to move on.
He didn't retreat to his room, he returned.
And then he was in the living room again and now there was a canvas on the floor and he was up to his elbows in paint.
He worked until the morning light was canary yellow and insistent and Gabe's fist against his door even more so.
"It's Saturday, Cassie, best day of the week! Up and at 'em!"
…
"Dude, I hate to break it to you, but you've got paint all over your hands," Charlie said, breezing into the bookstore that morning, eyeballing his stained wrists where they disappeared under his button-up shirt.
"It's dry," Castiel said blithely.
"I figured, seeing as you aren't leaving splotches everywhere, but that's not really the point."
"What is the point, then?" Castiel asked, tipping his head to the side and squinting at her.
She squinted right back at him, "You're messing with me."
A smile snuck onto his face of it's own volition, "A little."
She snorted but grinned good-naturedly, "I take it you're feeling better."
"I was never ill."
"Liar."
"Liar," he parroted back.
She shoved him lightly, "You knew what I meant. I'm glad you're doing better. Things work out for you?"
"I'm working them out."
"Not one for the passive all-will-be-right-with-the-world thing?"
"Passivity has never played out in my favor before," he told her dryly.
She shrugged, "Me neither, but it seems to work for some people."
"Lucky bastards," Castiel said, completely deadpan.
Charlie laughed.
…
Castiel answered his phone on the third ring. Dean had changed his ringtone, again. He didn't know how to change it back so he just let 'Carry On My Wayward Son' play while he dug around the bookshop's counter, searching for the damn thing.
"Hey, Dad?"
"Hello, Claire."
"Did you lose your phone again?" her voice was knowing.
"No."
"You're a horrible liar."
"You're fuchsia today," he grumped playfully.
"Not need to be nasty," she laughed at him.
"I am an eccentric and unpleasant individual, what else would I be?" He said archly.
She snorted, "Well, I'm still at Krissy's, we just had breakfast. Her mom makes the best waffles."
"Hmm," Castiel mused, "I knew there was something I forgot to do today."
"Did you forget to eat breakfast?"
"There was coffee, I just assumed I had included food at some point," Castiel reflected.
Claire sighed, "You're going to be hopeless when I go to college, aren't you?"
"I have faith in Gabriel's determination not to let me waste away completely," Castiel replied serenely. He really should wander over to the bakery and get something to eat…
"What about Dean?" Claire asked, putting just the right amount of playful emphasis on the name.
"We snuck into a museum together last night, which may or may not be a crime in Oregon. Then we ate burgers and milkshakes."
"In the museum?"
"Don't be taupe."
"Ah, then that's okay, then," Claire declared with mock magnaminity, "So, are you guys good?"
"Yes. We seem to be 'good'. For now."
"Awesome," Castiel could hear her soft smile through the phone.
"So, what are your plans for the day?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"Oh, you know, hang out here, hang out at the bookstore; hang out at Gabe's bakery…"
"You aren't telling me something," Castiel noted, voice slightly sharp on the last few syllables.
"I'm meeting my mother again, in a few hours… at Gabe's… just us. We'll see what happens." He could hear her shifting uncomfortably in the background.
"Very well."
"Are you…okay with that?"
"Meet with your mother, Claire. You both need this," he told her gently, "My feelings are immaterial."
"Thank you," her voice was a slender whisper through the tiny speaker.
…
Carry On My Wayward Son blared an hour later and Castiel pawed around the back room, clawing through boxes of books and display materials. He caught it a few notes before it went to voicemail.
"Castiel?" Amelia's voice staggered through the line.
"Amelia?" he froze, muscles tight; waiting for a blow that would never hit his body.
"I need help."
"Where are you?"
…
He found her sitting on the side of the road; swaying to a rhythm only she could hear. The neon lights of the bar behind her slipped through her hair, giving her a multi-hued halo. Filtered through the harsh yellow light of day it seemed washed out and used. She was like a faded photograph of herself, barely there and worn through.
"Amelia?"
"Cassieeee" she sang, saluting him sloppily with the bottle in her hand.
"What are you doing?" he snapped, "You're supposed to meet Claire in two hours."
She slumped forward. Castiel almost didn't catch her. But a few seconds later his fingers were tangled in her shirt and latched onto her shoulder. He crouched down, bringing them face to face. Her blonde hair drifted around them, her eyes swallowing him whole. He felt like he was dying with her for a moment as they sat there, gravel digging into his knees.
She blinked slowly. He tracked the veins as they twisted through the bloodshot whites of her eyes. "James."
"No, Amelia. Stop that. What are you doing here, what the fuck are you doing here?"
"James," she tried to cuddle her head under his chin, he jerked away, holding her at arm's length.
"Stop now," Castiel ordered and she sagged, head lolling on her neck until her cheek rested on the shoulder not trapped under Castiel's fingers.
"I went to the hospital today," she whispered.
"Bad news?"
"I felt bad," she swirled the dregs of whatever was sloshing around the bottom of that bottle and raised it in sloppy salute, "I don't feel anything now."
"Amelia." Castiel wasn't sure what he was going to say after that, the name was just pulled from him like marrow extracted from bone. A test sample to check for something malignant.
"It was bad, Jimmy," there were tears in her eyes, "I'm dying. And I feel like shit and what am I going to tell Claire? I look at her and I feel worse and better and then I look at you, or maybe Castiel, whoever you really are, and I feel…"
Castiel wasn't sure what to say. Someone else might have apologized but he didn't feel the least bit sorry. He just felt sort of ash grey, greenish and ill and fading.
She shook her head slowly, a tiny movement, really, "Like I'm falling and falling and can't see the bottom but I know it's there and when I hit it will kill me. But I'm already dying, so why won't this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach go away?"
She kissed him then.
It was violent and garish and folly red and Castiel could taste blood laced with whiskey from where she caught his lip on a tooth. It wasn't a kiss so much as a head butt of fang-baring need. Like a vampire mummified in Johnny Walker she grasped at him with fluttering, clawing hands and tried to yank something out of the moment that had never been there to begin with.
Castiel pushed her away, "Stop. Now," he ordered, rising to his feet like a vengeful god, "I am not James Novak, I am not your idol to play games with and I am not your memory to pay homage to."
"I want…"
"I don't care. We've gone past the point of that mattering to me," every syllable was clipped, tights and tearing, "I am not my brother and I will not play his role in your last...whatever this is."
"You've worn his face all these years. You've worn his life like a coat. Like a trench-coat." She tugged at his coat, drifting boozily from side to side.
"I did what I had to do," the words hissed out from between Castiel's teeth like air escaping a popped balloon.
"Didn't you, though?" her eyes glittered, canny and bright with intoxication.
"Don't try to force me into a role neither of us wants me to play," he said, voice harsh but tone gentle.
Her grip on his trench-coat loosened and fell away, she stared off into the middle distance, eyes a wide as the sky, filled up with the bright early-afternoon sunlight. After several seconds of complete stillness she whispered, "I'm sorry."
Castiel sighed and let his shoulders fall into a slump, eyes fixed outward, beyond the horizon, "I am too."
"I want him so badly," she murmured, "I see him everywhere. Your ghost follows me and he's all tangled up inside me and the lines begin to blur…"
"It's contrary to their mathematical definition to assume that lines 'blur'," Castiel said, voice dry and whispery like leaves after they've fallen.
She hummed, "I want you to be him."
"So does the whole damn world," Castiel told her candidly, looking at her out of the corner of his eyes.
"I know."
This time he was the one who hummed.
"I need to sober up," she said with the easy philosophical tone of someone who has tipped over the edge and into serene drunkeness.
"Yes," Castiel concurred.
"Help me?"
There was a moment where Castiel considered what would happen if he refused. But he agreed before he could mentally list all the drawbacks.
…
"Claire," Castiel was on the phone, pacing his apartment, listening to the sounds of Amelia showering, looking out for a clatter or thump in case the whiskey got the better of her and she fell.
"Yeah?" she sounded surprised to hear from him. Understandable, Castiel was hardly fond of his cell phone.
"Your mother is not going to be able to make it to your meeting."
"Oh," Claire's voice was small and sad, and apt counterpoint to the drip-drip-drizzle of the shower in the next room.
"She had a doctor's appointment."
"You don't have to lie for her."
"I wouldn't lie for her if she paid me to," Castiel huffed.
"Especially then," Claire said wryly, "The thought of a paycheck would insult your delicate artistic sensibilities."
"Very true."
"So is it?"
"What?"
"The line about the doctor's appointment? Is it 'very true'? You know, personally I'd just settle for moderately true or mostly true."
"Lets go with 'mostly true', then," Castiel said softly, "She's fine right now. She's back at our place. I'm her…keeper…for now."
The there was a slight pause and Castiel could hear the breath that came before: "What does this mean? The doctor's appointment, you playing nice, her cancelling? She's not…?"
"She is many things, most of which I do not know. Ask her any questions you wish, she will probably answer."
"Okay, I can take a hint," Claire sighed, "I'll see you tonight?"
"Call me when you're coming home."
"Okay."
"Be safe, have fun, light no one on fire," Castiel reminded her.
She snorted, "Bye to you too."
"Watch out for monsters," he warned her gravely.
…
Castiel saw Dean briefly in the hallway when he fled the apartment (and Amelia's vomiting, he wasn't sure if this was part of her declining health or her binge) to grab some supplies from Gabe's (that's what his cousin got for leaving his door unlocked). Castiel was busy, preoccupied, too distracted, and that was really his only excuse for what happened next.
Dean was walking in the opposite direction, headed for the stairs while Castiel was headed for Gabe's apartment on the other end of the building.
Barely stopping, just slowing down long enough to grab a fistful of Dean's shirt, Castiel spun the other man towards him just long enough to drag him down and into a short, sweet kiss.
It was like flying a kite on a green lawn under a flawless summer sky. It was like fireworks and beer under a thousand stars. It was like stupid Halloween costumes and pirate flags and all of the last few months rolled into one second.
And then it was gone.
Dean has stopped and was staring at him, but Castiel was moving too quickly to acknowledge it. Instead he kept walking and said, "I'll apologize nicely later if that made you uncomfortable. My mouth tasted like cheap whiskey and blood and I needed something nicer to clean it out. That's only an innuendo if you're feeling particularly rosso corsa today." And then he disappeared into Gabriel's apartment.
…
Dean stared at the space Castiel had just occupied for a good few seconds before shifting his gaze to the door Castiel had just vanished into. Intellectually he knew that he could probably just open the damn door, follow him, and demand to know what was going on.
Instead he went to Google 'rosso corsa'.
It turned out to be a rather nice shade of bright, flaming red.
Castiel, that little ironic bastard.
…
Castiel cleaned the bathroom thoroughly. Then, seeing Amelia asleep on the couch, checked to make sure she was breathing, and because he was on a roll and had already closed the bookstore early that day to deal with his sister-in-law's problems; continued the trend and scoured the rest of the apartment. Even the dishes in the sink. His room stayed a chaotic disaster and Claire's remained practically perfect in every way (because she was a magical creature who obviously took after Jimmy, not him); they were just ten times more sanitary than before. Then, because Amelia was still asleep and Claire was still with Krissy and Gabe hadn't barged in and Dean hadn't appeared demanding to know what happened with the mouths and the hallway and the kissing, Castiel did three loads of laundry, quite possibly setting a new record for most consecutive hours he had ever spent doing housework. Successful housework, that is.
Having completed every single thing he could possibly have done to make the place more immaculate and himself more domestic, Castiel brought his project from this morning back out onto the hardwood floor behind the couch and got back to work.
He managed to make a mess in the first five minutes.
All was right with the world.
…
"You didn't need to follow me back to the hotel," Amelia said, eyes narrowed.
Castiel shrugged, "It was a slow day."
"You have paint on your face."
"You're changing the subject," he reminded her archly.
They stood on the sidewalk, the sun dying a slow death behind them, bleeding out across the horizon. A chilly wind teased at the edges of their clothing and Amelia shivered.
"Thank you."
"I hardly think thanking me is appropriate."
"It's all I have."
"Thanks for sharing," he said dryly.
She huffed a sigh and looked down, rocking on her heels. When her eyes came back up they were glazed with tears. "Castiel…"
"Don't," he gave a minute shake of the head and she stopped, sinking into herself, her bones sharp under her pale, sallow skin. He could see the sickness chasing shadows across the planes of her body now that he knew where to look for it.
"Can I please see Claire tomorrow?" she whispered. Her eyes were rimmed in red.
"Ask her, not me."
"Don't play coy, Cassie," she snapped, barely reigning her tongue in before slicing into him with verbal blades.
"She is her own person. I cannot dictate who she associates with."
"Bullshit," Amelia said tightly.
Castiel shrugged, "I won't allow her to put herself into unnecessary danger, but you aren't much of a threat to Claire. My only stipulation is that you meet at Gabe's, where she's comfortable," and where the most alcoholic thing is the rum cake.
"Okay," Amelia said, voice thin, "I'll call her tomorrow."
"You do that," Castiel said; voice a resigned confirmation.
Amelia nodded shakily, then turned and began to totter he way back to Mary's Bed and Breakfast.
"Amelia," Castiel called out to her, voice a low growl, "If you hurt my girl, I will find some way to hurt you. And it will be a thousand times worse than anything you do to her."
"Is that a threat?" and some of Amelia's biting sarcasm still lingered.
"Only if you force my hand," Castiel warned, "Have a viridian evening."
He strode away in a swirl of trenchcoat.
…
"Hi," Claire called, dumping her stuff on the floor with a clatter.
"Hello, Claire," Castiel said; not looking up from the canvas he had spread out across the floor.
She dropped into a crouch beside him and watched him work, head tipped slightly to the side, "You know you don't have to paint on the floor with nothing more than your bare hands anymore? I mean, it sounds all impressive and artsy but we have money. And easels. And brushes."
Castiel flicked blue paint in her face, "Shh, working."
She giggled and watched him for a few more minutes, "Have a good day?"
"Eh, far too much debauchery for my taste," Castiel said with a mock-wry smirk.
"Ah, another victim of that mad bookstore-party lifestyle," Claire grinned.
Castiel snorted, and muttered, "That would have been preferable."
Claire opened her mouth, as if to ask for clarification, seemed to reconsider; then closed it.
"Your mother wants to see you tomorrow."
"She texted."
"Yes."
Claire shifted, uncomfortable, unsure where she stood on the rocky ground between Castiel and his sister-in-law.
Castiel did what anyone would do; he changed the subject. "I kissed Dean. We'll see what happens."
Claire squealed (a horrifyingly age/generation-appropriate thing for her to do) and threw her arms around his shoulders in a sloppy hug.
Castiel grumped under his breath, but he leaned into her arms anyway.
…
Midnight came and went and Claire was asleep but Castiel wasn't and someone was knocking on the door. Rudely.
Castiel answered it because he had the distinct feeling that if he let this mad door-knocking go on, it would never end and when he eventually fell asleep he would dream of nothing but woodpeckers.
So he opened the door, "Stop that now, I hate woodpeckers in the real world, I don't want them infesting my dreams."
Dean snorted, "You started it."
"That was different."
"How?" Dean was smiling crookedly at him, that little smile warmed him through.
"I was the one doing it," Castiel grumped, too exhausted by the events of the week to come up with something clever.
It didn't seem to matter seeing as Dean laughed.
Dean had a nice laugh.
"What do you want? If you're here for the nice apology I've already used up today's supply, come back when there's a new shipment in."
"Hey," Dean's voice was stunningly gentle, "No apologies. After all this," he made a vague, expansive hand gesture to encompass the past week's disasters, "I'm a little sick of hearing different versions of 'sorry'."
"I would be original about it," Castiel pointed out, drifting into Dean's space without really noticing. Dean let him.
"Yeah?" Dean was smiling again.
"Yeah."
"Too bad."
Castiel blinked at him, not sure what he was getting at and feeling too tired to track the complexity of Dean Winchester's thought process.
Dean rolled his eyes, "You're pretty damn oblivious, Cas." Oh, and there were his lips.
In Castiel's limited experience, second kisses were infinitely better than firsts. There was something new and sweet but easy and confident and just perfect about a second kiss.
This one didn't let him down.
It was short, in the grand scheme of kissing, but good. Castiel didn't have enough goodness in his life right now, had never had enough goodness, and would probably be thirsty for goodness for the rest of his life.
"You're good," Castiel said; eyes wide, each word weighted with extra meaning he wasn't sure Dean would quite grasp but that was alright.
"So are you," he was smiling crookedly, "See you tomorrow, Cas." And then he kissed him on the forehead, like you would a child or a pet or something else precious. Something you want to protect and keep safe. Castiel hadn't been safe in a long time.
Dean was walking away but Castiel called after him, "Cas?"
He grinned, slow and easy, "Cas."
Castiel nodded, slow and contemplative, "Thank you."
Dean laughed wryly, "It's just a nickname."
Castiel shook his head, "Look at you, so amber."
Dean snorted, "Someday you'll explain what the hell that means."
Castiel shook his head, "I can't; colors exist to say the things language cannot."
Dean rubbed the back of his neck and grinned, "Of course they do."
Castiel nodded serenely, "Goodnight, Dean."
"Night, Cas."
They went their separate ways but as Castiel closed the door he smiled. Cas. It wasn't just another nickname. It was forgiveness.
Author's Note: Hi guys! So yeah, tis the chapter for Destiel. Don't hate me for the Amelia kiss-thing, she's working through some stuff and poor Cas is stuck along for the ride. I promise there won't be any more Amelia kiss-things in the future.
The chapter title comes from the song 'Bitterness or Sympathy' by Ron Pope, whose music is incredibly beautiful.
Also, GUESS WHAT?! I have a brand-new beautiful Archive of Our Own account! ...That doesn't have any of my stories posted on it yet... But it will! So, within the next week or so Half-Price Gemini should be appearing on Ao3 under my new account, which is also called DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee because I'm consistent like that. Right now all my Ao3 account has posted are a few Marvel Cinematic Universe ficlets but I should start transferring stuff soon. Don't worry, though, all updates to Gemini or any of my other fics will happen on both sites.
As always, you guys are wonderful for sticking with this story for so long. If you have a smidgeon of time, I would love a review or two, hearing from you all makes me happy. :)