A/N: UNBELIEVABLE sexual tension in this one. absolutely unreal. enjoy.
Chapter 55 - Welcome Home
'Counsellor is not Castiel Novak's first book, but it is his first attempt at poetry.'
Castiel reads the first line of the review and bites the inside of his mouth, terrified. He wants Dean here—this is, realistically, an exercise he should've undertaken with Dean at his side. Though with Dean at his side, he might not have undertaken it at all. Who cares what other people think, Dean would have asked, nose wrinkled. Castiel had a copy of the book sent to Dean the day they were released. He had signed it, pen trembling a centimetre above the page, hovering like a bird of prey for whole minutes. Castiel searched for words. There were none. In the end, his message had inevitably felt a little inadequate:
You asked for a signed copy. (Or perhaps I promised you one. I forget). Here it is.
I can say little more than thank you—really and honestly thank you—for everything, these past months. These past twenty-four years. I hope you know how dearly my father loved you. You were, by the end of it all, his fourth son. I hope you don't forget it.
Nine years. You were never far from my thoughts, Dean Winchester: Often in my mind and always in my heart. Remember you were always in his, too.
Your friend, Castiel.
But the last sentences, Castiel likes. It is, finally, the truth.
Dean called Castiel as soon as he finished it. Both of them cried.
'By all rights a storyteller, Novak's words have taken flight, from prose to prosody, are more distinct, are curiously aware that they will never be enough. Even in grief literature, Castiel's work is unusual. The words are frail, the people are frail; Novak's curiously wrought poetic narrative demonstrates rather than explains the brittle inadequacy of both.
'In spite of this constant awareness of human fragility, the spidery, twisted collection is curiously robust. Split into seven separate poems, each split again into fit—for want of a better word—cresting at the middle of the collection in the seven-fit long poem at the collection's centre. Novak's fourth poem entitled Shiva describes in each fit the corresponding day of the seven-day grieving period in Judaism to which it pertains. It also outlines the cycles of grief, growth, pain and rest of the months and years following death. Formulaically brilliant, almost too much so, Castiel Novak's collection is the cry of grief built upon grief. I refer to it as a 'collection', but Counsellor, like the father it mourns, is in its own way so much more than the sum of its parts. It is a meditation, it is a manifesto, it is an essay, it is a Hymn—(the title, not-so coincidentally, of the third poem in the collection). The poetry's form constructs the dead father it grieves for as much as the content does. It is a rare and bright and horrible thing.
'It is difficult to say more: the collection carries itself, carries its readers, through seasons of life and of death. Opening curiously with the death of a mother, Novak pays homage to another poet whose faith informed both his grief and his poetry. The first poem of Counsellor is entitled Kaddish, the second CAW CAW CAW, both a nod to poet Allen Ginsberg and his own elegiac poem dedicated to his mother, also named Kaddish. These opening poems carry the reader through the loss of maternity, its resurgence at the loss of a father, and how that father had come to envelop the two: "my mother-father Jimmy"; a collection ostensibly dedicated to a deceased father is in fact dedicated to, it seems, parenthood itself, and what it means to lose it. Something in the collection, however well-formed, rings with the incomplete. I think it's right that it should—the book is dedicated to two lives cut short: Novak's father, and his mother. No words will remedy that. Counsellor is the composite form of grief, language, death and life. All of these are incomplete; the poems remind us that there is always something unfinished in bereavement.
'Luminous, dark, horrible and wonderful, Novak does justice to grief, and to the complex, hybrid image of his parents. The final poem, Ashirah, meaning "I will sing" is a promise of hope, an acknowledgement of the perpetually unfinished nature of grief, and an amalgamation of the best that Counsellor represents: a meeting place between faith and fault. It is my hope that this poetry publication will be the first of many from Castiel Novak. Bravo.'
Castiel reads the final sentence with proud, heartbroken, beautiful, incomplete tears swimming in his eyes. His phone buzzes. A text from Balthazar:
Have you read the reviews.
Castiel swallows and types out a reply—
Of my poetry book?
Bal replies:
No, of Beethoven's 5th. OF COURSE I mean of your poetry book.
I just finished one—Castiel begins to write, but Dean texts him.
Dude. You're blowing up.
Castiel isn't sure he understands, so goes to make himself a cup of tea and forgets to reply. An hour later, his cell begins to ring, and he answers it. It's his agent congratulating him. Then she tells him he's got an interview in London in a week. He should dress smartly, she says; this one isn't a podcast. He's going to be on TV. Castiel says he's flying to the US in little over a week, that this'll be an added stress and he probably won't come across very well. His agent doesn't seem to care.
…
Dean is picking Castiel up from the airport. Castiel, hoping his words would be ineffective, had offered to make his own way back, and Dean thankfully refused to allow this. Castiel has been stewing in his own anxiety all the way through security, passport control, and in the lines of people waiting to pick up their luggage. Twice, he is afraid his suitcase has been lost. Twice, he is distracted and relieved. After one international flight and another domestic one, Castiel is ready to sleep through the entirety of his visit to Kansas. Now, finally, making his way out of luggage claim, Castiel spots Dean through the swarms of people, glancing around with eyes wide, searching frantically, thoroughly, for his friend. He holds a cardboard sign to his chest that says Welcome Home, Shakespeare, his whole frame taut and bouncing, tightly coiled, distracted and excited and focussed; his wide eyes move like birds, bouncing from head to head, searching for the right face. Castiel could kiss him. He could kiss him, now; pace over to his best friend and not give a second thought to wrenching his best friend in the world into the tightest embrace, their lips meeting, his hand slipping to the back of Dean's neck and stroking up the short hairs there, fingers weaving through to the longer hairs on Dean's head. Dean, startled at first, would then settle, settle into it as his long eyelashes fluttered and Dean's hands came to rest on Castiel's shoulders. This could be it. This could be how Castiel says hello, and he could even say I love you in the same breath.
But as Dean spots Castiel, his eyes widening happily and sparking, Castiel spots both Michael and Hael beside him and—Castiel is hit once, hit twice round his legs—the twins have weaved through crowds of people to hug Castiel as he approaches, Hael looking anxious at their being so far away with so many bustling people inbetween.
"Cassie," It is, surprisingly, Michael who reaches him first, and stands over him as Castiel bends to greet his niece and nephew. Castiel looks up, a little surprised—that Michael and his family have come to pick him up, and that Michael has rushed over to him faster than either Hael or Dean.
"Michael," He stands, Amy taking hold of his right hand and tugging at it, trying to regain his attention. "What—what are you doing here?"
"I asked Anna what time you'd be landing—she told me that Dean was picking you up, and gave me his details—I thought—I thought I should be a good big brother to you." Castiel is slightly taken aback. A soft, inquisitive but nonetheless touched laugh rolls lightly from him, he tilts his head at Michael's answer.
"Right."
"Now I realise," Michael says, cheeks red, "you might've wanted some time alone with—"
But Hael has wondered over and pulled Castiel into a hug.
"Castiel," She beams, pulling away and bending down to pick up Zac, who, Castiel realises, holds another welcome back sign obviously designed by him and his sister. "It's so good to see you."
"You too," Castiel smiles, glancing over her shoulder—he finds he cannot help it—to where Dean still stands, about ten feet away, watching. "Surprising, but good."
Michael seems to remember himself.
"Yes," He says, starting. "I—well, Zac, Amy and I, thought it would be a good surprise. Maybe not—"
"Michael," Castiel chuckles, shaking his head, stopping his older brother's words, "it's good to see you. Thank you for coming."
Michael smiles, awkward, surprised, and steps towards Castiel to give him an nervous but otherwise lovely hug.
"I'm glad you…" He says, obviously uncomfortable, "…got here in one piece."
Castiel laughs and pulls away.
Dean has approached and stands, still a few feet away from the bulk of the group, licking his lips and looking worried. He doesn't quite meet Castiel's gaze, and it's strange, considering the hours they've spent calling, texting, skyping, in Castiel's absence. Finally, looking up, Dean swallows and cracks a nervous smile to Castiel.
"Hey, Cas," He says, eyes glittering and wide, smile loose and hesitant. It's—it's like in the kitchen that first day of shiva. Castiel knows that expression, now; Dean wore it then, all those months ago, and Castiel had misread it, not known it, not understood it. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to. He understands it now, knows the slope of those shoulders and what Dean is thinking of, knows the glittering eyes and what has prompted the water in them, knows what Dean is worrying about, knows the flickering, restless smile and what feelings have caused it. He prays he can be worthy of them.
"Hello, Dean," Castiel replies, swallowing, exhaling, and Dean exhales too. Both of them step towards each other, awkwardly, and then are both taken aback by the other's approach—but after several moments of graceless fumbling, they both hug, at first soft, then tight, tightening, resisting the urge to coil around each other.
"You're back," Dean laughs breathlessly; perhaps he turns his head into Castiel a little more than necessary, because Castiel can feel the words and laughter against the shell of his ear.
"I am," He agrees. Dean has dropped his sign onto the ground behind Castiel, probably accidentally. "Nice welcome home sign, by the way."
"Shut up," Dean laughs breathlessly. They still haven't pulled apart. The terseness in Dean's limbs, reflexively pulling Castiel closer, tells him Dean doesn't want to. Neither does Cas. "I missed you," Dean says, words crackling.
Castiel presses his nose to Dean's shoulder.
"You too…" He says softly. He feels the column of Dean's throat move as he swallows. Then Dean pulls away, suddenly, blinking hard.
"You're still in," Dean gestures, blinking away the glitter in his eyes, laughing hoarsely, "you're still in your trenchcoat, man. You're gonna boil in that thing."
"Yes, it doesn't seem very farsighted of you," Hael agrees, stepping beside Castiel to squeeze his shoulder.
"I'm back for what, five minutes?" Castiel asks with a chuckle, "and you guys are already laughing at me?"
"We're glad you're back, little brother," Michael smiles, picking up one of Castiel's bags. "How about we head, now?"
"Will you be in our car, Uncle Cassie?" Amy looks up at Castiel with serious and inquisitive eyes.
"Um—"
"I think Castiel would prefer to be in Dean's car," Hael bends down to talk to the twins—and in spite of how grateful Castiel is for her words, he still manages to blush—"like we talked about, remember? But we'll get to have dinner with him. Okay?"
Amy pulls a sad face, kicking at the ground, and wanders ahead of the group.
"I'm probably not in her good books, because of that," Dean comments, forcing out a chuckle and looking a little put out by this. Castiel smirks.
"You really care about whether or not kids like you," He says as he picks up his bag, but Dean takes it off him. The lingering moment their hands touch in this action—well… It sends thrills through Castiel. He looks up at Dean sharply from where he bends, lips parted.
"Let me," Dean shakes his head. The group moves out, Amy ahead and Hael trying to catch up with her. "And you're surprised?" Dean asks as they move through the crowd.
"Surprised?" Castiel raises his eyebrows.
"About me caring about whether I have the approval of children."
"Oh," Castiel huffs. "No," He admits. "You've always searched for external validation. It's one of your vices."
Dean shoves Castiel with his shoulder.
"Asshole," Dean rolls his eyes.
"Asshole," Castiel says back.
"You should be glad I care whether your niece and nephew like me."
"They like you, Dean," Castiel promises, glancing sincerely at his friend. "Trust me. It's hard for people not to."
They've made it outside. Dean is flushing.
"You've gotta stop saying nice things to me, man," Dean shakes his head, cheeks a gorgeous rose colour. "I never know how to take it."
"What, because you're so used to me bullying you?"
Dean snorts and rolls his eyes. They're making their way through the parking lot, but it's hard for Castiel to pay attention; it's been months. He just wants to stare at Dean.
"I'm glad to have you back, buddy," Dean smiles, cheeks pink, words soft so that none of the others ahead will be able to pick it up. "No amount of bullying from you will change that."
"How about unsolicited compliments?"
Dean chuckles.
"We'll see."
"I'm excited for our camping trip," Castiel says, watching Dean, trying to filter the happiness it must cause to surge onto his expression.
"Yeah," Dean smiles breathlessly. "You still want to do it?" He glances nervously over to Castiel.
"I just said I was excited for it," Castiel points out, chuckling.
"You—right. Just—you might be busy," Dean replies. "And I don't want you to get sick of me."
"It's not likely I will."
"It'll be like when we were kids," Dean looks at Castiel hopefully, excitement glittering barely beneath the surface of his gaze. He looks younger than Castiel has seen him look in—well, since Jimmy died. Which really was the first time he'd seen Dean in nine years. Castiel swallows.
"Yes," He agrees. "It will."
Dean watches him, mouth open. It looks like he's about to say something by the meaningful press on his features, but Michael, Hael and the twins have reached their car and stopped.
"Alright," Hael turns back to Castiel, holding Zac's hand as he tries to pull her toward the door. "If you want to put your bags in our car, because there's more space, you and Dean can catch up on the way home. Dean's just parked there," She gestures, and sure enough, the Impala is in the space opposite. Michael has already heaved Castiel's suitcase into the back of their car.
"That sounds good," Castiel smiles. "Are you guys staying over?"
"If that's okay," Hael grimaces apologetically.
"It's fine," Castiel confirms. "It'll be good to catch up, and good not to be in an empty house."
Hael nods with a smile, picking up Zac.
"Thank you—alright, guys, time to get in!" She opens a door and sits Zac in the car. Amy clambers up and in on her own when Michael opens the door for her.
"See you soon," Castiel smiles. Michael nods, glancing at Dean. Then he looks back at Castiel and smiles.
"Yes," He agrees, distantly. "See you there."
Castiel turns to the sound of car doors closing. Dean is already by the Impala. He's turned and is watching Castiel.
"Sorry," Dean says, as Hael starts up the engine and pulls out of the parking space. Castiel frowns. He walks over to stand opposite his friend.
"For what?" He asks.
"For," Dean squirms a little, worry worming across his features, "for—I feel like maybe it should've been just your family picking you up, today. Maybe you would've preferred that. I didn't mean to… butt in. Sorry."
Castiel frowns, head inclining to the side.
"You shouldn't be sorry for that, Dean," He sighs, and takes a step closer to take his bag out of Dean's hands. "Keys?" He asks, and Dean tosses them to him. He unlocks and opens the trunk of the Impala and drops his bag in. "Thanks," He tosses the keys back. "Honestly," He laughs, closing the trunk, "Michael was worried that he'd butted in."
Dean stares.
"Butted in to what?" He asks.
"You picking me up," Castiel makes his way over to the passenger seat. Dean swallows and makes his way over to the driver's seat, unlocking the car and stepping in.
"Why—why did he think that?" Dean asks, when they're both inside.
"I don't know," Castiel closes his door.
"Did he butt in?"
Dean—what is he asking, right now? Is he honestly trying to get Castiel to say yes, he butted in, though he didn't mean to: I wanted you and you only to pick me up and I wanted to kiss you instead of saying hello; I've missed you I've missed you like you wouldn't believe. Don't drive me home, we can stop off at a motel and spend the night together there: I've got to have you, it's been five months and I've got to have you.
Because fuck no. Dean hasn't even explained himself—or, he can't remember that he's explained himself for that night, all those years ago. And now he's asking Castiel to begin the conversation about feelings? When it was Castiel who opened up, the first time, made himself more vulnerable than a gaping wound, and was burned in return?
Castiel shrugs.
"You tell me."
Dean flushes, muscle in his jaw working, and starts up the engine. Neither of them say anything. Castiel, knowing how stubborn he's being, nevertheless refuses to be the first to speak.
"So you had an okay journey?" Dean asks, raising his eyebrows, staring ahead at the road. His voice sounds terse and frustrated. Castiel is caught between being frustrated, too; between finding this amusing; between being endeared by Dean's grumpy face.
He realises, a little sadly, how turbulent his and Dean's relationship is. A minefield, it is fraught with the possibility of fucking up with every sentence exchanged between the two.
"Yes," Castiel answers, watching Dean for a moment. "It was fine. I'm a little burnt out, but…"
"Right," Dean says, as though coming back to himself. "Damn—you really must be—it's been a crazy coupl'a weeks for you, huh?"
"It's been busy," Castiel laughs in vague agreement, "and a little overwhelming. I'm glad to be getting away from it all, now."
"I bet," Dean replies softly. He seems to have forgotten his own irritation. "Congratulations, by the way—massive congratulations. I realise I haven't said it in person, yet."
Castiel's lips turn minutely upward.
"Thank you," He smiles.
"It really blew up," Dean says. "—Your book, I mean. You really blew up."
"It was all very unexpected…"
"I saw it coming," Dean shakes his head, smiling at the road ahead. "I always knew you'd make it big, Cas, be amazing at whatever you tried. I'm glad it was writing. I'm glad it was writing about Jimmy."
Castiel exhales.
"Yes… It… It felt right, to be writing about him. After everything."
"Yeah," Dean says softly. His smile has turned into a delicate, sad frown. He grips the steering wheel tightly. "Yeah, of course. Your dad was amazing. He'd have to be, to have raised you."
Castiel smiles, though it's a little sad.
"You don't need good parents to be a good person," He reminds.
"No. Of course not. But congratulations anyway, on the book. It's—it's so fuckin' good, Cas. It's so amazing," Dean glances back to Castiel, earnestly, for a moment, brows slanting upward and eyes intent. "Seriously. You're amazing. It's so beautiful—you—you took something so hard and fraught with pain, and made… It's such a hard thing to do, Cas, to make something beautiful and raw and kind out of pain. But you did it. You did it."
Castiel stares.
"Dean…"
Dean doesn't even seem to realise what he's said.
"And it was brave, Cas—damn, I can't get over how brave it was! To share yourself, like that, to share your dad and your relationship with your dad, like that. It's a beautiful collection. I love it—and I know I'm not exactly a connoisseur, not an expert on this stuff. If anything, me praising the book is probably putting it down in your estimations," Dean jokes with a laugh, but Castiel shakes his head.
"Never," He replies.
"But aside from its beauty, this—this—you have this command of language, Cas, I can't explain it. Of language, of ideas—you know when to make the words enough. You know when to let the linger, when to make them fall short, when to… Anyway, outside of that, it's a book that's gonna do so much good, bring so much comfort, to people in mourning just like you. It's brought me comfort. I couldn't possibly be the only one."
"You're so kind, Dean…"
"I'm only saying what I think. And what everyone else seems to think, judging by the reviews you've been getting."
Castiel chuckles and shakes his head.
"Okay, enough. You'll make my head too big. It won't be able to fit through the door."
Dean snorts.
"I've made you uncomfortable?"
"You're not the only one not able to take compliments."
They laugh and banter, delicately, slowly, their conversation the cautious unfolding of a flower; they continue to collect remnants of what their relationship used to be, scattered in the grass. They find new things, new artefacts, new pieces, seeds of what they can be and may become. Castiel barely realises when they're back at his old house. He stares up at it with a strange kind of familiarity and Dean asks him if he's nervous; Castiel says yes. Dean asks what about, Castiel says the future. Dean asks him if he's glad to be back. Castiel says yes.
Dean stays for dinner. He wins back Zac and Amy's affection, twelve times over. At bedtime, Dean is asked to read them a story, and all Castiel can see—just as all he could see, with Mara—is Dean, a husband, a father, Cas's husband, father to their children, reading them stories at night. Traces of bright brass buzzing thrills paired with the steady, earthy stability of home swallows his insides. The walls of the house breathed Dean in, twenty-four, nearly twenty-five years ago, the moment he walked in here. They breathed him in, held him, rocked him slowly: this is his home as much as it is Castiel's. Dean is in it; Castiel sees his eyes in the windows, the stretch of the skin on his shoulders in the white canvass walls. He longs, so much it aches at him, inside there is a long rope connected to him and it is pulled, taut, and tied to the frame of Dean Winchester. He longs for this to be his and Dean's home. To wake up and smell Dean on the sheets. To hear Dean humming down the corridors. To know the sound of Dean's footfall on the top stair.
A house that once, ironically, housed so much pain for him, has come to be the very definition of home to Castiel—tied inextricably to Dean Winchester and memories of his father. The house no longer just a structure, Dean no longer just a face from the past, a painful past. Both have grown and changed and expanded beyond Castiel's estimations, expectations. Even within the threshold of a year.
Places look different, when you first see them, Castiel thinks. They look different: when you first arrive somewhere, especially when you know that some day it will be familiar and intimate to you, especially when you don't ever want it to, it stretches up, walls too high. You don't want to look, he thinks: when you arrive somewhere for the first time, you tilt your head back, but you can't quite bring yourself to stare at the edges, the corners, of the structure. You look at the doors and windows and feel as though you are two steps too far to your left. But when they become intimate, well-known, beloved to you, the walls change, the exterior is no longer to flat and too wide and too tall. It curls toward you as if in an embrace. The corners are not too high or too far; you know them intimately. You see eyes in the windows and you can look at the structure as a whole, look at your setting in its entirety. People are the same. Dean is the same.
"What are you thinking about?" Dean asks quietly. They sit on the couch of the living room; Michael and Hael have gone upstairs to bed, Anna is out—probably with Jo. Dean has had a lot of fun explaining how they became official, in the end. He calls it 'the slowest of slow burns' and Castiel nearly snorts, thinking, then what are we?
"You," Castiel replies, words soft. Dean pauses, taken aback. They face one another, legs on and off the couch, limbs curling, only a few inches away from one another: a few inches closer, and they'd practically be on each other's laps. Castiel is finding it harder to see a reason why they shouldn't be.
"Me?" Dean asks, though it barely comes out like a question. Castiel watches the lips form around the word and all he can think about is how much he wants to kiss them darker. Dean's eyes are bleeding sunlight.
"Home has always been you, Dean. Or, with you, I should say."
Dean stares. There's almost ten seconds of silence before Dean rasps out,
"I—you—it's the same—"
Anna opens the front door with a clatter. Castiel can hear her kicking off her shoes and the thump and rattle of her dropping her bag beside the stairs. Then Castiel hears a voice that isn't hers, and realises Jo is here, too.
"—Said that it was crazy, but apparently they can't."
"They can't?" Anna asks.
"Apparently." The living room door opens. Jo appears, followed by Anna. Both are moving clumsily, and Castiel guesses that they've been at The Roadhouse, or some other bar. "Cas! Dean!"
The moment of perfect stillness has been interrupted. Castiel wonders if maybe it's a good thing.
"What are you guys doing?"
"Well, this is technically my house, if you remember, Anna," Castiel sighs, sitting up straighter and turning. Dean's frame changes, the way those muscles are coiled changes, he retreats and his limbs are strung more tightly. "We're talking in my living room, if that's okay."
"We were gonna watch some TV," Anna replies, ignoring her cousin's rudeness. "You wanna stay and watch?"
"I should go," Dean stands, face red. He doesn't look at any of them. Castiel's insides squirm, guilty and uncomfortable.
"I'll—I'll see you out."
Castiel stands after Dean and follows him out the room. Down the hall to the front door, all he can think about is what a bitch timing can be.
Dean turns to Castiel at the door.
"Thank you for picking me up, today, Dean," Castiel says, forcing a smile in spite of the jetlag, the emotional exhaustion, the disappointment all drenching him. "It was very kind—I'm grateful. And it's been so nice getting to catch up with you."
Dean softens a moment, but breaks the silence by averting his gaze and opening the door.
"It's no problem," He shakes his head. "I… I guess I'll see you soon."
"I hope," Castiel replies. "Camping? Road trip?"
"All sound good," Dean smiles, half-genuine, half worried.
"I'll call you."
Silence. Dean stares. The door hangs open, inviting.
Just when Castiel thinks the other man is about to walk away, he surprises his friend by speaking.
"You're my home, too, Castiel," The words are said, terrified, but only the edges of them are frayed with worry, only the syllables tremble; there's a steady firmness of truth at their core that keeps them steady. Castiel stares. Dean swallows, pressing his lips together. Dean takes a step toward the door, and, looking back to Castiel as he is halfway through it, says, "Always have been," And steps out, alone, into the darkness.
Castiel is reading, curled up on his dad's old armchair, late at night, when Michael comes downstairs. Soundless, Michael is at his younger brother's side before Castiel starts, noticing him.
"This is yours, I think," Michael says, slipping a large piece of cardboard onto the arm of the chair. Castiel glances down at it and flushes. "Dean dropped it in the airport. I thought you might want to hang onto it."
"Right…" Castiel picks up the sign cautiously, unable to look at Michael. Instead he thumbs the corners of the card; they bend gently beneath him. Welcome home, Shakespeare.
Welcome home.
"It's a little funny," Michael smiles, looking down at the cardboard with his sharp, thoughtful eyes.
"What?" Castiel asks, looking up at him. "That he called me Shakespeare?"
"No," Michael shakes his head innocently. "That he called it 'home'."
Castiel flushes, eyes darting back down to the sign.
He knows what Michael's thinking. He knows how obvious his love for Dean Winchester must be: as a teenager he flattered himself that it was shrouded within him and not even Jimmy could notice—but, no. Jimmy knew, and must've. Gabriel obviously knows. And Michael isn't an idiot; he wasn't then, and he isn't, now. He's asking Castiel to open up, and yet, still, Castiel can't.
"Not really," Castiel shakes his head. "I lived here for fourteen years. This place has been—a geographical constant in my life—" Michael snorts at his brother's wording, to which Castiel scowls. "—And I've lived here longer than anywhere else; half my life, even," He finishes. "So no, it's not."
Michael shakes his head. He doesn't smirk, like Gabriel would, at Castiel's defensiveness.
"He called it home," Michael says. He looks steadily at Castiel. "You know what he meant." And he leaves.
…
"Dude," Dean grins to the canopy above them. "This is the coolest ever."
Something draws Castiel softly by a thread into the past. A memory, or the memory of a memory.
Dean looks so young, firelight dancing on his face, remembrances of the happy past washing away the space between remembrances of pain, eyes glittering beside a crackling campfire. He looks so young, underneath a canopy of trees, leaves washed new and alien colours in a deep amber firelight that wavers as leaves waver in the wind. Dean looks so young, and Castiel is so enamoured.
"Mmh," He hums in agreement. The darkness around them has crept in, intimate, pushing them together with an unknowable warmth and weight. Pitching their tent—their tent, singular, Castiel acknowledges with thrills racing through him—was followed by Dean building a fire and cooking dinner. Tomorrow, he promises, all awash with the boyish excitement of adventure and unfinished business, he will catch dinner—fish—and cook it for them. Tonight, they have eaten—and eaten well—and followed their main course with smores cooked on the campfire, Dean smearing melted marshmallow on Castiel's nose to piss him off—but it doesn't piss him off, only thrills him more at the intimacy of Dean's thumb on his face. He can barely speak, only laugh and push Dean gently and wish he knew when to kiss the other man, what perfect timing really looks like, not only how to write it.
"We should do this loads," Dean beams. "Any time you're back in Kansas. Every time you're back in Kansas."
Castiel is raw, he is so tender.
"I'd like that."
Time was, he, characteristically oblivious and more so still by the wispiness of youth, would let this statement and its wonderfully thoughtless implication slip right past him, smiling in vague agreement. But now… not now. Now he clings to every syllable Dean speaks, knowing even his flyaway comments to be imbued with meaning, precisely because they are flyaway, and therefore unguarded, so when Dean says things like this, it means something. It means everything.
He wishes he'd paid more attention to Dean's words during shiva, when instead Castiel was still angry and bitter toward the oldest Winchester boy. He wonders what he missed.
"And roadtrips, and hiking," Dean beams still, staring upwards still, watching the lucid shadows played on leaves by firelight. "Adventures like when we were kids, all of it."
"Most of the adventures we had when we were kids were imagined," Castiel points out with a chuckle, causing Dean's gaze to flicker good-naturedly down from the trees overhead to Castiel's face. "I think if you sat down and counted all the real life adventures we went on, they'd be remarkably few, and probably a little underwhelming."
"I refuse to believe that."
"Maybe it's because of that imagination of yours."
"Maybe it's because of your storytelling. You mean to tell me we were never pirates?"
"Pirates, perhaps, but only within the confines of Lawrence."
"Landlocked, huh?" Dean asks with a grin.
"Pretty much."
They chuckle softly, each too nervous to look at the other for too long. Dean's focus is instead drawn to his hands, which fumble and dance with one another softly as he hugs his legs close to him. Castiel's gaze flickers from Dean's face, Dean's hands, the fire. Dean's face, his hands, the fire.
Smoke rises as a pillar toward the tree-muffled sky overhead, it stretches in tendrils down low and drifts like ribbons around them.
Something is so warm and settled in the scene that it resonates with what Castiel, always, in his mind has considered home.
He realises that this is because it is Dean here with him.
"Real pirates or not, we had fun," Dean smiles softly. Castiel nods.
"Yes," He agrees.
"I always," Dean chuckles, looking up with a self conscious expression, "I always look back on those days, and the person they made me—and I feel so lucky."
Castiel smiles, though he can't help but feel a little perplexed. It must show; Dean elaborates with a soft laugh.
"I mean," He shakes his head, wearing a loose and thoughtful smile, "all the things we used to do, the games we played, the fun we had, the adventures we went on—they're like, the biggest contributor to the pile of 'good things' of my life. Does that make sense?" Castiel hesitates, and so Dean continues. "Everyone is made up of a pile of memories, right?"
"—Not really—"
"Okay, but everyone has all these experiences that form who they are. And good things, they help to make a good person. That's what I think. So all the good things of my childhood, all the good memories, all the good experiences—well, not all, but like, eighty, ninety percent of them—were you and Jimmy. Mainly you. A lot of Jimmy. Often both together. And all those good things, all those kindnesses from both of you, all those good memories I have because of you, they're what's gone into what good there is in me. You know? If it wasn't for the both of you, I don't know who I'd be, where I'd be, what I'd be."
"That's…" Castiel rocks back. "That's a lot to untangle, Dean."
Dean frowns, obviously defensive of his theory.
"What do you mean?"
"First of all, I think you were a good person when we met."
"Uh, I was four when we met. A four year old can't be a good person."
"A four year old can't be a good person?" Castiel repeats dumbly, frowning heavily at Dean.
"If a four year old can be a good person, that means a four year old can be a bad person. That's the implication. That's what you're saying. I just don't think a kid that little can be bad."
"I don't want to argue ethics with you, Dean," Castiel sighs, rolling his head back to look, longsufferingly, at the canopy above.
"It's more the philosophy of ethics."
Castiel rocks his gaze back down.
"Fine. I think a four year old can be a bad person, now you mention it."
"Really?"
"Really."
"That's fucked."
"No, it's not."
"A four year old doesn't even get morality, at that stage!"
"Neither does anyone! Do you think we do? We're debating it, right now!"
"It's not the same—"
"You were a good person as a four year old, and you can't change my mind. Honestly, how could you turn an attempt at a compliment into a debate on the morality or amorality of children? And anyway, Dean, morals exist as more than just our comprehension of them. That's why people can do bad things without realising it, or bad things, thinking they're doing the right things. Think of homophobes—"
And he realises too late the rawness of this subject, for Dean. And why Dean brought up the topic of childhood as a collection of good and bad memories, informing character, in the first place.
"Anyway," He says quickly, reddening—which he hopes the amber firelight will cover up—and licks his lips. "I think you turned out a good person, and chose to, and made a long series of often difficult, painful, and even unconscious decisions to be good. I think that's how you turned out the way you turned out. Good and bad experiences—sure, they inform how a person acts—but you, in spite of the bad, and sure, strengthened by the good, made the decision to be the person you are, now. Someone good, someone kind, someone funny, someone thoughtful, someone principled, someone surprisingly innocent for all their dirty jokes."
Dean is flushed at the string of compliments Castiel has given him, but he still somehow manages to make a joke.
"Now I know Castiel Novak didn't just call me innocent."
"Shut up, Dean," Castiel chuckles.
"Castiel Novak who was convinced until the age of eleven that babies were made by, and I quote, 'all the love building up in a mommy's tummy and growing and growing and turning into a person'—" Dean puts on a silly, childish voice for this that both infuriates and entertains Castiel.
"I did not say that!" Castiel shoves at Dean, who pushes back, laughing manically.
"You did, too!"
"And it was not until I was eleven!" Castiel swats at Dean, who, rocking back as they sit, with his next statement has sprung forward to wrestle with Castiel in earnest.
"So you admit that you said it!" Dean exclaims triumphantly, body nearly crushing Castiel's.
"You asked me how I thought—it—happened when I was seven and then you ruined my innocence!"
"'It'?" Dean repeats, sitting up but still pinning Castiel. Castiel rolls his eyes in anticipation for what Dean is going to say next. "It?" Dean laughs. "You can say sex, Cas, nobody here will judge you."
"Shut up," Castiel fumbles, trying to get out from underneath Dean, but Dean pins his hands. "Let me go!"
"You won't get in trouble," Dean teases in an annoying, immature voice, "just say sex."
"No—"
"Why not?"
"You ruined my innocence for me once, Dean, there's a lot of trauma there—"
"Say sex!"
"Sex!" Castiel shouts, wriggling his arms free as Dean begins to laugh. "This is just like when we were kids—you destroyed my innocence, yes, destroyed it!" Castiel repeats at Dean's face in response to the word. "And now you keep forcing me to say the word sex," Castiel flips them so that he is on top, pinning Dean's wrists while the other man struggles beneath him. "And it's gross."
"Sex is gross?" Dean smirks, to which Castiel flushes. "How old are you, ten?"
"No, I'm saying—"
"What, you're telling me you don't have sex, now?" Dean asks, still trying to pry himself free from where Castiel has him pinned.
"I have lots of sex—"
"Oh, lots of sex?" Dean repeats with a grin, and Castiel flushes harder. "Lots? Who're the lucky reciprocants? I never knew you were such a stud, Castiel—"
"Shut up, dick," Castiel grumbles. "First you destroy my innocence when I'm seven, now you—"
Dean pulls an arm free and shoves and rolls them again, fortunately away from the fire.
"Destroyed?" Dean repeats, indignant. "If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have known what the word 'fuck' meant until you were fifteen—not in the literal sense—"
Castiel's face is getting hot, and so are his insides, and so is his—
"You know that Gabriel's my brother, right?" He bites out, trying to distract himself. "I definitely learnt curse words before you did."
"Bull."
Castiel pushes Dean over again.
"It is not."
"Is too."
Castiel pins Dean's arms when he tries to wrestle him back again.
Dean gazes up at him.
"I'll spit," He says, quite seriously, and Castiel all but balks at the threat.
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
Castiel stares.
Dean makes ready, and Castiel pushes himself backward with a noise of disgust. He clambers off of Dean.
"Gross," He wrinkles his nose.
"I wasn't actually gonna do it."
Castiel glances back at Dean as he sits about a foot away, brushing down his clothing.
"I've known you for too long to believe that."
Some of the dirt and dust from the ground doesn't seem to want to leave; it clings to the fibres of Dean's clothes and eventually he gives up. He chuckles.
"You really think I'd play that dirty?"
The intimacy of what they've just done only just begins to dawn on Castiel: the bodies locked and rolling on the ground moments ago were his and Dean's—and for how many years had Castiel dreamt of Dean's wrists in his hands, Dean's chest pressing upward against his chest, Dean's breathing coming laboured from beneath him?
Perhaps it is the word dirty that sets Dean off with the same realisation—that the two bodies locked together in a playful tousle could easily have shifted motive, switched, fighting to fucking—would that have happened seamlessly, or suddenly? And does Dean know how much Castiel wants it, too?
Judging by his guilty and averted gaze, no.
"You always did," Castiel points out, cheeks hot, though he manages to smile with this statement. Dean glances back up to him. The corners of his mouth twitch up.
They awkwardly continue to joke and chatter until the awkward washes away, as it always does with Dean and Castiel—whether the washing away takes nine years, or a handful of minutes. They joke and chatter until the fire is embers and Castiel is yawning and, if he leans close, he can see tiny red veins in Dean's eyes.
"You should go to bed," He states to his friend, who rolls his eyes at the suggestion.
"You're one to talk."
"I'm not saying that I won't as well," Castiel sighs. "But your eyes are looking red."
"And you're yawning every other sentence."
"We should go to bed," Castiel amends. "How's that?" He raises his eyebrows at Dean, who shrugs reluctantly.
"I've missed talking to you," Is all he says in reply. Castiel ruffles his hair, Dean swats at him.
"Don't go all soft on me, Dean."
"Ass."
"I'll clear up, here?" Castiel asks. "Seeing as how you made dinner, and started the fire?"
As expected, Dean takes a little persuading. But eventually he gets ready for bed.
Castiel washes the pans, bowls, and all other utensils they used for cooking and eating, moving slowly out of exhaustion. He checks his phone: it's about 3:30. They've talked for hours. So long that the sun will be rising soon. The sky is already growing light in a cloudless night sky. He clears up the trash they discarded around the campsite, and puts out the fire. By the time he peers into the tent to pick up his toothbrush, Dean is already asleep.
Castiel stares for a few moments. It's hard not to, and reminiscent of all the collective hours he must have spent fawning over Dean's body while the other boy slept, or looked the other way, or walked down the garden path to Castiel's front door. Dean's right arm is folded over his chest, his left hand above his head, his battered t-shirt turned pyjama shirt threadbare and beautiful as it catches his skin and dips as Dean's chest dips with every breath. Castiel wrenches himself away.
He gets into his pyjamas out in the opening so as not to disturb Dean, and brushes his teeth. Then, from inside the tent, he hears a noise, muffled and unclear, but certainly made by Dean. He frowns and makes his way over, unzipping the tent as another sound is made, this one less muffled, and if Castiel didn't know any better, almost certainly a moan.
About to ask if Dean is okay, Castiel is taken aback to pull back the door of the tent and see that the other man isn't awake. Not awake at all—and is, in fact… dreaming.
Dean moans again, the sound muffled by sleep, body moving, almost cresting off the ground. Castiel watches, his mouth watering—is—is Dean having a sex dream?
"Mmh—" Dean's hands move a little down his body, his breathing harder than sleep should necessitate. "Yeah—"
Castiel should go—Castiel should leave; watching this is creepy, is wrong of him, is made more wrong by how much it turns him on. And it does, Dean's body moving delicately with sleep, without his own volition, the lust in his unconscious voice, the pleasure—but Castiel should go, Castiel should—
"Cas…"
Castiel stops short, heart hammering, heat rushing through him. Dean just said his name.
"Cas," Dean said again, every sinew of his body rolling, now, as his head dips to hide behind his arm, "F—ungh—yeah…"
Castiel dips out of the tent, heart hammering, as Dean moans his name again. His face is burning. He palms himself through his sweatpants, heart hammering, just as inside the tent Dean makes a particularly loud noise and then stops short.
Heavy breathing—probably from both of them—and then the sound of Dean listening hard. He's wondering where Castiel is, Cas knows it. He's also probably terrified, mortified, anxious that Castiel heard him. So Castiel decides to pretend.
This doesn't stop the delicate coils of adrenaline that shoot through him, the sharp thrills at the knowledge that Dean was having a sex dream about him, Dean was moaning and saying his name and is that what sex with Dean would sound like? It sounds heavenly.
He steps back towards the tent, making a big deal out of the toothbrush and the bundle of clothing in his hand, so that Dean thinks he's only just got back. Peering in, Dean is sat, half up, where he'd been a sleep just a minute ago. His cheeks are bright red.
"Cas—" He says, voice uneven. And, Castiel thinks, eyes nearly fluttering, that name was on Dean's lips only moments ago, too. "How long—what—where—"
Well, if Castiel was beginning to worry that Dean might be straight, after all, this has certainly alleviated those concerns.
"I've been brushing my teeth," Castiel says, nodding down to the toothbrush, "and getting changed." He emphasises this point by climbing into the tent—Dean shifts self-consciously, Castiel realises this is probably to hide his hard-on—and packing his clothes away. His toothbrush goes back in his washbag. Dean continues to shuffle a little uncomfortably, watching him, hands awkwardly covering his lap. "Sorry I took so long," Castiel says, hoping this will ease Dean's concerns. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah—" Dean stammers out. "Why wouldn't I be? I was—I was nearly asleep—"
"Oh," Castiel nods, feigning an absent indifference. He sits beside Dean and slips into his sleeping bag. Dean's face is bright red as he sits with his hands pooled in his lap. "Well, I'm gonna get some sleep, now—"
"I've gotta pee," Dean says, scrambling up and out of his sleeping bag, and practically jumping out the tent.
"Okay…" Castiel says, and watches him go, face heating with the knowledge of what Dean is about to go and do.
He lies back down and closes his eyes, breath unsteady. He tries to sleep. He really does. He tries not to listen out, too. But a few minutes later, he hears the unmistakable sound of a soft groan drift through the trees. Castiel squeezes his eyes shut when Dean clambers back into the tent with audibly self-conscious movements.
Dean sighs when he's settled back down.
"Goodnight, buddy…" He says softly, next to Castiel.
Castiel opens his eyes. Dean is staring at him. Had he realised Castiel wasn't asleep?
"Goodnight, Dean," Castiel says back. Dean's pink cheeks twitch with the smile he gives in response.
