2016 Dean's POV

I feel like I'm going insane. Like, what the fuck is wrong with me?

So, what if Cas looked at me weird eight freakin' years ago. It's Cas. He always looks at me weird. He looks at the whole world weird—to the point that it shouldn't be weird anymore.

The more I think about it, the more I realize there wasn't really anything significant about what happened in that memory. So, he was a bit…drawn to me or something. Noticed me noticing him. I was a human. He was an angel. We were feeling each other out.

I wince at the internal choice of words.

It's not weird, I decide again.

But if that's so, why did Cas drop the memory? Why did all three of us act like something weird was going on?

My stomach growls like a garbage disposal. It's ass o'clock in the morning, which means I haven't eaten for almost fifteen hours. And it seems stupid to just sit here, listening to it, when I could do something about it, so…

I pull on my Dead Guy robe and shuffle out into the hall, aware of the Angels don't sleep thing a little more than usual, even though there's no reason to be avoiding Cas. I just…want to figure out what the heck actually went down before I talk to him.

Maybe that's why, instead of winding up in the kitchen, my steps take me to the library. The stupid crystal's sitting on one of the side tables, pulsing purple almost like it's got a heartbeat, as I try to remember how it works. Does it…keep the memories you put into it? I wonder, palming it, shaking it, stopping myself from smelling it. Like if I wanted to watch that whole scene with Uriel again, could I…?

The world I get sucked into is—blurry, to say the least. It's like someone painted a picture of a motel room and then left it outside in the rain until it turned muddy.

"Did you find the witch?" Castiel asks, and as I focus on him, he seems to gain definition—blue eyes bright, jaw sharp—but there's still something off about him. And that's when I realize I shouldn't be seeing him at all—not if this was his memory.

"We know who she is," Sam insists. Or was I the one to say that? A second later, the scene resets. "We know who she is," my own voice says, exasperated.

"Something something I'm a dick who wants to kill everyone," Uriel rumbles back, while fake Cas stares and Sam's hair changes lengths repeatedly in the periphery.

OK, this is clearly not helpful, I think to myself.

I probably should not be as shocked as I am when I get an answer back.

Would you like some assistance? a familiar voice presses against my consciousness, forcing my already-tentative hold on the memory to slip away….

"Uh, Hey there, Cas," I stutter, trying not to startle at seeing the real angel in front of me, even as my eyes travel over his face without my permission. It's the hollows around his eyes and the shape of his nose that I didn't quite remember right, I decide, with something like guilt. I see Cas almost every day. I should know this.

He spends a moment just standing there, letting me look—so still that it sort of freaks me out when he takes a step closer. "Were you looking for something in particular?" he questions, the crystal lighting up brighter as he nears it.

"Uh, no, not really," I say, shoving it, and my hands, into the pockets of my robe, feeling more underdressed than usual.

"Dean…" Cas mutters, warningly.

"I think I was just…overwhelmed yesterday or something. Thought I saw shit that wasn't there."

Cas pauses and any hope that I had he was just going to agree with me sinks to the bottom of my stomach like a stone. "You're a very observant person, Dean," he whispers, finally. "It's part of what makes you an excellent hunter."

Is he…? "What are you saying, Cas?"

"I'm saying the same thing I said before you decided to join us. Memory transfers are personal. And as much as we'd like to ignore the uncomfortable moments, there's going to be more of them, so we should likely talk about what's bothering you."

Well, that sounds worse than another 40 years in Hell. "You want pie? 'Cause I want pie. I'm going to go …"

Cas raises one eyebrow—and, yeah, I shoulda known that wasn't going to work.

"Fine. Let's…talk," I huff, flopping into one of the nearby chairs, legs spread out straight in front of me. A clock ticks. My own breathing sounds doubly loud in the room.

"Well?" I ask, after a while.

"I'm thinking. This is… difficult for me too, Dean," Cas admits, and…

"I get that."

Another minute passes, but I've never been particularly patient when it comes to stuff like this—can barely wait for microwave popcorn to finish popping, which is why I usually send Sammy to handle it. "So, uh, are all my memory shares gonna look like they were run through the food processor…?" I ask, to distract himself and me. Kinda seems pointless if that's the case.

"No," Cas responds, sounding surprisingly sure of that. "It's likely this particular moment just wasn't important to you."

"Yeah, this whole case is kinda fuzzy," I admit. " I remember being covered in Dead Man's blood because, gross, and Sam using his powers again, but…" My tongue scrapes across the bottom edge of my teeth. "I think what I remember most is talking to you in that park—thinking you might…might actually be on my side."

Cas smiles sideways. It's one of those smiles he rarely uses anymore, and when my hand brushes the crystal still in my pocket….

"You misunderstand me, Dean, I'm not like you think. I was praying that you would choose to save the town," Castiel murmurs, leaning forward, shoulders hunched.

"You were?" he asks, and it's meant to come across as a scoff, but the antagonism seems to have drained out of both of them without Sam and Uriel there, observing.

"These people, they're all my father's creations. They're works of art," Cas explains, eyes scanning the crowd of small children, screaming in play on the monkey bars. And Dean believes him, for some stupid reason.

"And yet…" the angel sighs. Dean's life is full of "And yet"s. "Even though you stopped Samhain, the seal was broken, and we are one step closer to hell on earth, for all creation. Now, that's not an expression, Dean," And the hunter wonders if he should start a drinking game of how many times the angel says his name. "You, of all people, should appreciate what that means."

He does—"appreciate" it—if by "appreciate" the angel means "dreads."

He feels the hollowness of this victory. Even looking out at the same playground Cas is seeing and knowing that he saved them all, he feels more separated from them than the angel is. Part of him thinks of them as actors on a screen—false visions planted behind his closed eyelids—a glimpse of the sun that Alastair will rip away, laughing at him for ever believing it was real.

"Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?" Castiel whispers, as gentle as that low voice can probably get.

"Okay," Dean answers—and he thinks he might even mean it.

"I'm not a…hammer as you say. I have questions. I have doubts. I don't know what is right and what is wrong anymore, whether you passed or failed here. But in the coming months, you will have more decisions to make. I don't envy the weight that's on your shoulders, Dean." Drink. "I truly don't."

They look at each other. But it's not like in the barn, where the angel was trying to pierce his soul, or like it was in Bobby's kitchen, where Dean tried to force his way past cold marble eyes. This is giving, not taking—building a bridge, not demanding entry. And he thinks that maybe they understand each other, at least a little.

And yet, something must have gone missing in translation—because the second Dean looks away, Castiel is gone. And Dean realizes he'd wanted him to stay.