2016's Cas POV
The crystal rolls out of Dean's hand onto the floor, but it takes me a second to notice—I'm still seeing the sun of that memory behind my closed eyelids.
"That one was, uh, clearer, yeah," Dean murmurs, looking away towards a landscape painting on the wall.
"I enjoyed that," I admit, quietly. Probably more than I should. Angels sometimes share thoughts like this—but usually only among intimate companions. After all, the blending of two into one—the press of shared sensations—isn't too dissimilar from the reasons that humans have sex. And I'd long ago accepted that I want to get as close to Dean Winchester as possible.
Of course, I can't tell him any of this. Instead, I attempt to soothe his obviously frayed nerves. "We might not always be on the same page, Dean, but, if it helps at all, I didn't want to leave you then, either. I regretted leaving your side often in those days."
"Glad it's become easier with time then." The smile he plasters over his face is like a discount sticker on a bag of Gas-n-Sip chips—the orange kind that always seems to be curling at one corner.
My forehead furrows. We'd discussed this not too long ago, but… "It really hurts you, my absences," I say. I hadn't realized before.
It reminds me of what Sam was arguing this morning—that Dean takes my deaths especially hard. And how I hadn't believed him. But I suppose, as much as I think I know Dean in all his shades and moods, I can never know what he is like in my absence.
"I'm not your keeper. You can do whatever," he mutters, shrugging.
My frown deepens, feeling the wrongness of his statement on a visceral level. I can't do most of the things I want to do. Can't let myself look at Dean too long or too intently. Can't stand too near him without him telling me to back away. Can't even protect him from all the things that would wish him harm. He wants me close—but not too close. Suddenly, I feel deep sympathy for the moon and the delicate balance it must maintain not to go flying into space or crashing into the Earth.
"Dean," I say, carefully. "I've chosen to stay by your side both literally and figuratively for almost a decade. The only reason I would ever purposefully leave your life is if you told me to go."
He scoffs, "That's never gonna happen."
"I'm worried you will—if you don't like what you see in my memories." There's no point in hiding it. I've kept so many secrets from him—some for my own benefit, some for his—but now he's going to learn them all and if he's going to reject me for them, I would rather he do it here, now—not tomorrow, or next week, or next month.
The last of his embarrassment gone, Dean looks at me with narrowed eyes. It's a watered-down suspicion—possibly only a drop in a pitcher full of something else—and yet, I still don't like to see it on his face even though I'm the one telling him to put it there. "You never talk around shit unless it's bad. So come on, what's this really about?"
"I killed over a thousand versions of you as a part of Naomi's brainwashing program," I confess.
Dean blinks once. "Okkkaaay…. What else?"
"Else?"
"Was that the only thing weighing on you?" he asks, as if it amused by my concern.
"No, but-"
"Cas, I've died a bunch of times—and none of them were your fault. All that proves is that deep down, you couldn't kill the real me even if you tried. So, tell me, what else? Or…" Dean bends down to pick up the crystal, carefully using the ties of his robe to keep it from touching his skin. He hands it me. "Show me. Whatever it is that you think will send me running for the hills."
My mind fills with images—those thousand bleeding, glassy-eyed Deans, the burnt-husk wings of over a thousand dead angels, the light going out of Balthazar and Alfie as I stabbed them. I remember Jimmy, whose body I wear, and his once-whole family. But Dean's right—for the most part, he knows about all those things, and he forgave me for them. Much more readily than he forgives himself for his mistakes. And, to be honest, those were never the things I've been afraid to show him.
"Alright," I breathe, closing my eyes.
When I open them again, we're outside. It's spring.
"Is this…?" Dean asks, soaking in the familiar sight of the suburban backyard. The one large tree beside us rains pink petals onto the grass where, in a few seasons, it will rain leaves.
"Yes," I respond, feeling little desire to explain the scene playing in front of us.
Memory Castiel looks at Dean through the window of the neatly-kept home, sees the woman—Lisa, he remembers—come up to him from behind, her small arms wrapping around his waist. Dean had been sorting the mail, but looks backward as she presses her nose to the side of his neck, his smile as bright as he is capable of when he doesn't have Sam. And something in Castiel stabs like an angel blade.
Days upon days flash by, but it would be hard to notice if it weren't for the change in Dean's clothing. Castiel watches Dean pour himself water out of the tap in pajama pants and a grey T-shirt, watches him ruffle Ben's hair where the preteen sits at the kitchen table, watches him step out to the yard at night and look up at the stars. The angel wonders what he's thinking. When Dean goes inside after his nightly musings, Castiel never follows—allowing Dean at least that much of the privacy he had always so desperately craved. And yet, he can't stop himself from visiting altogether.
The civil war among his kind is…draining to say the least. There is a very real possibility that he will fail, that Raphael will win, and the Apocalypse that Dean and Sam gave so much to stop will be put into motion anyway. He needs moments to not be a leader of his people—to not be decisive or strong—to, if anything, be very, very weak. And while he used to spend time gathering his thoughts in an autistic man's afterlife—ever since he met Dean Winchester, he has to admit that he prefers Earth to Heaven.
Spring turns into summer and Dean mows the backyard without his shirt on, smirking at the catcalls Lisa gives from the kitchen. Castiel feels a ridiculous possessiveness over the body she is admiring—though Dean doesn't wear his mark on his shoulder any longer. Still, Castiel grew those bones back into being, layered muscle and tissue over them, dotted freckles over skin exactly as they were before hellhounds took him. Castiel thought, at the time, he was creating something functional—a once again breathing and living human being—and yet, now he sees that what he remade is also beautiful, even if it doesn't quite match the glory of the soul within.
Castiel watches Dean fix the outdoor AC condenser, the hunter cursing much less than he would have expected, and wonders why he tortures himself by coming here. He knows that he could go to Dean now, ask for aid, and the hunter would do it. But it would shatter his peace in the process. And the worst part is, a part of Castiel wants to ask anyway—not because Dean may be able to help him defeat Rafael, but simply because Castiel would rather have Dean at his side than at Lisa's and Ben's.
And that is why he stays silent and invisible. Because he may be a fallen angel—selfish and corrupt in the eyes of many—but if there is one order he has fulfilled with his whole heart, it is looking after The Righteous Man.
Since being resurrected at Stull Cemetery, Castiel is a more powerful angel than he has ever been—and yet, he knows he is still less of an angel than he once was. Because even if he doesn't have a word for this…profound bond he has with Dean, his feelings for the hunter ache inside him the way thunder chases hopelessly after lightning—and that is not something angels should ever feel.
Autumn leaves flutter past Dean's shoulders, covering areas he has just raked. The whole task seems pointless—but so is Castiel coming here every week, sometimes every day without saying a word. He needs to make a choice—to go to Dean or to walk away and stay away.
He wishes he could read Dean's eyes—to see if he is truly content where he is—thinking that might help him make his decision. But the hunter doesn't look into the distance the way he used to stare at Castiel, and he can see nothing in them but familiar green-gold specks. Another leaf falls.
He should stay.
He should go.
Dean shakes his rake to get rid of what is caught between the tines. Castiel takes a hesitant step forward.
And that's when Crowley clears his throat behind him.