Chapter 11: Knowing

"Without pain, how could we know joy?"

(John Green, "The Fault in our Stars")

And I really had pain. All your absence and all your quiet, whenever we were together, it crushed me like a minor bug. And I still looked forwards, to the future, imagined it and thought of all the things we could achieve. And when I wasn't dreaming, I tried to observe you, like I always did. A recurring event that, in all the uncertainty, gave me a little bit of stability.

I remember, how you were eating a sandwich and your gaze every now and then flying across the room to me, as if you wanted to make me understand with your eyes, that I should stop watching you. But nothing kept me from doing it. And every time I gave you a cautious smile, but never got one back from you. We still hadn't talked and I wished for nothing more than for the desired rain between us. The big storm that would desolate it all, and after which we would finally be us. The silence swallowed me. And it scared me.

"Scared isn't a good excuse. Scared is the excuse everyone has always used."

(John Green, "Looking for Alaska")

I stood up. Perhaps I hoped for you to be surprised. But you were absorbed in your food and every single molecule of its taste. And that was okay, because I know how much you love to eat. Even when every fibre of my body wanted to stay, I knew I had to go. Not for you. For myself. There were thoughts to be thought and feelings to be felt. There were things I had to do. Important things. And I had to do all of it alone. Who knows, maybe your current pretend indifference was big enough for you to not care about it, but maybe it was little enough to alienate you even more. Because you wouldn't like them and I wasn't ready to explain to you what you don't understand. Because there are things you didn't need to know about, things I did for you, and only for you. And in the end, we all have things we hold on to, things we want no one to know about. Then again, there's always someone, who knows.

I wandered into my hallways of your bunker and disappeared. And it doesn't matter, where I was or where I went. It doesn't matter, what I did. It doesn't matter, how I felt, that my heart was burning and my soul bleeding like an injured dog. It only matters, that I did it for you. Your life is good, since I am in it, because everything I do is make it good. I give you the time to read, sometimes maybe hidden in your room. I give you the chance to enjoy your food unhurriedly. I give you the time to sleep.

Sometimes I would come into your room at night and see your nightmares, the pain of your memories that invade your dreams like the enemy. And then I would lay my hand on your forehead and make it easier for you. I cast out the enemy. And you don't know about all that. And was I currently injured by the war I'm fighting in your name, nothing made me stronger than knowing, that the rain would come and the time after would heal it all. Because only in the bad times we know how good our lives are. And I saw, that the only way out of the labyrinth was through. Through the pain and out of it.

"Pain demands to be felt."

(John Green, "The Fault in our Stars")

As I came back, completely unnoticed even my absence, and strayed along the hallways, touching the grey walls with my hand, as if I had missed them, I felt you were close. Just then you were standing in front of me and stopped. I was in the way. You stared into my eyes and something of your mask seemed to crumble. It was like the spring, when you're outside and notice the scent of wet grass in the air, and you feel the light breeze becoming wind and how the sun slowly hides away. The rain was coming, and I could feel it.

"Dean," I dared. Your green eyes bore into my conscious and your gaze got darker, as if you just now decided, that your patience had reached its inevitable end.

"Go out of my way," you said with so much force, I feared my face would show, how hard it was for me to breathe, "… please"

"Dean," I said again, as if it was the only word I knew.

"Cas, I…," you started, when your hand moved across your face, as if you hoped you could put your mask back on, "… I don't wanna talk about it now"

"But I do," I whispered.

"Good for you," and when you tried to push past me, my hand at your chest stopped you. You tried to get off, but your human muscles didn't really stand a chance against my inhuman power.

"Dean," I repeated anew, and you gave up. And for a moment I wondered, if I fought this war not for you, but against you. Again your eyes got a hold of me, and all your anger and all your pain. But sometimes, when something is important, and makes us feel alive, it hurts just as much to fix it as it does to lose it.

"I am sorry," I said, as if you didn't know already, "I have made a mistake. Please don't punish me for it forever"

"A mistake?" you answered and your brows hurled upwards, like they always do, whenever someone says something completely stupid, "Drinking out of the wrong glass is a mistake. Killing an innocent woman is a little something more else"

"I had to protect you," I breathed into the air, like the end of the rope I was latching onto, as if my life depended on it. Like the string everything was dangling on.

"Well, you didn't!" you threw back, "And I don't need you to protect me"

"Of course you need me"

"Yeah, I need you," you said, and I almost found something like meaning in your voice, "You as a person. You as Cas, the Cas I know. But I can't have you stalking around and kill the wrong people for me, that's not what I need. I need you to be here. When everything blows up and goes to the dogs, and when we don't know what to do and when the wrong people get hurt by people, who are wrong. And you, you're not wrong, and I want you to remember that"

And there was nothing that would stop me from doing that, and no one I would rather do it with.