I don't know if this is okay. To anyone still reading this, I'm sorry for the delay.
Anna never identified with the muddy shades of grey, didn't experience life in its lesser increments, preferring instead, to embrace a lifestyle of existing in extremes, 'I'd rather feel like God sometimes, and total shit the rest of the time, than just 'okay' all the time.' She had a heart that beat like raging storms beneath her ribs, enduring her suffering in obliging silence; Hell-fire flaming in her hair, hot rage gathering like fizzling electricity between the fingers of clenched fists; whittling her teeth to bone-white splinters; she would compulsively nip at the tender skin around her nails until blood pooled beneath the bed, gathering in the spirals of her fingerprints.
Anna spoke in poetry and philosophy and forgotten biblical languages; creating art with a fluency and articulation she found dialogue could not convey. She painted vivid stained glass images, murals of the Madonna, of brilliant stars and celestial beings; she captured a masterpiece sunset with mashed carrots and the greying potato paste served at meal times. She sketched the orderlies, crisp white uniforms and haunted expressions; her brothers, Castiel with the sky in his eyes; more often than not, her fellow patients the subject of her anatomical obsession. She moulded fantastical creatures from hunks of coloured plasticine, her finest work yet in the intricate patterns and scientific design carved devotedly into the soft swatch of white stretching from ankle to thigh, spelling her own ruin in violent red across the floor of her room, pretty faces and thumb smear angel halos, a boy with broken baby-bird wings, another with a hole where his heart should be.
Anna's death had been this stretch of inevitable emotional blackout looming on the horizon for months following her first exploration into the effects of self-harm. In the difficult weeks eventually culminating in her suicide, Dean had often accompanied a despairing Castiel to the ward, arm curled around the slope of his shoulder, whispering 'everything's going to be fine,' in a hypocritical display of straining comfort. Cas had been younger then, the cooler shades collecting beneath his eyes had not been so prominent, fingertips not yet stained in blooms of yellow-brown blemishes, a testament to his devotion to his own self-destruction; a thirty-year suicide plan in cigarettes and alcohol-poisoning.
He's sitting at the foot of her bed, bright white halogen and sparse walls painting angelic light across his features; Anna's folded delicately, cross-legged in the corner, the debris of a violent artistic outburst littered around her; an explosion of necessity, a girl consumed by frantic energy moving manic at its epicentre. There's charcoal powder on her fingers, black dust embedded in the creases of her knuckles, her hands in rapid motion; a flutter of hummingbird wings above the pages, she's capturing the light as it burns her brother in it's heaven glow, a beacon ablaze; her burning bush and it's vow of silence, her bedsheet Mount Horeb.
Castiel talks about everything and nothing, massaging the joints in his fingers, eyes rooted to the evidence of pink stain fingerprints pressed close to the linoleum. Dean's watching his ministrations with a morbid fascination; arms folded across his chest, human furniture lurking in the doorway, providing an extra obstacle should Anna decide to take her leave of their company.
Thus far, she has yet to raise her eyes against him. She's strictly mapping the architectural model of Cas's jaw, holding her thumb in the air, eyes squinting tight in concentration, measuring the distance from the crease of his brow to the downturn at the corners of his mouth, before, inevitably her passions absorb her once again, focus magnetised towards her paper-stacked wreckage, the nuclear fallout to a private decline.
She says, 'It's not safe here,' and Cas is glancing up, eyes wet and blue, smears of maroon among his lashes, biting at his lower lip, he's scared, his body riddled with the residual tremors of anxiety; reluctant to explore further into his sister's damaged visions, unwilling to recognise in them the same symptoms he had identified in the illness as it had manifested in and subsequently devoured his mother. He's nodding slowly, a rattling hum echoing in his throat and swelling in his mouth, he can't breathe around his own nerves.
Dean, previously reluctant to intervene, baffled by Castiel's single-minded dedication to a family so quick to disregard him and the resulting sense of self-loathing in his inability to help them; clears his throat, a wordless request for permission. Cas is barely occupying the same space. He continues on regardless.
'Why not, Anna?'
She finally fixes him with a drug-dampened gaze, her eyes huge dark holes sinking empty in her face. A small smile quirks at her mouth, her lips a flaking mess of fine red lines, she keeps her studious stare on his face and he feels it slide across his skin like thick oil, slow and seeping, leaking into the premature lines Cas has carved by the corners of his eyes. Her trembling hand over-turning paper mounds in her creative blast-zone, she's seeking out a chalk in shades of green saying, 'Don't move,' holding the crumbling stick of dusty green against the evening light, asking, 'Sap or forest?'
Cas' fingernails are buried in his scalp, unable to combat his desire to make an appearance here in support of his sister; readily indulging in some twisted display of solidarity, torturing himself in present company, serving penance in watching over her as her vibrant inferno dwindles to feeble sparks. He says, 'Anna, please,' in response to nothing in particular, just a general plea for a split-second recovery, addressing denim-clad thighs with an inconsolable sincerity.
Dean loathes the idea that Cas ever crave something to the extent he chases and coaxes his sister's reclusive recovery, abhors the idea that Cas ever be denied his wishes, and it's stubborn loyalty, growing like weeds in the darker corners of his heart, his head; choking out any lingering echoes of common sense that sees him take a knee before Anna's cardboard throne, a strange girl of whom he knows very little, bar the bonfire blazing in her hair, ancient words of alleged angels spilling from her mouth and fingertips.
'Why is it not safe here?' the hazy chalk outline of a familiar face stares back at him from the pages beneath her clenched fists, green eyes like toxic spills pooling beneath her palms, he's asking, 'Is someone coming?'
'For him,' she says, her hands streaking black smears in a rough imitation of Dean's jawline, fingertips chasing the curl of his ear, she's saying, 'They want him back,' prying needle-point focus from a confusion of dark scribbles and crumpled pages, she's jabbing her finger at one in particular, bitten nails soundless as she taps an off-beat rhythm beneath the image; and of the repetitive symbols and themes that seem to affect her work, the scratch-work icon of a frightened boy with splintered-bone wings and eyes the colour of winter catches Dean's breath in his throat, volcanic ash gathering on his tongue.
'Of course,' she announces, tone eerily uplifted, a sitcom smile stretching her mouth to dangerous proportions, shark-tooth grin and wild eyes, and Dean's taking an involuntary step back, removing himself from the blast radius, 'Nowhere is really "safe". Her words are heavy with suggestion Dean can't begin to interpret, her fingernail solo synchronized to the sounds of the violence beating away in his chest.
Cas is shifting among the bedsheets, sluggish in his moments, drained in occupying the same space as his sister and Dean wonders how he would tackle this situation had it been Sam sitting smug among the wreckage of his own stability. He watches Cas pick his way carefully through the battleground, paper soldiers and sticks of coloured chalk discarded like helmets after a war; the flag of surrender here is a mess of graphite fingerprints and Anna rules this realm with an iron fist. Cas awaits her permission before entering her atmosphere, Anna the bright burning star at the middle, and she is on edge, fire looping in her eyes, but he is kneeling before her, curling fingers to brush strands of dirty red behind her ear.
Her voice is a broken whisper when she speaks, and her words are soft for Cas, her eyes dark and heartsick, she's saying, 'Nowhere is safe, Castiel. Not for you.' He's hushing her, soothing hands tracing the translucent skin of her cheek; it's not unkind, but Dean knows Cas is plagued by the symbolism behind her creations, the secrets she says the angels feed her, in their high-pitched sing-song of nails and chalkboards. 'You can't go home,' it's an urgent realisation, her fingernails catching in the cuffs of his coat, loose threads snagging in broken skin. Dean sees her vice grip lock against the thin shape of Cas' wrist, the material creasing and pulling beneath the pressure. Cas is channelling a calm he rarely exhibits, placing a hand over hers, saying, 'It's fine, Anna. Dean is there,' his laugh his bittersweet, and Dean pretends not to notice. 'He can protect me'.
Anna tears those huge watering eyes from her brother's face to fix that searchlight stare on Dean, the looming monolith casting a sinister shadow across their private exchange. Her hostility is tangible if inexplicable, and Dean sees Cas press reassuring circles into the white bone of her clenched knuckles. Her teeth grit, words leaking between them like acid she's saying, 'The places he keeps you aren't safe,' turning back to Cas, a conspiratory whisper, she's jabbing her finger viciously against her temple, a repeated, violent action to ensure her brother understands her gesture, the depth of its implications, 'Not here,' she hisses.
Her hands a bluster of activity, rifling through pages fueled by a criticality, she's peeling one from beneath a haphazard stack of yellowing dog-eared scraps. Pressing the fragment into the safe curl of her palm, she's offering it to Cas, fingertips shielding it's message from Dean's eyes. She's leaning forward, jabbing at the paper with renewed vigour, fingertip stabbing repeatedly against her palm, blackened fingerprints dotting her skin like bruising, she says 'not here'.
Before the orderlies usher them from the room, citing an end to visiting hours; Anna looking despairing, nestled in a cocoon of starched bedsheets; Cas tucks her drawing carefully into his pocket, hands pressing against the outside of his coat, releasing a breath at the reassuring crinkle he hears from beneath the layers. She kisses him on the head before he takes his leave, strands of dark hair mussed under the persistence of her clammy fingers and he is his own ghost for the rest of the evening, drifting and unsettled, plagued by a melancholy Dean loathes to see him suffer.
That night, Cas climbs atop him in the dark and tears frustration with sharp little teeth into the skin of his throat, mouth-shaped marks stretching across the wide expanse of his shoulders. And Dean briefly entertains the idea that Cas and his sister are not so different; while her abuse was often self-inflicted, at the mercy of her own hands, Cas sought penance beneath the hands of another. But Dean is reluctant to touch him while he occupies this homesick state of detachment; hesitant to feel a body barely inhabited by the soul that owns it.
He waits until Cas eventually exhausts himself, so thoroughly invested in his frantic seduction, already drained from visiting Anna. He's curled in the foetal position, angry fists clutching around the edge of the mattress, face contorted in a myriad of expressions that flicker across his fine features; Dean's pealing himself from among the sheets, searching through the pockets of Cas' coat, flung carelessly across the back of the sofa. He finds Anna's drawing nestled within the inner folds, nothing on it but the scratchy black silhouette of a man, his hands are fists, his eyes nuclear green burning through his face. In his chest, a huge cavity grows, it's creeping edges like tangled veins reaching around and through him.
He understands now what Anna had been indicating, her furious stabbing at the page had left a map-work of creases leading him to what she had been so desperately trying to convey. Fingertips tracing them now, the journey and the destination, he's recalling her words, a list of reasons, the why's and where's of places where Cas was no longer protected. The hole growing in the chest of this tiny stick man only a mocking imitation of the empty space, vast behind Dean's own ribs in the absence of a beating heart.
A place where Cas is no longer safe.
Dean doesn't know if Cas kept that drawing, referenced back to it in times where Dean would snarl at him across the coffee table; run calloused fingers along the sharp contours of his jaw and tell him he needed him; fighting and fucking and the ceasefires, few and far between. Did Cas ever think to heed Anna's cryptic advice?
Dean thinks they should have smoothed it's folds, hung it from their refrigerator gallery alongside the dog-eared, grease-stained lovers; a coincidental if not accurate representation of the polarity of their relationship. A study in half-devotion, conversations plagued by suspicion, it's inky black claws grasping intimate thoughts, intimate touches, until Dean is questioning the authenticity of Cas' struggle; watching his own palm splayed against the crown of Cas' head, fingers buried in a tangled dark mess, listening as his deep voice is muffled by mouthfuls of pillowcase, his hands scrabbling against Dean's wrist.
It had not been one of their better days.
Dean's sprawled across their bed, laptop humming it's protest, nestled among a tangle of bedsheets, perched on a haphazard stack of hardbacks. He can't say he's not pissed that Gabriel felt the need to recommend him professional help in the not-so-subtle form of a business card; lacking the delicately worded heart-to-hearts and flowery metaphors Sam preferred in these sensitive situations.
The card, he can only presume, refers to the clinic in which Anna's step-mother had confined her for treatment and he is inexplicably bitter at having his grief compared to the otherworldly ramblings of a delusional angelic radio receiver. He's typing, one-fingered, the address printed on the back, tiny silver font glinting like treasure in the dimly lit bedroom, and Sam's shitty old laptop whirrs it's protest, punctuated by a series of angry electronic beeps and clicks. Dean's soothing a palm across the keyboard, mumbling, 'me too, buddy. Me too.'
He's pressing his head back against the wall, eyes closed, trying to remember the sound of Cas' breathing on those rare nights when tired feet would lead him to their bed, eyes ringed in maroon-coloured exhaustion, hands trembling from coffee and nicotine and the perpetual anxiety that seemed to rattle through his bones like tremors lingering after a quake, echoes of natural disaster vibrating through his nerves.
And while Cas was so often fueled by a brutal disinterest, a sarcasm inspired by a constant state of existential crisis that made him unintentionally vicious; occasionally 3 AM would find him soft-spoken and small, lingering in the corners of the room. And Dean would know, just like he always has, the same sixth sense he's had since the day he was born; internal circuitry always seeking out Cas, always calculating the exact length between two points, a mathematical genius in equations of distance and the estimated time it would take to travel them; he'd know Cas was in the room.
He'd recognised that the space between them had never been greater.
He's propping himself up on one elbow, curled fist rubbing at his eye, struggling to adjust to the darkness, relying more on something internal rather than sight to know Cas is there; the same lack of self-preservation that attracts moths to bug-zappers; he's pinpointing his silhouette among the debris of another argument.
'Everything okay?' he's asking, voice low and broken and Cas' eyes are etheral and staring, that manic wide-open gaze that possesses him on occasion, and Dean's preparing for a slew of lofty ideas and energetic ambition, but Cas is crawling beneath the sheets, shuffling close, his nose pressed against the warmth of Dean's shoulder, his eyes shut tight, skin pinched by the corners. His fingertips are ice, pressing against the bone of Dean's wrist, the soft skin inside his elbow, his sternum, his throat and Dean's trapping the fluttering movement within a cage of his own fingers, asking, 'Cas?'.
Cas is sighing a 'Can we just sleep?' into his skin, and Dean's revelling in the apparent armistice, shuffling to rearrange them, wrapping an arm around the shelf of Cas' slumped shoulders, twirling his fingers in the dark strands curling at the nape of his neck. Cas has an arm slung lazily across his hips, fingertips playing his mute adagio against the jut of bone. An act of mutual comfort, of soft touches and low voices, a late-night truce that sees them lay down their weapons by the nightstand, passive-aggression and reverse psychology tucked away in junk drawers with dead batteries and dulled blades and a crumpled picture of a boy without a heart.
Cas whispers, 'I miss us,' into the soft junction beneath Dean's ear, tracing ruins that Dean thinks might look like Anna's archaic symbols across the plains of his chest, spelling his regrets in dead languages so Dean cannot use them against him during their next verbal showdown. Dean's flattening a palm against the small of his back, urging him closer, drawing any trace of genuine affection he can from this close proximity, like a vampire drains a victim; he's filing it away to sustain him when it is otherwise lacking. Mumbling into the soft nest of black at the crown of Cas' head, smell of old cigarettes and whatever you call the period of time after a rainstorm; he's whispering, 'me too,' into his scalp.
Dean's reluctantly torn from his reverie by the bright flash of the search results glaring across the screen. Rather than a homepage for the clinic that had treated Anna during her final, troubled years; he finds himself instead directed to a page that seems to be still undergoing construction; offering very little information aside from a brief description of the company's projects, followed by a small bio detailing the successes of acting president Fergus Crowley. And while the man did not claim letters to follow his name, Crowley managed a team of dedicated specialists, experts in everything from bio-engineering to artificial intelligence; each and every one committed wholly to the pursuit of what Crowley jokingly referred to as, 'The Secret to Eternal Life' by means of virtual recreation.
He does not overlook the Novak Industries logo stamped quiet and unassuming at the bottom corner of the screen.
Growing increasingly agitated by the late hour and Gabriel's lack of coherent instruction on what exactly he was meant to do once he arrived at this point, he finds himself frustratedly clicking rapidly around the screen, in lieu of any useful information; blindly hoping he'll accidentally stumble across some sort of link that will refer him to a help service or something.
The effort is short-lived and he's heatedly storming from the room in search of his phone, blinking away on the Formica countertop, like the north star in the vacuous dark of their apartment.
His apartment.
Standing in the entryway to the living room, Cas' absence is felt like a punch in the throat, and for a moment he can't breathe around it; hand clutching white-knuckled at the wooden frame, he takes a minute to collect himself, pointedly avoiding the corner seat where Cas would barricade himself behind a great wall of books and empty mugs. That smoky ghosts still linger in the carpets, the wallpaper, the old blanket he's thrown across his shoulders, Cas' smell woven into it's fibres, irritating him further, something he channels into his clipped conversation with Gabriel, punching the numbers into his phone with little regard for the time.
Besides, the clock above the kitchen table has stopped.
Gabriel eventually picks up, groggy and disorientated, and Dean can practically smell the daiquiris off his breath as he struggles with coordinating his mouth enough to formulate a greeting. His efforts are shut down, regardless, by Dean's barely restrained annoyance.
'What am I meant to do on this site?' he's demanding of the confused silence enduring on the line.
No formalities, no time to waste expressing faux pleasantries when the only common ground between them is Cas and the empty spaces he's left behind.
He hears a woman's voice, muffled by distance, presumably Kali, issuing a thinly veiled threat camouflaged as a soft suggestion that he should absolutely hang up the phone. Right now. There's a fumbling sound, Gabriel covering the receiver, his low murmuring barely decipherable, and Dean's raising his voice, snarling 'The site, Gabe,' into his phone, fingertips pushing bruises into the skin between his brows, rubbing away the threat of an oncoming migraine. He hears the click of a door, followed by Gabriel's whisper of 'What site?'
'The site, Gabriel. The one on the card you gave me,' he hears the quiet 'oh' of understanding on the other end.
'What am I meant to be doing here?'
He's pulling a chair from beneath the kitchen table, unintentionally situating it to face Cas' corner of the room, an old habit from late nights spent hunched over receipts and profit margins, newspapers and résumés littered in disorganised stacks across the scarred wooden surface, and above them a black and white movie scene of Cas absorbed in his own reading, cigarette dangling, unlit and abandoned from between parted lips, his brows scrunched in concentration, bare toes curled in the seams of the sofa cushion. Dean finds his imagination incapable of recapturing the image, turning the chair away in screeching protest as Gabriel launches into his explanation, voice low and crackling.
'It's kind of a new program. Experimental. You have to be recommended before you can actually take part. One of those rich people exclusive things.' And if Gabriel is issuing some thinly veiled boast, Dean doesn't bother to take offence, clearing his throat forcefully to convey how little he cares to hear this lead up.
'Crowley. I met him a few years ago; wouldn't have happened if Naomi wasn't pumping funding into his company and inviting him to all her public events. Investing in our future, she called it. Actually, he was at mom's anniversary dinner. You might have been introduced, but y'know ... I doubt it.'
Dean can hear the smirk, the sly reference to Cas' wandering hands and insatiable libido, how tales of their encounter with the wealthy pastel-marshmallow widower in the elevators had become a favourite of the hotel staff, who had eagerly recounted the sordid details to Gabriel at the bar the following evening. Gabriel's 'ding ding, going down' text had not been appreciated at 4 AM, although it had brought a shy smile to Cas' face.
'Get on with it,' Dean's pressing, although the memory softens his edges, his sharp tone dulled, a fond smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Gabriel huffs out an aborted laugh, not confident nor familiar enough to predict Dean's volatile moods through the phone.
'I already talked to him, told him who you were, who else was involved,' and Dean's interrupting, genuine confusion erasing any traces of irritability, asking, 'What do you mean 'who else'?' but Gabriel's ploughing onwards, eager to return to bed. Dean can hear him shuffling from foot to foot, the tell tale chatter of his teeth, standing in the hallway, banished from the bedroom at Kali's command.
'Just fire off an email, fill in the forms he sends you. And presto, problem solved.'
Dean's in the middle of demanding to know just what the hell it is that 'problem solved' entails, but Gabriel's blurting out a 'Seeya Deano,' before the line goes dead. Dean's far too baffled by the exchange to indulge in his previous irritation, stuffing his phone in the pocket of his jeans, making a special effort to pad softly back towards the bedroom, as though Castiel could still be disturbed from his reading by Dean's graceless stomping on the hardwood floor.
Flinging himself across the mattress, he's yanking the laptop onto his thighs, heat burning at his skin, splayed fingers and cracked knuckles, mentally preparing himself for the awkward, forced formality of these business contacts and their required etiquette. It's been a week or two since his last foray into the office, his assistant Garth having eagerly occupied his position during his impromptu leave of absence; but this solemn, professional persona is one he shrugs on with the familiarity of a comfortable, old coat.
Mr. Crowley,
My name is Dean Winchester. I've been referred to your site through a mutual friend. He suggested you might be able to help me, although with what, you'll have to tell me. Although, perhaps identifying that mutual contact might explain my lack of understanding about this situation and why it is I've been advised to message you. He mentioned something about forms and implied he'd already discussed my circumstances with you. I hope you can provide me further explanation of what it is, exactly, i'm getting myself into. I look forward to your response.
D Winchester.
He's scouring the webpage with a fine tooth comb, searching out some form of contact information, reluctant to call Gabriel again for fear of provoking Kali's wrath, although he finds himself wondering if these late night dials stir up uncomfortable memories for them, ill-timed instances of heaving themselves from the comfort of their bed just to journey through ghost towns, empty sidewalks and shuttered windows; bundling Cas, blank-eyed and boneless, into the back of their car, hands soothing at his hair, his jaw; Kali adjusting her rear view mirror to keep a watchful eye on him over her shoulder. Gabriel shaking Dean's hand, eyes guiltily slanting towards the backseat, saying, 'Sorry Dean. It's not his fault.'
Eventually locating an e-mail address for Crowley, Dean's sending his message, barely skimming it once, eager to discover what it is, exactly, that Gabriel seems to think this Crowley character is able to provide by way of helping him deal with his current situation. He's only barely beginning to consider indulging himself in the Johnnie Walker Blue Rufus had sent by, conveniently overlooked during Sam's blitz of the apartment (wisely omitted for the sake of self-preservation); when he hears the message alert chime.
Dean,
Been expecting your message; and while 'mutual friend' is a strong word, Gabriel has informed me that you might be interested. Heard about Cas through the grapevine, a sorry business, no doubt; but I think we'll be able to help each other out just fine.
I doubt you're aware, we do tend to work below radar; but my associates and I are currently testing a new program, a brave new experiment in the field of artificial intelligence, and while it's still in it's trial stages, I think you could benefit.
In order to work to it's optimum potential, we will require some personal information from you, specifically pertaining to Castiel himself; his phone number, e-mail address, letters. My team can work from there.
Feel free to ignore this e-mail, after all, this isn't for everyone.
I look forward to working with you, Dean.
-C
Too exhausted to deal with the moral ramifications of whatever it is Crowley's implying, Dean's rubbing at the knots forming above his brow. Snooping through Cas' private details is one thing, but to willingly pass along the information of the fallen Novak heir to a source of such questionable repute, particularly succeeding Cas' very public, media-dissected downfall only a few years prior; leaking any private correspondence after his death is undoubtedly in very poor taste.
Dean's slamming the laptop shut with a little more aggression than is strictly necessary, seeking an outlet for an agitation he would usually channel into needling Cas; provoking some extreme emotional response, because Cas was at his most vibrant when fighting or fucking, rings of blue neon in his eyes, fury behind his teeth. But Dean's curling in on himself like a wilting flower, confined to his side of the bed, despite the fact that there's no one left in existence who could rightfully claim the other.
His best intentions are to sleep, ignoring the siren song of the whiskey beneath the sink, but he cannot stop gauging the pros and cons of Crowley's offer, debating whether or not releasing Cas' personal contact information is wise, considering how much of his own secrets resided in those late night drunk texts, e-mails from the office, from business class lounges, from 24 hour coffee shops.
How much of their personal life existed in cyberspace? How much of themselves had they forgotten to unanswered messages and mail condemned to the junk folder? He's rubbing a palm over his face and coming to the realisation that sleep is going to be entirely impossible while this deal is sitting on the table.
Heaving himself upright, snatching at the laptop, he's reading and re-reading Crowley's response, cursor hovering over the attached files, anxiety tense in his stomach, filling his lungs. Counting to three out loud to an empty room, he's closing his eyes to brace for an impact that isn't coming, prickly heat gathering along his neckline.
The form requires Cas' e-mail address, any alternatives he may have used, his phone number; nothing Crowley hadn't mentioned before. However, the 50 additional pages of terms and conditions have him rolling his eyes to the heavens. Briefly skimming through the document provides nothing but complicated jargon and definitions that make little sense to him despite his own flare for business contracts and the legalities involved, so his impatience and creeping exhaustion conquer common sense as he fills in his own details below, ticking the essential boxes, dotting i's, crossing t's, forwarding the files back to Crowley with nothing but his signature attached.
He doesn't wait for the reply, spread eagle on the bed, counting the cracks in the ceiling, trying to recall anything of Sam's new-age preaching, the benefits of yoga and hamster-food and 'Your body is a temple, Dean', he's saying as he's throwing another takeout bag in the trash, granola between his teeth, compost beneath his fingernails.
Trying to relax now is a futile effort, his own memories betraying him, overwhelming him with the possibilities of what exactly he had just granted Crowley access to; too late to take it back.
Specifically he's remembering a weekend from way back when.
He'd spent hours roaming through some nameless airport, chrome and glass and a hundred strangers wearing the same face. Heavy snow keeps all flights grounded, announcement boards blinking red warnings and weather alerts, and his legs are restless, carrying him through empty corridors that could be hospitals or office blocks for their lack of distinction. An artificial halogen sunrise has him unable to sleep, a cacophony of children's voices and an accompaniment of soothing parental concern marks the onset of an inevitable migraine. His feet are still moving, but there's nowhere to go, haunting a modern day purgatory, a point between two extremes; him and Cas. He's wondering how Sammy voluntarily spends so much time in airports. Admittedly, he can see the appeal, the call to adventure being one that's difficult to ignore, but Jesus, at what cost?
He's mentally debating the merits of clicking his heels together three times, but his phone is vibrating in his pocket; a welcome distraction. He had promised to spend the weekend with Cas as compensation for what had been an unexpectedly hectic month in work, often seeing him return home late into the night; Cas too exhausted to bother dabbling in small talk or foreplay, mumbling a 'You owe me,' into the pillow, voice crackling with sleep, sounding like a transmission from somewhere way out in the universe, riddled with interference; the only accurate way to measure how the growing distance between them felt, conversation becoming nothing more than a shouting match with the stars.
The picture that pops up on his screen is one of his favourites, Cas sitting on the edge of their bed, his back to the camera, wearing nothing but the sheets tangled around his waist; eyes fixed on something off-screen, his profile silhouetted by the early morning sun beaming through the slats, a halo of orange and pinks. He's mid-sentence, brows scrunched in his passion or fury, whatever devotion fuels his debate, and Dean distinctly remembers this exchange, an argument on the relevance of religious metaphors in children's cartoons. Dean had no opinions on the matter, but picking away at Cas' observations for the sake of lighting that fire behind his eyes had been reward enough in itself. The electronic shutter sound as he took the photo had made Cas shy and pliable and he remembers the aftermath favourably.
The message doesn't bother with the 'I miss you's' Dean thinks people in their situation should exchange with far more frequency than Cas has ever uttered the words. It reads more like a statement than an inquiry. 'You're not coming home'.
He's sighing his grievances to billboards for cheaper flights and sunnier states, opening up a new page to reply, reassurances on the tip of his thumb. 'Cas, I'm sorry man, flights delayed. Won't make it out tonight.'
Cas had left for Gabriel's the morning Dean flew out. Kali was out of town and Cas was exercising his reluctance to enjoy his own company; from the sounds of it, he'd returned home to a regrettably empty apartment.
Expecting some passive aggressive, back-handed comment in response, a guillotine to any potential conversation, Dean finds himself pleasantly surprised at the simple, 'Your loss,' reply. He can't fight the smarmy grin breaking out across his mouth, settling for sending back a simple question mark, curious to see where this rabbit hole leads.
He's lazily thumbing through a pamphlet on inflight luggage safety when Cas' response chimes in. No text, just a photo; one that has him glancing over his shoulder, just in case.
A tired mother peels a banana for an excitable burst of energy wearing blue ribbons and a sun-dress; a teenage boy mercilessly smashes at the buttons of some portable console, headphones hanging forgotten around his neck, blaring whatever qualifies as music to kids these days; while a young woman passionately argues the validity of packing Ugg boots for a ski trip with the disembodied voice at the other end of her call.
He's cradling his phone closer, hand curved around the screen in some vague attempt at inconspicuousness. It's Cas' jaw, the careful diamond cut of it, chapped mouth just barely in frame; the strong column of his throat, the delicate dip of his collar bones, a dusting of bruises fading to pastels about his shoulders, each one a plea for Dean to do his worst; a hint of the soft space inside his mouth and Dean thinks it's his favourite place in the world, a wet heat he feels in his bones. He's definitely not wearing a shirt, but as for the rest, Dean can't tell.
He swallows thickly and could swear it echoes like a bullet ricochet and everyone's staring.
'That it? C'mon man, I'm stranded,' he's texting back, palms sweaty, heart racing and he figures there's no way to play this low-key, sitting on his duffel, head tilted back against cold metal, hopeful that maybe it could leech the pink blush from his cheeks, the bridge of his nose.
Pigtails has lost interest in her mother's coddling, lumpy banana paste coating her tiny chubby fingers; a film of grease shining on her cheeks. She's levelling her suspect gaze on Dean; his awkward two-fingered salute doing nothing to deter her fascination.
His phone is vibrating against his thigh, another picture, and Cas is proving himself quite the talented photographer; a hipbone, the intricate cage of his ribs; the light makes desert valleys of the dips in his skin, miles of smooth plains undisturbed by human contact and Dean is eager to ruin the illusion. Cas appears to be making a conscious effort to conceal his face, an act of self-preservation or self-persecution, but the tattoo on his hip is just as effective an identifier as those pretty eyes, the photorealistic image of a bee only slightly concealed by the folds of the bedsheets gathered beneath him.
There's a sudden heat in his gut that has him cursing the airline, the snow and the skies that bore it.
'If I could make it home faster, trust me. I would'.
He's studying the lines of Cas' body, tracing eyes devoutly along the rise of bone against skin, captivated in his worship when another message lights up his screen.
He's only afforded enough time to glance at it, uttering an awestruck 'oh my god,' beneath his breath before the smell of banana invades his senses and pigtails is leaning into his peripheral asking, in her high-pitched chipmunk squeak, what he's looking at.
By the time Dean arrives home, Cas is rendered useless by his own laughter, and Dean's near 24 hour long endurance boner is left untreated.
The thought of that personal moment between them being spread across the pages of some tacky gossip magazine; the idea of Cas' body, something he had struggled with accepting on his best days, becoming public property, a topical conversation opener, a casual, 'Hey, did you see Castiel Novak had his nudes leaked?', has Dean's skin crawling despite a flare of heat in his chest.
He does not sleep well that night.
When Crowley's response arrives, Dean has yet to remove himself from among the tangle of bedsheets, having promised himself only that morning that yes, he was willing to make his best efforts to assume the likeness of a functioning, productive member of society; but the anxiety growing like weeds in the pit of his stomach roots him to the mattress. Sandpaper eyelids scratch migraines that leave his head impossibly heavy, weighted to the pillow. Street light glare through hastily pulled curtains tell him that it's been hours since the idea of getting up and conquering the world crossed his mind, quickly defeated and buried by a dull heaviness he thinks maybe Cas would have understood.
It takes another 20 minutes to summon the energy it takes to shift to his side, reaching for the laptop abandoned and shoved beneath the bed. Shuffling to prop himself against the wall, sweat-stained t-shirt bunched beneath his armpits, he's squinting against the bright glow of the screen, Crowley's message a simple, 'Enjoy' with a link posted beneath.
Angered by his own lack of capacity to achieve much with his time these days, he's clicking on the link with entirely too much force, choosing to channel his frustration into dealing with Crowley, however indirectly; mentally preparing to smugly inform him that his link didn't work. The page he is brought to is entirely blank but for a small, empty text box at the bottom.
His patience, as always, is wearing thin. He's bringing a white-knuckled fist down on the cheap plastic casing of the laptop, the hinge of the screen creaking it's protest. He's pushing the heel of his other hand into the hollow dip of his eye socket, willing away the familiar stinging sensation burning there, a welling of fire inside his head.
He runs the side of a curled fist along the keyboard; and continues to do so until he feels coherent enough to attempt any recognisable language, sending, 'Fuck this,' and 'Crowley, you bastard,' into cyberspace, text echoes springing up on-screen. He reads and re-reads, breathing harshly through his nose, teeth grit at the possibility that Gabriel's orchestrated some fucked up joke as payback for Cas and whatever secret accusations he harbours about Dean's involvement.
He's running fingers through his hair, half-moon fingernail imprints pressed against his scalp; laptop pushed aside, trying to regain control over his breathing, and he thinks he's much better than the impending panic attack, but his lungs are full of water and it's spilling from his eyes.
He's desperate now, calmer, slowly typing 'Hello?' into the blinking text box, and he thinks he might as well be a man left behind on the moon for all its futility, shouting for rescue through the empty, brilliant black at a spinning blue bead and a million deaf ears.
It's an unfamiliar bell tinkling that draws his attention, a different coloured speech bubble popping up beneath his own, encroaching on his own monologue and interrupting what read as the increasingly garbled rantings of a rapid downward spiral.
He reads and re-reads the words like God himself had dictated them, new-age tablet carvings in speech windows and chiming bells. He fights the downward curl at the corners of his mouth, his eyes welling, the breath punched from his lungs; he can't help but reach his fingertips to trace the letters, mentally reciting them in the same bored tone in which he was so comfortable hearing them said.
'Hello Dean.'
