Supernatural and its associated characters belong to Eric Kripke (who should be reported for abuse and have his mind-children turned over to me!)
Author's Note: My little space markers STILL aren't working, but I've found a solution.
WARNING: For Dean/Lisa shippers like TertiaryRaiths, the amount of fluffy Dean/Cas I'm trying to inject into this chapter could prove fatal. Turn back now!
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Dean's body is limp beneath Michael's hands, familiar and battered as the roadmap Sam keeps in the Impala's glove compartment, just in case Dean ever starts to lose his innate sense of direction. His face is slack, a snail trail of drool glistening at the corner of his mouth, a mouth Michael used to give orders with, speak with, scream with once upon a time; Castiel strokes the cheekbone and looks accusingly at his older brother.
"You hurt him," he says.
"A necessary evil, Castiel," Michael replies. "And as I recall, you've given Dean a fair share of pain as well."
The Archangel crouches beside the sofa, feels rather than sees Zachariah watching the exchange, certain to report it when he goes to receive revelation. Michael is his commander-in-chief, his general... sharing his actions with the rest of the Host won't seem like a violation in Zachariah's eyes. Six months ago, it wouldn't have seemed that way to Michael, still Heaven-fresh and righteous inside Dean Winchester's skin; it does now, when Castiel presses trembling lips against the scar on Dean's temple and touches the place where his heart pounds against the ribs. Hush, little one, he whispers in the language of angels. You are safe.
"Cas," Dean groans.
"Brother. Sam and Bobby will wake up momentarily," Zachariah says. As though they've heard him, the two humans sprawled awkwardly across the floor and furniture shift, begin to murmur half-remembered things from their dreams. Not the cheese! You know I hate Fergie. "We should go."
But Adam's body -Michael's body- remembers Faith, screams for the dark-haired girl Castiel and Sam were so willing to leave behind and he knows he can't linger on Earth any longer. He would go to the girl, he would stay near Dean, his favorite vessel, so stubborn and powerful and loved and Lucifer would be forgotten, or taken on in the way the Winchesters know; with knives and guns and John Winchester's 'go down swinging' mentality. And he can't afford to do that, not when so much is at stake. Not when he's finally realized they were wrong.
"Home, Zachariah," Michael says. "We're going to go home."
Castiel looks up at them and Michael sees the glitter of undisguised longing in his eyes, the desire for Heaven almost as powerful as his desire for humanity. He grasps Dean's crooked fingers, squeezes them in the palm of his graceful, narrow hand and says, "Goodbye." Michael's not entirely sure who he's speaking to, if Robert Singer's house is going to be entirely devoid of angels before Sam or Dean or Robert fully regain consciousness or if Castiel is merely wishing them well.
"Are you coming, little brother?" he asks, ignoring Zachariah's faint, derisive snort.
"No." Castiel blinks placidly, and Michael is again struck by the beauty of his vessel. It's so small, so delicate, pale and soft as a strip of white silk; the polar opposite of Dean, strong and colorful and rough as sandpaper, familiar with the ways of women and beer. The voice in Michael's head, the ache in his bones, the closest he's come to the human experience of brotherhood.
"We should go," Zachariah says firmly.
"Alright," Michael folds out his wings, feels the stretch and burn of them in Adam's shoulders. He half expects Castiel to reach for him, to grasp his arm and snap out the great black wings Michael used to see on the battlefield, the ones Anael used to pet and groom when she and Castiel were on assignments together. He half expects to see his young brother standing in front of them in Heaven, with no need for vessels and no love for Dean Winchester.
He is, as in many things, sorely disappointed.
There is something unusually vulnerable about Dean when he's naked, a small tilt or curve that betrays his insecurities and provides an explanation for his one-night approach to relationships. It's painfully ovious when Castiel strips away ruined clothes and finds a network of scars, things Heaven and Hell burned into his flesh, things Dean tries to cover with trembling hands and a skeletal smile. They're harsh and defined and cruel and they twist his skin into something hideous and terrible, and Dean is all the lovelier in spite of them.
"In." The angel places a hand on Dean's back and gently applies force; the smooth span of muscle shifts, highlighting an intricate Devil's Trap, the inscription on the Colt, a cut that would have severed the spinal cord and Dean grunts uncomfortably when Castiel touches them. There are so many...
Dean steps into the shower and jimmies the faucet until water curls out of the metal appliance, steaming and sliding over scarred flesh and Castiel wants very badly to join him under the hot spray and kiss each mark, tell Dean that they make him beautiful. That he's precious, and loved, and Castiel will never stop thanking God for giving him back. But he doesn't. Instead he lifts the threadbare washcloth Sam left in the bathroom and scrapes a slick bar of soap over it, noting the exhausted slump of broad shoulders, the hungry grumble of an empty stomach, the humiliated flush of stubbled cheeks. He passes the rag over each and leaves a trail of white suds behind, a pale road coiling around Dean's legs and belly and back and ending in the smooth place behind his ear. The drain is choking on dirt and old blood when Castiel decides Dean is clean and shuts the water off.
"You finished?" Bobby asks through the door, and for the first time in months his voice isn't slurred and roughened by alcohol. "I got clothes here-"
"Thank you. Just toss them in." Castiel guides Dean out of the tub and hands him a towel; Bobby flings a thin, faded sweater, Batman boxers, and a pair of ripped jeans through the half-open door and squeaks away. He can smell meat cooking, a warm, mouth-watering cologne that overpowers the almost-minty scent of Irish Green and Nivea for Men, and this encourages him to help Dean with his clothes; the quicker he's clean and combed and dressed, the quicker they can feed him.
Dean's skin is hot and damp and freshly scrubbed under the angel's fingers, and he covers each millimetere with care and precision, his breath pooling behind Dean's ears.
"Done." He steps back and lets Dean zip and button the jeans, silently assessing. His clothes fit him differently now, clinging and hanging at slightly skewed angles and he's thinner and the scars are outlined, emphasized by the shirt's color. Castiel wants to take away the clothing, reminders of what Dean was and will be but isn't just yet, to kiss and touch and worship until the man sees himself as something worthwhile...
"Cas?" The hunter is flushed and there's a dark, closed quality to his eyes that wasn't there before, but the soul still shines brightly behind them; he can feel it, and he can feel the rough slide of Dean's cheek and the sweet place under his jaw and the pounding hollow between his collarbones. He can feel...his fingers slip over scarred, barren flesh and the absence of his mark is a shrill scream in his Grace, shattering the liquid warmth between himself and Dean.
"Dean, what-"
"It's gone," Dean says roughly, and he quickly exits into the corridor, leaving Castiel alone in a puddle of water and heartache.
Three weeks later...
He's ugly.
He sees in the way Bobby looks at him, light and wary as a civilian wearing Eau de Wildebeest in a crocodile pen. He hears it in Sam's voice, a thick undercurrent of regret that brings Cheetos wrapped in Christmas paper and F's on report cards to mind. He feels it in the heat of Castiel's hands, reluctant and uncertain, a star bound to Dean by pity and necessity. He tastes it in food served by trembling waitresses, drinks poured by concerned bartenders, people who would have killed to spend the night with him six months ago. He smells it in the thick steam of the shower, curling over the mirror and blurring his features in the glass, the illusion of good looks and smooth skin wiped away by an open hand. Everywhere he goes, there's some reminder of everything the war has taken from him; he ought to have seen it before.
Thick scars curl and split on his arms and legs, forming pieces of Latin phrases and Enochian sigils and Devil's Traps on his chest and neck and back; the worst of them are easily accessable, felt beneath a sleeve or seen under a shirt riding up his back or stomach. The few girls he's tried to pick up since he was resurrected ask about them, their alcohol-glazed eyes sharp with concern and fear until they eventually decide to try their luck with someone less dangerous, whose leather jacket and ripped jeans were bought at Macy's and whose motorcycles were donations from indulgent parents.
So Dean's decided he's not going to go into town anymore. He's going to narrow his world down to Singer Salvage and the half-repaired Honda Accord that's been sitting in the lot since he was 26 years old; cars are familiar, warm, unjudging. He spends all the time he can with them, taking them apart piece by piece and fitting them back together. Sometimes Cas sits and watches, trenchcoat fanning out around his neatly crossed legs, sweat sticking the soft black fan of his hair against his forehead and he'll wait until Dean scoots out from under the car before he goes in, even if it's a hundred degrees out or it's pouring down rain. Sometimes Bobby will roll out with a word of advice, a box of tools, but his visits are brief and unmemorable. Sam comes out almost as often as Cas, usually bearing beer and a 'let's talk about your time away' face, and Dean will sit and tell him what it was like to fly, how it felt to kill demons with his fucking mindand Sam always looks a little disappointed, because this is Dean telling him the good parts about being possessed and completely avoiding anything to do with Lucifer's Torture-Fest 2010, but he keeps his mouth shut and doesn't push his very limited luck.
"Hey!" Bobby's voice echoes through the rust forest, startling a white and grey cat that Dean had decided to call Frank away from his perch on the hood of a dilapidated Charger. "Dinner!"
"ALRIGHT!" Dean shouts. He slides out from under a heap of something that might once have been a Volkswagen but probably won't be again, collects his tools and heads for the house...
"Dean." Electricity spikes through the air and shudders over Dean's skin, slick and bitter with sweat. "Dean, we need to talk."
"Jesus! Cas, can't we talk in the house?"
The angel frowns.
"No."
"Why the hell not?" Dean tries to push past Castiel, knowing full well that he won't be able to. What he doesn't know is that Castiel is going to lean in and kiss him, an awkward first-date teenage affair that makes Dean's brain dribble out his ears and forces his fist into Castiel's jaw. The knuckles shatter but he doesn't register the break for a moment, not until pain blossoms in his hand and his eyes start watering.
"What the hell?"
He asks his question of the empty air; Castiel is gone.
Sam first notices things aren't exactly kosher between his older brother and Castiel when they're out shopping for their traditional Christmas shrimp. They're standing in the middle of the grocery aisle, pretty much taking up all the space and a little old lady's looking at the boxed tilapia like maybe she wants them to get it for her if they're not going to move, and Dean's trying to call Castiel and ask him if he's allergic to shellfish.
"Little feathered bastard won't pick up his phone," he grumbles. "Sure, he'll answer when ya wanna know where the latest demon convention's goin' down, but when you need to ask him about dinner..."
"Let's just assume he has no allergies," Sam says.
"Yeah, and when he puffs up like a balloon and needs one of those emergency tracheo-whatsits, you get to stick the pen in his throat."
The little old lady sighs in a resigned sort of way and starts to turn her cart, accepting the fact that she's not going to be able to purchase her microwaveable fish tonight. Sam honestly thinks they're doing her a favor- someone her age should try to stay away from frozen, pre-processed food- but it still doesn't change the fact that Dean is angry about nothing. He tries to take the phone out of Dean's hand, but unfortunately it happens to be the one he says he broke on a Volkswagen and Dean swears so loudly the little old lady starts hyperventilating and fumbling for her Jitterbug.
"What is your problem?" Sam asks, steering Dean out of the frozen food aisle and hopefully postponing senior heart failure. "It's just shrimp."
"It's not just shrimp! Cas is unreliable-"
"Bull."
"Fine. You guys are such BFFs; you call him." Dean scowls and stomps towards the ice cream sample man, who's looking rather anxiously down the aisle they just exited.
Cas picks up on the first ring.
"Yes?" His voice is calm, friendly.
"Uh...are you allergic to shellfish?" Sam asks, feeling rather stupid. The ice cream man makes a face at Dean, pale and scarred in an AC-DC shirt and ripped jeans, and even from a distance Sam hears him say, Get out, we don't want any trouble.
Trouble? What the hell kind of customer service is that?
"No."
I said out, young man. I'll call the police.
I'm just here to buy some ice cream. Dean's smile is tight, ersatz.
"Hey, Cas. Could you swing by-"
The angel materializes with a crackle of static, the phone still pressed tightly against his ear; the ice cream sample man notices his sudden appearance and blinks worriedly.
Beat it, kid. Take your weird little friends and-
Dean's undamaged fist slams into the ice cream sample man's eye and he screams in pain and outrage, his red apron riding up over his Santa belly as he scrabbles around the slick tile floor. Dean flips the fold-out table over, spilling tiny plastic cups of ice cream that melt and merge into ugly brown puddles and he looks like he's ready to have another go at the rude sample man.
"DEAN!" Castiel shouts.
He's at Dean's side in an instant, pressing two fingers against his forehead; the eldest Winchester sags like a marionette with the strings cut, folding clumsily against Castiel's chest. His boots slip-slide in the mess of ice cream and cheap plastic tablecloth, and for a moment Sam's standing outside a warehouse in the middle of nowhere watching Faith drag Dean's lifeless body across the ground.
"I should press charges!" Sample Man bawls.
"You son of a bitch." Castiel very nearly drops Dean as he lurches towards the Sample Man, eyes blazing in a way that makes Sam think about all the times he'd shredded ghosts just by standing in the same room with them. "Do you have any idea who this is?"
"He's nobody," Sample Man says coldly. He's laid out on the floor a second later, eyes rolled up into the back of his skull and Castiel looks at Dean's still, sleeping face and touches the cheek with trembling fingers.
You're everything, he whispers.
And although Sam likes to think he knew it way before either of them did, that's when he realizes Castiel is headover heels, almost-as-crazy-as-Faith in love with his brother.
Ah, the fluff-bunnies make fools of us all...
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