Dawn Chorus

In a faceless motel on a forgotten road, Sam and Dean Winchester lie in the darkness.

Another month. Another week. Another case. Another motel. Another sleep. In the real world the brothers are as they always have been. There is tension and mistrust and a thousand things they never speak about, and a hundred more they wished they would. The life that threw itself at them when Dean returned for purgatory is reminiscent of their old one, with a task and a goal and a journey to take. Their life is, as it always has been, their life. But the future is a bleak gray that holds nothing for them, and their world is weighted with the unspoken.

Only in the dark do things change.

'Hey, Cas. Sorry for the late one, just got back from a hunt…'

When there is nothing to see but a black, velvet void, and nothing to do but sink into dreams best forgotten, here is when the brothers are truly free. The time of dwindling nightfall, when humans peacefully sleep and monsters tirelessly prowl. This is the time when the prayers are spoken.

'… this fucking vamp, man. He was thick as pig-shit and I'm not even exaggerating. Took about thirty seconds to lure him in the alley. Syringe to the neck. Bang. He's down. You'd think they'd learn by now, I know for a fact they've got networks, there must be better…'

And somehow through the softly spoken words, the Winchesters' life by day gently seeps away, and the brothers become brothers again. It never matters what they say, who they talk about, or even why they say it; they speak simply for the beautiful clarity it gives them.

There is a precious sanctity to be found when theres nothing more than voices in the dark.

'… Don't think Benny would be right impressed. Remember when punched that vamp so hard in its face it choked to death on its own teeth?' a slight pause, but its okay to bring up Benny in the dark. Everything is safe in the dark. 'Getting sick of vamps anyway, almost looking forward to the next case. We got a demon sighting in Wyoming. We're a day out of the town, gunna head there in the morning.'

Another pause, but this one is heavy. Sam hungrily takes up the mantra.

'Haven't dealt with demons in a while. We figure they're all doing tablet stuff, to busy to cause trouble, y'know? I'm keeping my eye on the networks, remember I said Kevin's good with computers? We've worked some things out, but even with that there's pretty much nothing…'

The darkness is their release.

'… and the way it was sniffing around, it made me think of this time with Riot. It's, well, not that nice I guess, but he wouldn't stop rolling in it and I figured if a dogs gunna do it then why not a werewolf? Took even less time that I thought to find the right smell to cripple it…'

In the darkness, and to Castiel, they can say things they never could to each other.

'… still needed about a ton of the stuff though, tipped it into a dried out pond. Never heard of a vamp nest working with a werewolf before. But, yeah, demons will definitely be a nice change...'

Of Dean, Sam learns sometimes he still struggles to understand his forgiveness of Cas. He talks more of angels and hell and things he never mentioned before but that Cas would know about - Cas understands them. Sam learns more of purgatory and its nature, the things Dean did there and what he felt like he became. His brother talks about their dad a lot, but never mentions him directly, he's just a presence under the surface of Deans skin - something else hes decided he shares with Cas. Sam learns that Dean talks more of moments than events, and more of 'how' he does things, not 'why'.

Of Sam, Dean learns more of his madness, what Sam went through and his own minds betrayal. He realises there are some things he can't possibly understand, but that, as the days turn to months, Sam finds he talk to Cas about it - Cas went through it too. Dean learns how important Sams other life was, because he mentions it with such fondness, and also that Sam never chose it over him, and never would, because its not about one or the other. He learns that on cases Sam tries to figure out 'who' and not 'what' they're dealing with.

In the safety of the dark the brothers learn about each other. They talk until the sky begins to bleed a filthy pink, and their voices reluctantly fall silent as the dawn chorus begins.

'Talk tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow, Cas.'

Castiel wakes up.

He doesn't remember going to sleep. The creaking lights of a bleary dawn greet him, and he feels he missed something huge and important during the weight of his unconsciousness. The silence still screams at him, and the blood on his hands cracks and sparks with every movement. But Castiel reminds himself that he's Castiel, its enough for him survive through another round of consciousness. In his pocket he feels the weight of the coin, an anchor to secure him to the future.

He tries saying something, hesitant and unsure. He tries to say his name because he can't think of anything else. All to familiar syllables form in his mouth and he speaks 'Castiel'. He can feel the tightness in his lungs and the pressure in his throat as the muscles work themselves, but he doesn't hear anything.

He says it again. 'Castiel', 'Castiel'.

Nothing.

Sparking hurt ripples up his arms as his tattered hands clench involuntarily, and against the pitying laughter of the silence Castiel drags himself upright. Limbs are stiff and foreign from the cold of the night, but he's not capable of noticing. Hunger and thirst scream a symphony in his stomach, but he's not capable of noticing. Nor noticing the molten electric up his back, nor the burning ice in his chest.

But he remembers he is Castiel, and he remembers the coin. Its useful for… something that he will surely discover later if he just keeps on searching. He sways. Then, with the coin fixed firmly in his mind, he unsteadily begins to walk. The city of night is a different universe under dawns sight. A gentle lull of a world waking up wraps itself around Castiel as he walks. It's of little comfort.

Occasionally faces of people loom into his vision, they look at him through a window of curiosity that no other emotion penetrates. He is of interest, not concern. A misplaced anomaly. And so the people observe him until he is gone from their sight. The feeling of being watched by unfriendly faces is familiar. Castiel very carefully doesn't think about angels.

He stops walking when he realises theres an important shape in front of him. Frowning, he struggles against his mind, which is insisting the stout shape is a metal creature that swallows you whole. It takes him time to understand, but eventually he recognises it as a phone booth with a payphone nestled inside. Helpfully his mind has already reiterated that this is a very important thing. The stubborn door yields to his struggles, and he slides in.

There is no air here.

Cold glass walls press sharply in on him. There is no air and no sound. There's no room and no air. His body begins to suffocate. There is no room. Chills shudder up him. There is no sound and no air. Brittle hands claw at his throat. There is no sound. There is no room. The air is thick water. The air is thick blood. He breathes it deeply, it clots in his lungs. There is no sound. There is pain, pain, pain.

Somehow he finds himself outside the booth once again, sitting on a bench and clutching the coin in his bloody hand. He doesn't remember how he got there, his memory is whirring static, but he's aware of his chest burning and heaving. Oxygen floods gratefully into his body as he tries to calm himself.

The world is still silent.

Castiel tries to think, but he's forgotten how he did it before. His trembling heart is settling to an unsteady beat, and burning hot in his hand is the important coin. Remember how it is important? He stares at the coin again, small and heavy in his palm. Breath in, breath out. Breath in. He watches as it shifts to the left, inching across his cracked skin, obeying the forces of his mind.

Castiel stares at the coin.

Without touch, he's making it move.

Oh...

The blood remains, even after he glares at it, but he can make the coin move. The coin can move, but the blood cannot. And Castiel almost asks the question he was to afraid to before… except he doesn't, because he's just remembered why the coin is important.

Everything becomes gentle and slow, he becomes like smoke and sunlight. In a strange daze and still staring at the coin, he unfolds himself from the bench, stands and sways like a peaceful tide, and allows himself to drift peacefully back towards the booth.

The world is still silent.

It all seems very simple and uncomplicated now. Not even the suffocating closeness can shatter him. He lifts the silent receiver and slips the silent coin into the silent machine. Buttons sink sharply under his weary fingers, all in silence. Castiel calls the only number his addled mind remembers.

A voice cracks through his world like a gunshot.

'This is Dean. Leave your name, number and nightmare at the tone.'

Castiel forgets to speak.

Hit a real snarl part way through this so sorry if it feels like filler (and weaker writing)! I dunno, I'm not sure... Whaddya think?

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