As it turned out, there were no actual cliffs anywhere near Lebanon, Kansas.
While Sam was calling and texting Dean, however, Dean was sitting on the edge of a decent-sized outcropping of rock, overlooking a stream of running water, the Impala parked behind him. And he had contemplated driving her right over the edge – except that he wasn't sure the water at the bottom was even deep enough to cover her, and Baby deserved better than to go out like that.
For Dean, on the other hand – it seemed a much more appropriate fate.
Dean sat on the edge of the bluff, his legs dangling over the side, trying to work up the courage to simply push himself off, to just let himself fall over the edge. It wouldn't even take much effort. The ceaseless torment of his own guilt and helplessness would end in an instant – and he'd be out of Cas's life for good. Maybe by taking himself out of the equation, he could at least give Cas some measure of peace, if not vengeful satisfaction.
He was going to do it, he decided. He just needed a couple more minutes to work up his nerve. Then he'd do it. Dean's cell phone sat on a mossy stone to his left right, vibrating incessantly with a metallic clatter against the rock surface where Dean sat, but Dean couldn't bring himself to pick it up, to accept the dozens of text messages and voicemails that Sam was no doubt leaving him.
He couldn't bear to hear the disgust he knew would be in Sam's voice – now that he knew what Dean had really done.
The jarring sound of his phone against the stone surface beside him faded, drowned out by the sound of Cas's voice in Dean's head – broken, halting words, explaining to Sam what Dean had done to him, with the tone of a confession… as if Cas had anything to be ashamed of! He'd tried everything he knew to make Dean believe him, to warn Dean against the course of action he'd taken. He'd cried and screamed and begged Dean to stop.
But Dean hadn't stopped.
God help him, he'd had no idea what he was doing – but Dean's ignorance didn't make the damage any less done. It didn't take back the desecration of something holy and precious that Dean had ruthlessly violated. It didn't give Cas back… any of the things Dean had taken from him.
His dignity, his – his innocence…
His faith in the Righteous Man…
Dean choked back a sob, one arm braced across his stomach to hold back the overwhelming wave of nausea that came over him with that thought. He could see Cas's open, trusting gaze, looking to him for direction – the devotion and reverence that had always been there when Cas had looked at him. And now – Dean had stripped all that away. Replaced it with terror and shame that drove Cas's eyes away from him, made Cas cower and cringe at the very sight of Dean… the memory of the violation…
I didn't know… God, I didn't know…
Except… that's not entirely true… is it, Dean? It was Alistair's voice again, a dark presence in the back of his mind. It was all so… familiar, wasn't it? On some level… you knew exactly what you were doing.
Dean shivered, clenching his fists against the silken glide of Cas's feathers that he could still feel under his fingers… calculatedly alternating gentleness with cruelty. He remembered vividly how close he'd been behind Cas, close enough to feel the shudder that passed through his bound body, the way his breath had quickened with panic as Dean had trailed his hands idly, intimately through Cas's wings.
"I can do anything I want to you, Cas…"
He'd deliberately made his voice soft and intimate, just to make his vicious threats more effective, speaking close against Cas's ear and taking satisfaction in the way Cas had whimpered and turned his face away.
And Dean knew perfectly well just where he'd learned those techniques.
The quiet sobs of his friend mingled with older memories in Dean's mind, and he shivered as vivid flashes filled his vision – blood and smoke and the glint of a razor sharp blade… his own voice hoarse and desperate and breaking as he pleaded uselessly for mercy… the shame he'd felt as he'd broken down in tears when he was brutally violated, his shame compounded by the mockery of softness and affection in Alistair's voice close behind him.
You knew. And this time, the voice accusing him was his own, seething with revulsion. Maybe not about his wings… but you knew how to violate and shame him… knew what would break him, because it broke you... you knew, and you chose it…
… so don't try to pretend for a fucking second that you didn't.
Dean's phone had fallen silent, and the rush of his own blood roared in his ears, his heart racing, his hands clenching around the edge of the rock. He'd done a lot of terrible things in his life – in Hell, and on earth. There were a lot of things he buried in the back of his mind, locked away because he knew he couldn't live with them if he let himself think about them too closely. But this – he couldn't push away, didn't have the right to while Cas was still shattered by it, while Sam was still struggling every moment to find a way to help him heal.
It was a burning deep in his chest, an overwhelming burden bearing down on his shoulders, and Dean didn't know how much longer he could stand it – but it wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. He couldn't get it out of his mind, not with the constant reminder of it there in the bunker with him all the time. And Cas couldn't recover – not with Dean's presence constantly there, compounding his fear and humiliation every time they happened to accidentally cross paths.
Better for everyone if he just let himself fall over the edge. Better for Cas. Better for Sam, even if he wouldn't know it for a while. Better even for Dean himself – because he'd experiencedHell, and from what he'd been told, under Crowley it was a lot tamer than it'd been during his stay.
It couldn't possibly be worse than what he was feeling right now.
He could almost feel the easing of his guilt that would come with the punishment he deserved. If he could just work up the courage… just get over his own selfish fear enough to do everyone a favor and…
Dean's phone vibrated again beside him, and Dean closed his eyes, swallowing hard. If he was gonna go – he wanted to at least hear Sammy's voice one last time. Even if it was laced with disgust and anger at the knowledge of the extent of Dean's guilt. Letting out a shaky sigh, dreading what he would hear, Dean picked it up and pressed the button to access his messages.
The barely bridled panic in Sam's voice made his stomach clench, his hand tightening around the receiver, as he listened to his little brother's frantic words, desperately begging him to come home. Dean closed his eyes against the tears that burned them, his body remembering Sam's hands clinging to him, Sam crying in his arms and pleading with him.
Don't shut me out, Dean… please, Dean, I need you… I can't get through this without you…
Dean disconnected the call halfway through the third voicemail, putting his phone back into his pocket and carefully getting to his feet. He stared down at the rocks at the foot of the bluff, jagged and sharp – and not really all that far down.
Not far enough to guarantee it'd kill you, anyway… it'd be just like you to fuck it up and survive, and leave Sam to take care of Cas and you as a vegetable for the rest of his life.
Dean drew in a deep, shaky breath, the heavy, oppressive feeling bearing down on his shoulders again as he got back into the car and closed the door.
No checking out, he told himself firmly. You don't get to take the easy way out, no way… not while Sam's still got all this to deal with. You gotta stick around… gotta go back to the bunker and be there for Sammy and make sure he's okay.
Dean turned the key in the ignition, and then just sat there for a long time, trying to bring himself to start back down the road toward the bunker.
But not yet, he decided at last, putting his foot on the gas pedal and heading off in the opposite direction – toward downtown Lebanon and its meager selection of bars. He knew he was running; knew it couldn't last, and sooner or later he was going to have to face Sam, and Cas, and the reality of what he'd done.
Not yet…
Castiel knew that he was dreaming.
He knew… because he'd been here before.
He was with Dean, walking toward the Impala, down a dimly lit alley after an unfortunate encounter with a very angry sex worker. And yet, for some reason, Dean couldn't stop laughing. Castiel was confused, as he often was by Dean's actions – but then Dean smiled at him and clapped him on the shoulder, and Castiel found himself smiling back, uncertainly, as a strange, unfamiliar warmth began to bloom in his chest at Dean's attention.
"I don't know what you find so amusing," he remarked, and a faint note of unease began to creep into the dream, because… he hadn't said that before. Had he? "She was unhappy, and I tried to ease her pain, yet – somehow, I seem to have made it worse instead."
"Yeah," Dean laughed, warm and easy, his tone amused and affectionate. "But… that's what you do, isn't it, Cas?"
Castiel felt vaguely uneasy as he walked around to the passenger side of the Impala, and Dean followed him, because he hadn't done this the last time, hadn't spoken those words, had he? And this was wrong, wrong, wrong…
Irrationally, Castiel felt that if he could just get into the car like he'd done the first time, maybe things would still be okay – but just as he opened the door, Dean's hand reached around him to shove it shut again, the handle jerking out of his hand as Dean's body pressed in close behind him. Castiel's heart hammered in his chest with rising panic as Dean slid a hand around his waist, pulling him in.
Dean's voice grew softer, crueler as he continued, so close that Castiel could feel the heat of his breath against the back of his neck. "You try to help… and then you screw it up."
Castiel tried to push away from the Impala, to push Dean back away from him, but Dean grabbed a handful of his hair and slammed his head into the roof of the car, snarling at him, "Don't move."
And suddenly… Castiel couldn't.
Bright stars of agony exploded across his vision; his wings fluttered uselessly at his back, incapable of any more movement than the fine tremor of panic that passed through them – and when had his wings manifested themselves? He didn't remember them being there before – but Dean's hands were running through them, gentle at first and then yanking, twisting, hard, relentless fingers digging deep into the soft feathers and wrenching them out.
"Don't," Castiel sobbed, breathless with pain and panic, but unable to lift a finger to defend himself. "Dean, don't…"
Dean just laughed, low and affectionate, shifting in closer to press his body in tight along Castiel's. "I didn't listen last time," he pointed out softly, and Castiel stared at Dean's reflection in the Impala's side window with mounting horror. Dean's smile was cold and malicious, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. "Why would I stop now?"
All at once searing pain consumed Castiel's wings, and he looked away from that unholy light in Dean's eyes – to see the reflection of his own wings, glowing red and seething with flame, clumps of burning feathers like embers falling away as Dean stroked through them. Castiel moaned and flinched from the contact, every brush of Dean's fingers seeming to ignite new sparks of flame throughout his wings; but he couldn't escape as Dean idly pulled out handfuls of ashen feathers, discarding them like so much garbage. Castiel closed his eyes, trying to shut out the agony, the humiliation and helplessness, as his wings were violated and destroyed.
"Please stop," he cried quietly, despairingly, knowing that Dean wouldn't. "Please… please don't, please stop, please make it stop…"
"Cas… Cas, shhh, I'm here, I've got you…"
The voice at his ear was abruptly warm and reassuring, the hand on his wing large and gentle and wiping the pain away with a single long, gentle stroke. Suddenly free to move again, Castiel spun around to see Sam standing where Dean had been, his eyes concerned and searching, as he raised a hand to press it to Castiel's cheek.
"You're okay," Sam said softly. "I'm here, Cas… you're safe now."
"My wings," Castiel cried, stumbling forward, hiding his face against Sam's shirt in shame and clinging pathetically to the comfort he offered. "Sam, my wings… they're…"
"Cas… shhh," Sam murmured, sliding a hand along the ridge of one of them, and Castiel was startled at the wave of pleasure he felt where he'd expected only excruciating pain. "You're okay…"
The trauma was still fresh in Castiel's mind, and he shook his head, struggling to regain control of his breath as he gasped out, "But… my wings… Dean…"
"Cas… Cas, look…"
He didn't turn, but suddenly he was facing the window again, staring at his own reflection there.
And his wings were whole, glistening and glorious – untouched by the flames that had previously consumed them. They were strong and black and gleaming, and they arched into Sam's hands as he ran them slowly over their ridges, meeting Castiel's eyes in the window with awe and admiration in his own.
"See?" Sam whispered against his neck, his breath sending delightful shivers down Castiel's spine, setting an unfamiliar yearning ache deep in his chest. "You're beautiful."
"Cas? Cas!"
Castiel sat up abruptly, startled out of sleep by the hoarse croak of Sam's voice close to his ear – not at all resembling the soft, silken tones from his dream. He blinked up at Sam for a moment, blank and uncomprehending, as Sam kept talking, asking him… something. Confused, Castiel shook his head.
"I – what?"
"My phone." Sam didn't sound angry, but he was clearly repeating himself, judging from the urgency in his tone. "You got it?"
"Oh. Oh, yes. I – it was just…" Castiel was still foggy with sleep, realizing slowly that Sam's phone was no longer in his hand where it'd been when he'd… fallen...
"I'm so sorry, Sam, I fell asleep!" Cas realized abruptly, not quite able to look at Sam, his face warming with shame as he felt around the floor for the phone, finding it just under the edge of the bed. "I was supposed to be… waiting… I'm sorry…"
"Nothing to be sorry for, man," Sam assured him, his voice tired and scratchy as he accepted his phone from Castiel's hand and inspected the screen, frowning at whatever he saw. "It's fine."
"Did Dean call?" Castiel asked, anxious. "Did I miss his call? I'm so sorry, Sam…"
"No, no, he didn't," Sam assured him, but his worried frown only deepened. "Cas… you didn't do anything wrong, he didn't call, so you didn't miss anything. It's just…" Sam sighed, setting the phone down on the mattress and swinging his legs over the side of the bed as he sat up fully, rubbing at his eyes. "… he didn't call."
"Oh." Castiel understood finally, his head beginning to clear, and a sick sensation settled in his stomach that had nothing to do with his own failure to stay awake. "How – how long has it been?"
His grace was not back to full power yet, he observed absently. If it was, he'd have known immediately without having to ask precisely how long had passed since he'd fallen asleep.
But then, if his grace had been fully restored – he wouldn't have fallen asleep at all.
"Four hours," Sam replied, his voice heavy and troubled. He was quiet for a moment before adding, "Cas… I need to go find him."
"Yes," Castiel agreed, although the thought of being left alone in this large empty bunker was a little unsettling. "Of course." He frowned, considering. "How will you go, though?"
"I'll walk into town." Sam yawned as he got to his feet, reaching out a hand toward Castiel. "If I don't find him at one of the bars, I'll hotwire a car and go look further."
Castiel stared at Sam's outstretched hand blankly for a moment, not sure what it was for, until Sam rolled his eyes in gentle exasperation and grabbed Castiel's hand, pulling him to his feet. Castiel stumbled a little, falling into Sam for a moment before righting himself – and he found that suddenly he couldn't meet Sam's eyes, his face flushing hot and his thoughts scattered at his vivid memories of the more pleasant parts of his dream.
"You okay?" Sam asked softly.
His hand came to rest gently at the back of Castiel's neck, and it wasn't exactly where he'd touched him in Castiel's dream, but it was so close, so intimate, and his voice was so much – too much the same. It made Castiel's heart race, his mouth go dry and speech come with difficulty. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look up and meet Sam's concerned eyes.
"Yes," he whispered thickly.
"You gonna be all right here by yourself for a little bit?" Sam pressed gently. "I mean… you could go with me, but… with your wings and all… if someone saw us…"
"No, you're right," Castiel agreed. "I should stay. I – I can stay, it's fine. I'm… fine."
Sam frowned slightly, clearly less than convinced. "If he hadn't been gone so long… but…"
"No, go find him," Castiel urged Sam, pushing him toward the bedroom door and forcing a smile. "We need to make sure he's all right."
Sam's expression softened, grateful and affectionate. "I'll be back as soon as I can, Cas, I promise."
Castiel nodded, continuing to smile forcefully, desperately trying to convince Sam that he was perfectly okay with this. They both knew he wasn't, exactly… but it couldn't be helped. And besides, Castiel told himself firmly – if he was ever going to be okay with being alone again, it was going to require… being alone, again.
He followed Sam as far as the library, where he settled down at the table in front of their partially done research, hoping to busy his mind while Sam was gone – or at least to convince Sam that he wouldn't just be sitting anxiously waiting the entire time. When Sam gave him a worried look from the door at the top of the stairs, Castiel smiled and gave him a little wave, which Sam hesitantly returned before taking a deep, resolute breath, and walking out into the night.
Sam was awash with guilt as he closed the bunker door, the image of Cas, so clearly anxious – no, scared, and trying so hard not to show it – filling his mind. He'd looked so small and so alone sitting there at the massive library table, a forced smile on his face and fidgeting hands folded in front of him.
You can't be in two places at once, Sam reminded himself sternly. And Cas is perfectly safe in the bunker, and not potentially suicidal at the moment, so Dean is priority number one.
Sam kept clinging to that last message Dean had sent him – letting him know that he had no intention of harming himself. But Sam knew his brother, and he knew that Dean was probably off somewhere drinking himself to oblivion, his own mind torturing him with all the reasons why he should have known about Cas's wings, why everything ever was his fault, and… depending on how drunk he got and where he was when he finished drinking, well…
Sam couldn't safely rule out the possibility of a swan dive off a cliff just yet.
Which was why he had to find Dean – even if Dean really didn't want to be found.
He kept up a quick pace as he closed the distance between the bunker and downtown Lebanon, his thoughts distracted by his worries about Dean, and Cas, and Dean-and-Cas, and what in the world he was going to do in order to somehow resolve this situation enough that they could all function under the same roof for a while – because there really wasn't any other option, was there?
Sam was so focused on his troubled thoughts that he barely noticed as the sun went down, only hurried his footsteps to a steady jog, absently pulling his jacket tighter around himself as the air became cooler. There were five miles between Lebanon and the bunker's remote location, and Sam only had one left to go when he spotted the glow of distant headlights approaching from the opposite direction.
He frowned, noticing that the oncoming vehicle seemed to be approaching at an alarming rate of speed. And, those headlights seemed familiar… and the ever-building distant rumble of the engine… Sam's breath caught in his throat, momentary relief overwhelming him.
Dean…
The relief swiftly faded into apprehension, though, as the Impala neared him, and Sam noticed how erratically Dean was driving – veering across the center line and back again, edging so close to the shoulder as he neared Sam that Sam found himself stumbling back off the pavement in alarm, afraid that Dean might actually hit him. At the last moment Dean seemed to register that someone was there, because the Impala swerved wildly toward the opposite side of the road, tires squealing before Dean regained control and sped on down the road… back toward the bunker.
Clearly, while he'd at least noticed the pedestrian at the side of the road – Dean hadn't realized that that pedestrian was Sam.
Shit, how drunk is he? was Sam's first uneasy thought, a queasy feeling building in the pit of his stomach. And then, At least he's headed back to the bunker… but there's still a few miles between here and there… God, he's gonna kill himself by accident!
And then… Oh, God… Cas.
Sam turned and started back toward the bunker at a run, praying that Dean would make it safely back to the bunker without wrapping the Impala around a tree… and that he could cover the four miles' distance before Cas and Dean could have any unfortunate interaction, and any further damage could be done.
Castiel didn't stay at the library table for long. He was too restless and jittery to focus on research, so after a bit, he got up, picking up the abandoned cup of tea he'd made for Sam earlier and heading toward the kitchen to empty it. He poured the liquid down the sink, then carefully washed the mug and spoon and set them in the rack on the counter to dry.
It was only when he turned toward the door to leave that he noticed his blanket, discarded hours earlier on the counter. He blinked at it for a moment, startled – then smiling a little as he picked it up. He supposed that was a good thing, really, that he'd managed to forget it for so long. Alone in the bunker, Castiel felt no need for its coverage, and carried it under his arm as he made his way back down the hall toward the library.
He found his steps slowing, however, as he neared the cozy, dark little den he'd found earlier, and he hesitated just a moment before venturing inside. He selected a movie at random from the stack of DVDs on the shelf below the television and put it in to play. He'd always found television to be a pleasant distraction, and figured that was exactly what he needed right now. He sat down on the soft leather sofa, pulling his legs up to fold under him as he sat sideways to accommodate his wings. He nestled in under his blanket and rested his head on the over-stuffed cushion behind him, closing his eyes and breathing in the pleasant scent of old leather.
It was familiar in a way that made his chest ache, and Castiel swallowed hard, keeping his eyes closed against the burn of fresh tears. It smelled like the seats of the Impala. It smelled like Dean – and not the nightmare vision of him that filled his mind so much these days, but the warm, safe memories like the one he'd first seen in his dream earlier.
It was confusing, trying to reconcile those memories with their present situation – so for once, Castiel didn't try. He simply let himself drift into those pleasant, safe memories, shutting out all else, letting the quiet background noise of the movie on the screen lull him into a peaceful rest.
He was just drifting off when he heard the door to the bunker open, and then close again.
He frowned, sitting up, a little uneasy. It was too soon for Sam to be back - unless something had gone wrong. He got up, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders as he headed down the hall toward the library.
"Sam?" The echo of his own voice was unsettling in the stillness as he made his way across the atrium, stopping in the doorway to the library, to look up at the bunker's main entrance. The door was closed, and no one was in sight. Castiel swallowed slowly, his mouth suddenly dry, pulling the blanket tighter around him to counteract the unexplained chill he felt. "Sam, are you here?" he called out, reluctant to venture any further.
There was no response, but as the reverberations faded Castiel began to pick up another sound: breathing, the exhale heavier than the inhale, and then a soft creak of leather. Castiel braced himself to face the intruder, before turning toward the sound - and then froze, when he saw Dean in the shadows, leaning heavily against the wall, perfectly still… just watching Castiel.
Castiel's stomach lurched, and he took a swift backward step before he could stop himself - unfortunately, taking him not out of the room but further into it. He saw Dean straighten, then step forward before drawing himself up short, face falling into sorrowful lines.
"Cas," he said, and even in the one syllable Castiel could hear the alcohol-induced heaviness of his tongue. "Cas, no… 'm not gonna hurt you."
"I-I know," Castiel replied automatically, hating the weak, breathless sound of his own voice. His eyes darted toward the doorway to his right, leading back down the hall and to safety - but getting through that doorway meant moving closer to Dean - and as much as he tried, Castiel simply couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he found himself taking another step backward, toward the stairs.
If it came to it, if he had to - if he couldn't get past Dean back into the bunker, maybe he could get out.
Dean didn't move any further forward, instead sagging back against the doorframe, staring at Castiel with wide, sorrowful eyes. "'M so sorry, Cas," he said, and his head lolled a little before he jerked it back upright, suddenly looking serious. "Wish I'd never done it, never believed those bastards. Shoulda trusted you, shoulda believed you."
Castiel automatically opened his mouth to respond, but couldn't find words. It wasn't all right. He didn't understand. And the impulse he felt to let those words spill out, to ease Dean's guilt by taking some measure of it onto himself - it made him frustrated, and angry, a hot coil of resentment twisting in his chest. And Castiel found himself startled when instead of those words, something else entirely came out, low and trembling and disgusted.
"Stop, Dean. Just… stop."
Dean looked stricken for a moment, and then dropped his gaze. "No, I know," he said. "I know I can't make it better, nothing can make it better." He drew in a sharp, staccato breath, a sound Castiel didn't think he'd ever heard Dean make. "I know what I did, and… and nothing ever makes that better, I know." Dean raised a hand to scrub roughly over his face, and there was blessed silence for a beat. Then, "Why'd you do it, Cas? Why'd you save me?" Dean's voice cracked. "I just… I can't ever get Hell out of me, and now I've taken you there."
"You can't blame Hell for this, Dean." Castiel was surprised at the sudden burst of anger and resentment he felt at Dean's words, the hard tone of his own voice, despite its shaking, despite the tears burning in his eyes. "When I pulled you out… the man I saved… would never have done a thing like this."
There was a harsh, broken laugh, and Castiel frowned, appalled. Nothing about this conversation was funny.
"You think that… oh Cas… you have no idea the things I did down there, do you?" Dean straightened, his voice and eyes suddenly clearer than they had been. "I went easy on you."
Castiel flinched as if he'd been slapped, the words jarring and incomprehensible. He could barely draw breath to respond, shaking his head as he finally managed, "You went… you…" He stopped, lowering his head, struggling to maintain his composure before looking up to meet Dean's eyes again, everything in him trembling with restrained fury. "How can you dare to say that?"
"You still had all your skin when I was done with you." There was an unholy gleam in Dean's eyes as he stared down at Castiel, his expression unreadable. "I was trained by the best Hell had to offer for thirty years, and you think the best I could do was a few cuts and burns?" He stepped out of the doorway, only a slight waver to his gait. "I flayed people alive, inch by inch, until all that was left was a bloody mess. I took their bones and broke them until I could tie their limbs into knots. I cut them open and made them eat their own insides." Castiel wasn't sure which was more horrifying – Dean's words, or the slow, unsteady steps Dean was taking toward him as he spoke. "I raped people, with my dick, with my fist, with anything I could find until their insides were soup." For the first time Dean's voice wavered - but his pace didn't.
Castiel took a few hurried steps backward, watching the swiftly shrinking space between them and trying desperately to maintain some distance. "Stop," he whispered, shaking his head, fighting to push back the vivid mental images Dean's words brought to his mind. "Dean… don't..."
Dean's voice grew more urgent and intense, but no less hard as he got closer. "There was one girl… had her on my rack for months. She'd been molested as a child, never had a positive sexual experience in her life. By the end of her time with me, I had her begging for it. I taught her to love the most twisted things I could come up with, and I could see how much she hated herself for it. She taught me that it's possible to rape someone's soul."
Castiel shuddered with revulsion, closing his eyes and turning his head away as he retreated. He was sick, and shaky, his hands cold and damp and clenched into tight fists at his sides. His mind was filled with the vivid memory of the searing agony when Dean had torn into his wings, and the rare moments of relief when Dean's touch had gone gentle and soothing - and how he'd been so pathetically grateful for those moments, how he'd craved them...
And he couldn't stand it. He wanted, needed to be anywhere but here.
"Dean, just… just stop, please," he repeated, quiet and desperate, opening his eyes but unable to bring himself to raise them to Dean's face. "Why - why are you saying these things?"
But Dean closed the distance between them, close enough that Castiel could smell the alcohol on his breath over his own fear. "Because it's the truth, Cas. You think I'm not the same man you rescued from hell, but I am exactly the same man!" Dean's voice rose with every word, anger and anguish echoing through the atrium. "That is what I did, who I was, that is who you pulled out and that is who is still here!" His body seemed huge, towering over Castiel as he kept pressing forward.
"I was never your Righteous Man!"
Castiel scrambled backward, overwhelmed with panic and desperate to escape - and lost his footing, stumbling over the bottom stair and toppling backward. He tried to catch himself on the banister, but his hands tangled in the blanket, and he couldn't stop his wings from being crushed beneath him. He let out a choked cry, his back arching, muscles seizing up at the wave of pain that went through him.
"Cas?" Dean's voice sounded distant now, through the pain ringing in his ears. "Oh God, Cas-"
And then hands were on him, Dean's hands, fumbling and then tugging at his arms, pulling him upright, the blanket falling away on the stairs - and it was all too much like his memories of the cabin basement... the searing agony that wracked his wings, Dean's intimidating frame towering over him, Dean's hands on him against his will, too firm, too familiar, touching him, when all he wanted was just for Dean to
"STOP!" Castiel cried out, and the thin, panicked sound of his human voice was drowned out by a crack of thunder, a shockwave of power rocking Dean's body backwards, his hands off of him, as sparks showered down on them, an electric buzz preceding the abrupt extinguishing of every light in the atrium, the library, and as far as Castiel could tell from here… the entire bunker.
He sat there in shock for a moment, trying to catch his breath and to process what had just happened, as the power that had risen up in him slowly receded, sinking back into him and making him feel strong and alive like he hadn't felt in what seemed like forever. A moment later, with a faint buzz, the emergency light over the bunker door came on, shedding a dim glow over the atrium. It was only when the light came on that Castiel realized – he'd been able to see perfectly fine without it. His thoughts slowly coming into focus, Castiel straightened on the stair where he sat and turned his gaze toward Dean.
Dean's body was on the ground a good six feet away, curled up a little, face hidden by his arms. When Dean didn't move, Castiel looked a little closer, worried that he might have inadvertently hurt him. But then he saw the rise and fall of Dean's breathing, and then beneath that, the way Dean's shoulders were shaking.
"Dean?" he asked, not venturing closer, but somehow unable to keep himself from checking on Dean's welfare. "Are you all right?"
Dean's back shuddered, and there was a muffled, wordless sound that subsided into soft mumblings that Castiel couldn't make out from where he was.
"Dean," Castiel repeated, rising to his feet, then taking a moment to steady himself. There was no doubt, he was undeniably stronger now, the constant pain in his wings less, the ever-present exhaustion faded and leaving him clearer, more aware.
None of those things kept him from feeling an anxious rush of nausea at the thought of approaching Dean, though. But he did, crossing the room to Dean in a few steps, hesitating just a moment before crouching down on the floor beside him.
"Dean… are you hurt?"
"I'm sorry." Dean's voice was whisper-soft and muddled somehow, face still hidden behind his forearm. "I'm sorry, Cas, oh God, I'm so sorry." His breath hitched and he shifted a little, revealing his face enough that Castiel could see the tears that streaked it. "I never wanted to do that to you, never meant to, I didn't know about your wings, would never have ra- would never, ever, oh God." He turned his face away, into the floor, broken apologies still spilling out between shuddering breaths.
Castiel's heart ached with the desperation and despair he heard in Dean's voice, the longing for an absolution that… just wasn't there to be given. Not yet. Some part of Castiel wanted to speak the words, if only to ease Dean's pain and give him some kind of peace. Beyond the tears on his face, Dean's sheer exhaustion was evident, and Castiel knew that since the moment he'd realized his mistake, Dean probably hadn't really rested at all.
And Castiel was all too familiar with that particular brand of restlessness - an ache for forgiveness that he knew he didn't deserve, a yearning to heal something he'd shattered too thoroughly to ever put back together again. For that reason alone - he wanted to offer Dean that forgiveness. But it wouldn't be anything more than a merciful lie. Not yet.
Still… he could offer Dean rest.
He lifted one hand and laid it gently against Dean's forehead – and the shaking in Dean's shoulders, the tension in his body faded away as he fully relaxed, collapsing on the floor, completely unconscious. Castiel rose slowly to his feet again, staring down at the still, quiet form of the man who'd once been his friend, and now…
Castiel wasn't really sure what Dean was to him now. He just knew that in that moment, amidst the tumult of confused emotions he was feeling – but his fear had receded to the background, replaced with something more closely resembling… pity. It was difficult to feel anything else for a man who was weeping on the floor at his feet, broken and pleading in vain for absolution.
Castiel glanced back at the stairs where he'd fallen, and the blanket he'd left there – forgotten in his urgency to make sure that Dean was all right, clarity cutting through his thoughts and leaving him with a moment of certainty – the first one since he'd awakened in the cabin basement with a gaping hole in his chest. He wasn't sure how long it would last, wasn't even sure he'd feel the same way in the morning, once Dean was sober and his mask of control was back in place.
But for the moment… Castiel was unafraid.
So, he turned his attention to the practical matter at hand, a task that was as familiar to him as his own name – taking care of Dean.
Dean would be all right, Castiel knew, once he'd slept off the effects of the liquor in his system, and allowed his body an adequate amount of rest for the first time in nearly a week. There was just one problem, though – getting him up off the floor was going to be a somewhat tricky task.
Castiel, frowned, considering.
Unless…
Castiel glanced over his shoulder at his drastically healed wings, flexing them cautiously, experimentally, encouraged when the movement caused him less pain than it had only a few hours earlier. His wings still felt stiff and tender, and there were places where Castiel could feel the pull of unhealed cuts and tears - but he could freely move them now without excruciating agony – which meant that it wouldn't be long before he could attempt to fly again.
In fact… perhaps, if it was just a very short distance…
Castiel swallowed hard, closing his eyes and focusing every ounce of his intent as he reached out to touch Dean's brow again.
And an instant later, the two of them were gone.
Sam ran harder as he neared the bunker, and saw the Impala parked outside. He stumbled to a stop, his knees momentarily weak with relief to know that Dean had made it safely home – but that meant that Dean and Cas were alone inside, and Cas had to be freaking out, absolutely panicking if he was even still there at all, if he hadn't fled the bunker rather than be alone there with Dean, without Sam there to provide the reassurance that Dean couldn't hurt him again.
Breathless, Sam rushed down the stairs, alarmed when he saw that the entire atrium and library were pitch black, the only illumination emanating from the emergency light above the main entrance to the bunker.
"Cas?" Sam called out, anxious as he stepped through the doorway into the library. "Are you here?" He hesitated a moment before adding, "Dean?"
"I'm here."
Cas's voice was startlingly close, and Sam jumped back a little, his eyes slowly coming into focus on the shadowed figure sitting quietly at the library table, in the chair closest to the stairs. Cas stood up as Sam tried to catch his breath, moving into the dim glow from the emergency lights so that Sam could see him.
"Thank God," Sam gasped out, trying to catch his breath. "I passed Dean on the way toward town. I ran back as fast as I could. Are you all right? Is – is he…?"
"I am fine, Sam," Cas assured him in a quiet, level voice, and the faint hint of a smile on his lips was surprisingly serene. "And Dean is safe as well. Quite inebriated, and exhausted, but he's resting in the den now. He'll be fine."
Sam considered that, frowning slightly with confusion. "What happened to the lights?" he asked, glancing around the room before focusing on Cas again.
Cas looked down, momentarily self-conscious. "I seem to have damaged them somehow," he admitted. "I'm sorry. My grace – it appears to be returning, and… I didn't realize how strongly. It… was not an intentional use of my grace, I just… reacted, and…" His voice trailed off, and he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sam," he concluded with a little grimace.
Sam just blinked at Cas for a moment, stunned, trying to take in what Cas was saying. As his mind began to put the pieces together and he realized just exactly what Cas had likely "reacted" to, he reached out a cautious hand to rest on Cas's shoulder, squeezing gently. "You're sure you're okay?" he asked. "I know that must have been… upsetting, being here by yourself when Dean…"
"I'm really all right, Sam," Cas insisted, a full, genuine smile spreading across his face, though his eyes were distant and vaguely troubled. "Really. I just – I need some time to… to think. I think I'll… go to my own room, if that's all right."
Sam studied him closely, a little unsettled, though Cas did seem as calm and composed as Sam had seen him during the last week – and not the slightest bit afraid. "Of course that's all right," he replied. "Just let me know if you need anything."
Cas nodded, his expression soft and grateful, as were his words. "Thank you, Sam." He hesitated a moment before adding, "Good night."
Sam watched Cas disappear into the darkness of the hall where his room was located, and then headed for the circuit box – thankfully located in the atrium, where there was at least minimal light to work by. Sam reset the circuit breaker, then flipped the switch – relieved when the bunker was flooded with light once more.
The way now clear, Sam made his way swiftly down the hall toward the den Dean had set up a couple of months back, where Cas had said that Dean was resting. Why Dean was sleeping there and not in his bedroom, and how exactly he had gotten there in the first place, were mysteries that would have to wait at least until morning.
For the moment, Sam was simply overwhelmed with relief at the sight of his brother, laid out on the soft leather sofa, his head pillowed on one of its arms – but that wasn't what brought tears to his eyes.
Dean's still, peaceful form was covered with Castiel's blanket.
Sam was more mystified than ever as to exactly what had taken place in the few minutes between when Dean had gotten home, and when he had arrived. But clearly something had happened to change… something, between his brother and their angel.
And all evidence seemed to point to the idea that it was a positive change.
Sam felt suddenly exhausted, all of the adrenaline draining from his system with the knowledge that both Cas and Dean were safe and resting. But he couldn't bring himself to let Dean out of his sight. So instead, Sam took one of the blankets from the pile in the corner and sat down on the floor beside the sofa, resting his back against the side of it and his head on Dean's chest, taking comfort in the contact, and the steady, slow rise and fall of each breath.