Warnings: Swearing, language, mention of homophobic violence, John Winchester (I think he belongs here now), slight homophobic language, brief mention of homophobic behavior
Chapter 19: Consequences
For Castiel the night was troubled with nightmares from which he woke painfully, moaning in pain before falling asleep again immediately with the warm, familiar hand of Dean on his shoulder or neck while the singer whispered reassuring words in his ear. The two-way trip to the bathroom in the early morning was perilous and Dean had hardly sat him up gently on the bed that his phone began to vibrate on the nightstand. He vaguely remembered having heard the vibrations several times in the night. Dean picked, reassuring Charlie probably for the tenth time since yesterday.
The time for the effect of the pills had dissipated enough so his vision was no longer blurred, Sam had already come twice to inquire after him. Castiel would have smiled if his face didn't hurt him so much. Between two periods of semi awakening, he plunged back into brief nightmares that pressed his stomach and made him muffle tears into his pillow. Dean said nothing, Castiel knew he was hiding his concern and tried not to wince when he eventually got up during the morning.
"I have to call at work." He realized in his fog of old pain and fatigue.
"Done already. And Kevin already sent them the expertise of the doctor and your work stoppage."
Castiel frowned. "I didn't see a doctor." Dean shrugged when emerging from the bed in his turn.
"This is what happen when you let a clever boy near Charlie too long. They end up making false medical statements."
"He could go to jail for that!"
"Yeah, and also for drinking when he wasn't old enough." Dean retorted. "Stop fretting, it was that or bring a doctor here. I know there's a story of medical confidentiality but you were the one who wanted to remain discreet, right?"
There was no animosity in the tone of Dean and yet Castiel felt a wave of guilt overwhelm him. He remained standing beside the bed, head down, idle and aching until Dean's arms close very gently around him.
"Sorry." Said the singer, burying his face in the hollow of the neck of the accountant. "I shouldn't have said that."
Castiel gripped him against himself cautiously despite his still sore arm to have clenched his fists all night and despite his ribs protesting. "How long it lasts, the false work stoppage?"
"Two days. We thought that anyway you wouldn't stay in bed longer."
Castiel smiled, his friends had eventually gotten to know him well. Later, in the bathroom he saw the new bruises that now adorned his chest, back, arms, hips plus a large one on a thigh.
"Sometimes I don't even remember the true color of my skin." He grumbled before swallowing a painkiller and switch on the hot water from the shower at the lowest flow possible. Dean let out a sneer in the bedroom where he was finishing dressing. His shower finished, Castiel dragged himself to the kitchen to make coffee and was welcomed by the worried and sad look of Sam.
"You're all right?"
He nodded with a grunt. "Given the circumstances I have no reason to complain."
Sam bent his head over his own coffee. He had settled at the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. Sprawled would have been a better term, his large frame lay half on the varnished wood, one arm bent under his chin, the other lying before him, his hand dangling, almost inert in the void.
"I'm sorry." He eventually said.
"For what?" Castiel pushed Sam's arm to make room and the drummer sat up a little before throwing him a puzzled look.
"For what? Cas… My father paid guys to smash your face in!"
For a second it seemed to Castiel that the world had just stopped. He hadn't thought about it. Actually since the day before he tried to suppress all thoughts related to the aggression at the farthest distance possible of his conscience. He shook his head.
"You don't know that."
Sam sighed and glanced at Dean who entered the living room before speaking again. "It already happened. I'd really like to believe it's bad luck once, but not twice." He said with a dark look. "He threatened you the other day at the hospital, and you stood up to him. No one stands up to my father!"
"Yes. You do." The accountant retorted. His still full mug of coffee was taunting him, he had a knot in the stomach and was not sure that swallowing something would dissolve it. Behind Sam he saw Dean lift a thumb up with a smile.
"On this one he's right." The singer laughed.
"Yeah and it ended really well as everyone knows." Sam grouched.
Dean and Castiel exchanged a look. The accountant said nothing and put his mug to his mouth, indicating the still half-full coffee maker to Dean. The silence dragged out until Sam grumble an annoyed "What?". Castiel couldn't hold back a laugh, grimacing when it painfully lifted his ribs. Dean was leaning over the counter to pour himself a coffee and smiled at his brother.
"The part that didn't end well according to you, this is the one where you earn your living doing what you love? The one where you've traveled across America to be idolized by lots of people, or the one where you got a hot chick to embellish you bed?"
"Firstly," Sam replied, raising a finger in the air. "Madison isn't an embellishment, secondly this is not what it was about and you two know that perfectly well."
Castiel waved his hand in a sign of disinterest. "Forget it Sam, it doesn't matter, I'm okay."
Neither of the two brothers replied but he knew they didn't agree. To be honest Castiel knew he was lying to himself. It did matter, it was even terrifying. So far, not exposing his relationship with Dean had had the primary purpose of protect the singer and preserve his tranquility. It had never really occurred to him that being discovered could be dangerous for them. He remained alone with Dean while Sam was preparing to go out with his brother for their first working meeting with Charlie and Kevin for the next album. Life went on as normal even if they would have wanted to pause it a few days. It was both comforting and disastrous.
"You stay here and you rest today." Dean said in the tone he probably formerly used when he ordered something to Sam. Castiel nodded distractedly, lost in his thoughts. He was not particularly worried about what might happen to him, he had spent his childhood in a hospital bed and saw every day as a bonus gift. Pain and fear had been so long part of his everyday life that he no longer really granted importance to it. But Dean... He tried to imagine Dean in his situation. Each breath slightly painful, the lips with a metallic taste to have been broken a few hours earlier, each blink of eyes that seemed having fun to reopen a cut on his eyebrow. He tried to imagine Dean assaulted, beaten, and clenched his fist on the handle of the cup until it hurt.
He didn't care what might happen to him, but to imagine that this could happen to Dean... He didn't care that his assailants were drugged junkies, homophobes or men paid by John Winchester. But imagine them harming Dean was beyond him. Suddenly he wanted to scream, to cry, panic overwhelmed him without him noticing and left as it had come when Dean covered his hand from his own on the empty mug.
"You okay?"
Castiel nodded, staring at their joined hands, and just above their tattooed wrists, the eight egrets falling of the dandelion on his own, the rose with the thorny stem wrapped around Dean's. The singer leaned just enough to lay a kiss on his temple and Castiel closed his eyes and sighed, enjoying just half a second of respite in his obsessive thoughts until Dean pulled away when Sam returned. He watched him walk away with his brother without really seeing him until Dean gestured to him, his hand on the door handle.
"Cas..."
"Hm?"
"When you leave, don't forget your keys."
##
The night of Dorothy and Charlie hadn't been better than the one of their friends. Arms crossed behind her head in the bed of her finally asleep companion, Dorothy was looking at the ceiling without seeing it. She was seeing the two strangers who had attacked Castiel and the cold determination they had put in beating him while he was down. It still hurt her a little when she closed her fist and the almost quiet breath of Charlie next to her was bothering. If she closed her eyes, it wasn't Castiel that she saw but the bassist. It was horribly easy to imagine her in the same situation, to imagine her pale skin covered in bruises, to imagine her grimacing in pain with every movement. And it was just as easy to imagine why this might happen.
"You're thinking too loud." Charlie said, opening her eyes. She had fallen asleep barely an hour earlier after her last call to Dean to ensure that Castiel was fine.
"Same for you."
"I'm reassured now." Charlie propped herself on one elbow and pushed the bangs that fell before her eyes. "You look increasingly bleak."
Dorothy was too honest to consider denying it, she just shrugged.
"What's on your mind? Castiel's almost in the clear, everything's all right now."
It was one of the things Dorothy preferred to Charlie: her optimism that sometimes bordered on naivety. It was touching and also unbearable. She didn't see, didn't even seem to understand in what kind of world she was living.
"What's on my mind is that it could happen to you."
For a second, Charlie looked puzzled before laying down against her companion again, one hand on her hip, chin propped against her shoulder.
"It won't happen to me."
"You don't know that."
"Yes I do." Charlie replied. "Your family won't send anyone to hit me to make me leave you. And it's been almost three decades that I like girls, no one ever beat me up because I was holding my girl's hand in the street."
Dorothy sighed, exasperated. "You've been lucky."
"No. You know, people like lesbians especially when they don't look like truckers."
"I'm a trucker."
"But a sexy one. People like sexy chicks. It's not homosexuality that disturbs them, but sodomy."
Dorothy burst into laughter despite herself. Charlie rolled over her, one hand leg either side of her hips and sat on her pelvis. She had the mark of the pillow on the cheek and black marks of badly cleansed mascara around the eyes that made her look like a grumpy panda.
"No one's gonna hurt me." She promised, leaning over to kiss her companion.
"In all the books that's what the heroin says before getting a right mouthful."
Charlie smiled. "Let's just hope I'm not the heroin of the book."
While the bassist was preparing for her meeting with the Winchester, Dorothy was thinking that for someone else, she wouldn't have worried. She could lay blame on Charlie's naivety, on the certainty that if she was assaulted, the bassist wouldn't be able to defend herslef. She could also be honest with herself and admit she was simply afraid that someone harm Charlie because then herself would suffer. She could have the honesty to admit to herself that if she was afraid it was because Charlie had become so important to her that the mere idea that someone hurt her made her hackles rise.
The kitchen of Charlie was purple like pretty much all her apartment, with a dark red worktop and a window where the sun was framed for half the afternoon before going down. The sound of the kettle and the shower were the only things that troubled the morning silence. It was lacking of the sound of the engine of the bus, of Dean's blaring waking, of the muffled sound from Sam's headphones. Dorothy was so used to these noises that she felt strangely shaky now they no longer surrounded her. With a little time she would again get used to silence, to the still wet steps of Charlie on the floor. She was already used to the muscular arms of the bassist around her, to her lips on her neck.
"Still thinking?"
"One cannot help thinking."
"What are you thinking?"
They were facing the window which offered the depressing landscape of a gray and almost empty street to contemplate. Charlie smelled mint and Dorothy turned to kiss her, ignoring the kettle that emitted a delighted beep to announce that the water was hot.
"I love you."
Charlie shuddered and looked at her, puzzled. It was the first time that Dorothy said that to her, and she was already biting her lips for it. The bassist clung to her neck with all her strength with a huge smile.
"I thought you'd never say it!"
The breakfast had a particular taste, they were smiling at each other across the table while the sky imperceptibly colored. On the step of the door they slammed behind them, Charlie kissed her again and took her hand to accompany her out. Dorothy looked for a moment their fingers intertwined. During the tour, they were so discreet that they only touched each other in private. It was an unexpected novelty.
"Aren't you afraid that someone see us or take your picture? It's not really in your best interests that people know." She pointed out while they were coming down the street to the bus stop.
Charlie shrugged. "No one's gonna burn us alive for that." She said. "Stop finding excuses for yourself and be confident!" She stood on tiptoes. "And kiss me again."
They were still hand in hand and mouth against mouth when the bus arrived.
##
Kevin would be very careful not to admit it out loud, but sometimes he seemed to be the only reasonable and more or less responsible person of the group although he was the youngest. In a crisis situation, he was the only one to keep a cool enough head to get things done. He was the one who had had the idea of the stopping work for Castiel and who had passed on his symptoms to his doctor to make sure his friend was in no imminent danger.
That morning he was in the studio the first, arms cluttered of a load of bagels, coffee and sandwiches because he doubted any of his companions had actually breakfasted before arriving. The suite proved him right when Sam threw himself on a bagel with one hand while the other briefly pressed Kevin against him. None of them really had the desire or inspiration for this meeting where they were to define the lines of work for their third album. But time was running on them, Crowley would claim something at the end of the month and if they had nothing to present, they knew all the four that he would take up the reins of the production of the album. None of the four particularly wanted that.
"Yet that would simplify things for us." Finally said Kevin, sprawled in an armchair near the mixing desk. A large white board occupied the entire wall behind him, for now still blank of any inscription even if they had aligned at the foot of the wall markers of all colors to give free rein to their imagination. "We wouldn't need to think about this when we have other problems."
"We don't have problems." Dean grumbled. "We just need to get goin'!"
"Yes Dean, we have problems." Charlie intervened. "Deny it as much as you want, but you're worried about Cas. We're all worried about him and I'm worried about you boys! Your father is at the hospital damn it! And he probably got our friend beaten up!"
"Thank you for this summary of previous episodes Princess, next time don't hold back from telliing us something we don't know yet!" The leader said darkly. He was a bit blaming himself for talking to her like that but he didn't like that she was right on this point in particular. None of them was in a mood to work and he and Sam did their best to reject the thought that their father was alone in the hospital and that if they had been good sons, they would currently be at his bedside. He stood up and faced the wall.
"So, how do you imagine this album?"
Only silence answered. The unproductive meeting laboriously dragged on until they all decreed by common consent that they wouldn't mount to anything that day.
"I think you two need to go see your father." Kevin said when they parted. Sam and Dean looked at each other curiously. Even if they didn't acquiesced, they both agreed with their friend. They went to the hospital without putting heads together and without talking. But once in the lobby, they didn't really have the courage or determination to climb up to the floor where John was hospitalized.
"What are we going to say?" Sam asked, pulling his brother's sleeve to the hospital cafeteria. There at least they could sit in front of a coffee that they wouldn't drink and then talk about the problems they had been putting aside for some days.
Dean shrugged. "You really wanna say something to him?"
Sam sighed. "I don't know. He's still our father, but I want as much to be there for him as I want to hit him with his own car."
Dean smirked. "I see what you mean."
"Does that make us horrible men if we let him snuff it in his shit heap?"
"First, he won't snuff it, secondly, he abandoned us and disavowed us in first."
"Is that a reason to behave like him?"
Dean seemed to have been brought several years back when Sam asked him all the existential questions that came into his mind and that he made it his duty to answer each time. Sam had never really lost the habit of turning to his brother when he asked a question to himself and Dean had never lost the habit of answering him as honestly as possible.
"No. I guess no."
They drank their coffee in the constant hubbub of the cafeteria. Dean was stirring the bottom of his, too sweet, too black for him to want to swallow it, letting his mind wander as far away from the smell of food and detergent.
"Cas's going to leave me."
The words were out on their own as if they had desires of freedom. Sam threw him a curious glance.
"What makes you think that?"
"The circumstances." Dean had looked up to meet the concerned eyes of his brother. "Would you stay? Would you stay if you had to hide your relationship? If you had to leave in the constant fear that someone might harm you? You'd stay?"
Sam thought of Madison. He thought of her tears and her panic in front of the messages of hate addressed to her. He thought of the precautions he took to touch her, to caress her without ever scaring her, to whisper sweet words to her without blurting out love words when they were together.
"Probably not." He eventually said. He didn't want to admit to himself, even in thought, that in saying this, he thought of Madison more than himself, and he basically understood and shared Dean's anxiety. "But Castiel loves you. There's not much in the world that I'm sure of, but this, no doubt about it. Even if he's afraid, he'll stay even though." Sam threw their cups into the garbage can and handed his jacket to his brother. "You're his hero. He won't leave you."
"I don't feel too much of a hero right now." Dean said as they entered the elevator.
"Me neither."
The meeting didn't go well. They had hoped, without really believing it, but even confined to a hospital bed, John still had that look that accused them of failing to comply with his expectations. The same look that had followed Sam out of the house the day he had left for Stanford, the same look that had led Dean to enter the army just to erase it. The look that had greeted him two years later, and after Josh's 'accident'.
"Are you the one who ordered what happened to Castiel?" Dean asked just after the usual greetings which they only complied to by habit.
John stared at him calmly, without a trace of smile. "This is what happen to people like him."
Sam clenched his fists. "That's what happen to people like him who stand up to people like you!" He corrected.
This time John's gaze became cold when he turned to his younger. "Absolutely Sam, and you'd better remember it, I'm still your father!"
"A very bad example of father." The drummer grouched.
They were only there for five minutes and already the tension in the room made the air unbreathable. Dean realized that he was already holding his breath and had unconsciously identified the location of the emergency call button in case Sam would throw himself on their father.
"What did I mess with you two?" John sighed. "Where did my education fail to make... that of you?"
"You don't even have the words to describe what we are." Sam said, almost amused. "You know why we called our band 'Free Will'? Because it's a thing we did together, without you, without your consent. We did without so far, and we'll still do without."
John frowned. "Don't try to make me look like the villain of the story Sammy. You abandoned your family first!"
"No." Dean said in a firm tone, holding a hand to his brother who had taken a step forward, fists clenched, eyes full of rage. "No dad. You abandoned us before. There was a time when you were a father, but it's been a long time since you aren't anymore. Maybe even since Mom died."
"Don't bring your mother in there!"
"Why? That's what you usually do! "Your mother wouldn't have wanted this for you!" that's how you made us obey all our lives. That's how I left the army thinking that you'd be proud of me, that she would be proud of me, and that's how you pushed Sam out of the house." Dean leaned over the bed, his teeth clenched. "A father would have responded to our calls after the death of Jess, a father would be proud of who we are now!"
"There's nothing to be proud of!" John snapped, sitting up on his bed, ignoring the pain that it caused to him. "You aren't able to be useful to society, even your so-called freedom is only a headlong rush because neither of you is able to finish what he started!" He pointed an accusing finger at Sam. "You wanted to be a lawyer and this is what you've become! And you..."
Dean suddenly had the urge to disappear under the eyes of his father. "You would have been a good soldier, a man of merit, and you had to give up everything because you couldn't repress your likings!"
For half a second, Dean wondered if someone wasn't going to die as everything around them fell into a frozen silence. Then Sam started laughing. Not a happy laugh, just the spontaneous and inappropriate expression of his state of tension. But the laughter of Sam, even sad, even sarcastic was something that Dean had always loved, something he had always sought even when himself felt like crying. It dated back to childhood and it hadn't faded.
Suddenly the laughter put things into perspective. For a brief moment he saw their lives as if he were an external character and thought of Kevin. Kevin who would have probably sighed and rolled his eyes by listening totheir argument. Kevin who was so afraid of the judgment of his mother that he had almost hidden his lifestyle and had finally discovered how the heart of a mother could be loving and compassionate. One thing the Winchesters were deprived of. But Kevin would have observed the scene as Dean was currently doing. He would have seen a stubborn father sincerely convinced he had done his best facing two even more stubborn sons sincerely persuaded to be within their rights. One of them was in a hospital bed, probably deprived of his legs and alone. The other two had everything you could wish including some difficulties to make their life more tasty.
Dean straightened up, reached out a hand to his brother to rest on his shoulder and squeeze it gently. It was a contact that often calmed him even if this time the effect was less distinct than he had desired.
"The way I make love disgusts you, I got it." He said in the calmest tone he has employed for all the discussion. "But you never realized that the only thing that should matter to you is that I'm in love. You're my father and I love you no matter what happens. But I act like a good son while since my return from the army all you've done is trying to make me give in to your will. I should be as important to you as you are to me. I shouldn't be here to tell you that I'll never apologize to be who I am again. I know I'm a disappointment but you too!" Dean gently pushed Sam to the door, the look of their father followed him until he turned one last time. "And if you ever try to hurt Castiel again, just remember that I also was trained to hurt without hurting myself."
After the stifling atmosphere of John's room, the outside air seemed to them pure and pleasantly cool even if it was saturated of engine noise in the parking lot and the remote sound of an ambulance. Sam took a deep breath before exhaling a long time as to reject far away possible from him the tension of the last half hour. He realized that his hands were shaking when he reached for his pack of cigarettes in his pocket and dropped it twice before managing to bring one to his lips.
"And now what do we do?"
Dean shrugged. "As usual, we make it up as we go."
Sam smiled to a doctor who sent him a disapproving look as he struggled against his lighter to light the cigarette.
##
Castiel had planned to go to a doctor. His steps painfully brought him almost to the office of the practitioner. He forced himself not to see the glances of mercy that bystanders cast to his swollen face. The sunglasses behind which he was hiding a black eye unpleasantly weighed on his nose. There was a church in a street corner, its function was only indicated by the large white cross that flanked the door and caught his eye. The afternoon sun was beating down on it, almost blinding. Castiel believed in signs and without without second-guessing himself he entered. The low building, square, made of concrete was nothing like what for him were the churches.
He remembered his childhood in Illinois, the parish where his mother was actively involved after the discovery of his leukemia had a wooden church which, during winter, smelled of sap and snow. He remembered the Masses which he was forced to attend and all the prayers for his recovery that had been sung there.
This church had nothing in common with the one of his childhood. It was new, still smelled painting. The benches were new, the prie-dieu not yet polished by thousands of knees. There were printed sheets forgotten here and there since the last Service, creased and folded, sometimes crumpled and abandoned on benches. The back of the church that couldn't decently be called a nave was decorated with icons painted to imitate graffiti, vain attempt, the young man thought to himself, to attract more young people to church. A large cross, dark wood color, supported a stone christ behind the priest's desk. A slight odor of incense came to him when he closed the door behind him and the room was plunged into a ceremonious darkness dimly lit by a few tapers that were burning quietly. By reflex he made a sign of the cross, saving himself the genuflection before the crucifix and sat on a bench without really knowing what he was doing here.
The deserted churches calmed him and he had often sought refuge from his parents in those of their neighborhoods in Pontiac. Back then the priest looked at him with a pity which he hated but pretended not to see him slip behind the confessional to hide. The priest of this church wasn't so sensitive and advanced towards him in the soft rustling of his robes. When he was close enough to examine his face, Castiel saw the surprise and embarrassment materialize on it. The priest had probably not expected to see a disfigured face that afternoon.
"What happened to you?" He asked. He seemed genuinely curious and Castiel was grateful for him not finishing his sentence with "my child".
"I was assaulted in the street."
The priest nodded slowly while scrutinizing him. "You're troubled." He said as if stating a fact which could be read on the bruises of Castiel. The young man shrugged. "What happened?" the priest asked again, sitting beside him on the bench. He took care to maintain proper distance between them and Castiel wondered for a moment if he had received orders concerning promiscuity with his flocks? He hesitated to answer. Back there, in Pontiac, Illinois, people were not particularly open-minded to homosexuals even at the time when Castiel didn't define himself as such. But it was California here, and he was no longer a teenager.
"Apparently the father of my companion doesn't approve our relationship."
The priest nodded slowly while Castiel continued his monologue, looking at the crucifix without seeing it. "He surely thinks that by scaring me enough that will get me away from him."
"Is he right?"
Castiel looked down at his grazed hands, talking was still irritating the crack of his lips, squinting eyes was still painful despite the pills.
"Certainly." He answered honestly. "I'm not scared for myself. But to imagine that it could happen to him is unbearable. I'd rather die of loneliness than seeing him in this state."
"You truly love him." The priest said with a slight smile.
"Of course!" It was a ridiculous remark in the eyes of Castiel. Of course he loved Dean, probably more than his own life, probably because he owed him his life. "Is that a problem for you?"
The priest shook his head. "I'm more of a old school type, but God taught me one thing: love is never a sin."
"You wouldn't say that if I told you he is a minor."
The priest was silent for a long moment, clearly seeking to know whether Castiel was messing with him or not. The young man kept his face perfectly impassive.
"This may not matter. This child will be twenty-one some day. By then neither God nor I have a say in this as long as you don't hurt him."
Castiel nodded. The priest got up to leave and he called him out before he entrench himself in his office: "He is adult and consenting."
"Praise be to God." There was like an amusement in the voice of the clergyman that made Castiel smile. The church was fresh and he lingered there a little, daydreaming. He tried to imagine his life without Dean and he only saw a depressing and miserable picture. To change, he tried to imagine Dean's life without him.
Nothing came to his mind. Not that he was unable to think like his lover. No, over time, he was perfectly able to put himself in his place. Able enough anyway to realize the void that his absence would cause in the life of Dean.
"Neither God nor I have a say in this as long as you don't hurt him."
Few people have the chance to love, and Castiel was very aware of being a rare case. It was probably self-sufficiency but nothing in the world could convince him that Dean didn't love him. Nothing could convince him that losing him wouldn't break the heart of the singer. He smiled for himself, standing up. He didn't go to the doctor. He had more important things to do.
##
"What's wrong?" Madison asked straight away after opening the door to Sam. He was standing, leaning against the doorframe until she open her arms to invite him to enter and he came to nest there with a sigh, strangely leaned toward her to compensate for their difference of height. "Waht's wrong?" She repeated, pushing the door with the fingertips before starting to stroke his hair mechanically.
"My father got Castiel roughed up."
Madison knew, he had sent her a text the day before about this, then another in the day to reassure her about the state of their friend. But he had red eyes and she couldn't tell if it was because he had been crying or drinking. He still had his head on her shoulder and his arms wrapped around her as if she were a reassuring plush and reflexively she hugged him against her even if the position was uncomfortable for both.
"He loves us just enough to try to destroy what bothers him in our lives." He said after she had dragged him to the sofa and placed a warm drink in front of him. He genuinely didn't care what was in his hands and didn't dip his lips into it. He just appreciated its heat through the porcelain cup. He ran a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, I show up without having been invited but... I really need someone who loves me right now, or just a friend."
She put an arm around his shoulders and hugged him briefly with a smile. "Just keep to someone who loves you." She said softly. She didn't even try to hold her words back.
It was as if she suddenly gave him permission to fall apart against her and let flow out of him all he held for several days, the cooling the cup in his hands as he spoke of Castiel, John , the ultimatum of Crowley...
"I tried to write. All afternoon I tried and nothing came." He grumbled. Not a single line had come to him and the notebook page had taunted himhour after hour, sending him back to obsessive thoughts that he couldn't even sublimate to overcome them. As he spoke he had slipped in the arms of Madison and now was head resting against her chest, the sound of her steady breathing was something hypnotic and for a moment neither talked.
"I feel like we're screwed, whatever we do." He sighed. "I'd just want to be sure that the story will end well."
Madison had passed a hand under his shirt, her cold fingers rested on the head of the phoenix that he had tattooed on the ribs. It had been the most painful part of the tattoo and he found himself regretting that at the time no one has laid a cool hand on it to relieve him. It didn't have importance now but he was tired and unhappy for reasons he didn't try to explain to himself, and it didn't seem to bother her to listen him complain. She had seated more comfortably on the couch and bent her head to kiss him on the top of the skull.
"If you let me reach the remote control we can watch cartoons. That, at least, always ends well."
"We'd better make love."
"One doesn't cancel the other out."
He looked up at her, but she seemed quite serious. He smiled despite himself. "You have no respect for anything and I'm shocked!" He mumbled, drawing himself up on one elbow to look her in the eyes.
It was the turn of Madison to laugh. "That's why you love me."
For half a second he said nothing then he nodded and leaned forward to kiss her on the lips. "Exactly."