Chapter Text
Dean called from a rundown motel room in Vinton, Iowa that smelled of mildew and stale cigarette smoke. Castiel’s vessel registered faint notes of both as his wings closed behind him and stirred the air around his face. It was not a pleasing combination.
The room was dimly lit, nearly indistinguishable from any other motel room the Winchesters rented. One of the room’s two lights had burned out. A metal box under the window rattled and expelled heat. The walls were deep green; the color was darker along the floor from years of grime. Affixed to the inside of the door was a crooked diagram indicating which direction to walk in the event of fire. Someone had burned a cigarette hole into it.
The beds were draped in floral spreads, tangles of purple and red flowers that seemed incongruous with the otherwise ugly space. Dean sat on the edge of the bed closest to the door, bent over his knees. It was possibly due to exhaustion or possibly frustration—Castiel did not understand enough of human behavior to know which. Sam was not in the room. Castiel heard the shower running and divined his location. He straightened and kept his arms at his sides.
“Hello, Dean,” he said.
“Think you can get these damned flashbacks to stop?” Dean asked. His voice was rough. He motioned to his head and didn’t meet Castiel’s eyes.
Castiel stilled. His thoughts drifted to Alastair, to blood bubbling up from his throat, to a vial of holy water clenched in Dean’s fist just weeks ago. “I regret what you had to do,” he offered. He did regret it, even though Dean’s involvement had been necessary.
“Can you do anything or not?” Dean asked darkly.
Castiel could not remove the burden Dean would face, could not erase the role he must play in the apocalypse, but he could give him this: a few moments of peace. He approached and stood before Dean’s knees, touching the five fingers of his vessel’s right hand to five points along Dean’s temple and cheek. Dean winced.
He had not touched Dean like this since Hell, since Castiel raised and reshaped him, stitched the torn fragments of his soul back together. It had been only months, but Dean’s face already carried so much more than the weight of Hell. His soul was young and luminous, one of the most beautiful Castiel had ever seen. Soon it would be fractured, irrevocably altered when Michael assumed his rightful vessel.
He concentrated on Dean’s pain until it was his own, until it bled from Dean’s soul into his grace, and he observed Dean’s facial muscles visibly relax.
“Thanks,” Dean mumbled and exhaled through parted lips.
“It isn’t permanent,” Castiel explained, “but it will provide temporary relief.”
He dropped his hand from Dean’s face but remained standing before him. There was dirt along Dean’s hairline, dried blood caked beneath his fingernails and smeared claw-like across his face. Beneath the blood were shadows underneath Dean’s eyes. They were not bruises, likely signs of fatigue. Castiel wondered when Dean had last slept.
“There’s this thing called personal space,” Dean groused. He gripped his hands together tightly on his lap. “Ever heard of it?”
Castiel frowned and blinked, then dropped his eyes to his feet, noting that he stood mere inches from Dean’s legs, looming over him. Dean had asked a question, but the anger in his tone struck Castiel as a command rather than an inquiry. Castiel was standing too close by human norms. He immediately backed up until the back of his knees touched the opposite bed, but he didn’t sit. He pulled up into his shoulders and stared down at Dean.
“Is this better?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Dean said. His voice was no longer harsh, merely tired. “It’s just, you do that to the wrong person...” He turned away and began to root through a black duffel bag.
Dean’s pain threaded through Castiel’s essence, ran through each vein in his vessel, skated along his extremities, pushed up against his grace. He discerned it reach his wings, flow through each to the tip, until they burned like hellfire. He flapped to cool them, extending them to their fullest expanse. The breeze ruffled Dean’s hair, caused him to lift his chin and look back at Castiel.
I carved you into a new animal, Dean. There’s no going back.
He perceived himself torturing; he perceived himself enjoying it. Castiel did not shudder but bore the anguish with clenched teeth. He opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—to find Dean still looking at him. His forehead was again creased.
“You okay?” Dean asked.
“I’m fine,” Castiel told him as Dean’s pain continued to pace. He smelled the pungent tang of demon blood, heard the wet slash of a knife through flesh. The inhuman screams resonated almost as loudly as the angelic chorus. He failed to block them.
And finally you said, “sign me up.”
Dean yawned and rubbed a hand over his face. Castiel noticed that his forearm was bandaged. He had never known of humans who became injured as often as the Winchesters. He could not prevent it, but he could help. The wounds were superficial, unlike the injuries Dean sustained from Alastair. It would take only the span between heartbeats to heal him. He took a step forward and reached toward Dean’s arm, but Dean jerked away from him.
“It’s fine,” he said. His voice was low and dark.
“What’s the purpose of needlessly carrying pain?” Castiel asked.
“It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
“What about Sam?”
“What about him?” Dean snapped.
“Is he injured?” Castiel asked, tilting his head to the side.
“Not critically,” Dean said, his tone shifting back to neutral. In the bathroom, the water shut off. Dean cleared his throat and stood up, removed his shirt and threw it on the floor next to the bed.
“I’m grabbing a shower,” he said and stepped around Sam, who came out of the bathroom in a towel and plume of steam. Dean closed the door firmly behind him.
“Hey, Cas,” Sam said, sounding surprised. His hair was wet, slicked back from his face. He was a beautiful human. Castiel liked him, liked them both, a great deal.
“Hello,” Castiel said. Sam was nursing his right side. He likely had broken ribs. Castiel healed them with a touch.
“Thanks,” Sam said genuinely. He placed a hand over the area where the pain had been the greatest, rubbed it, then let his hand fall away.
“What did you fight?” Castiel asked.
Sam pulled on a loose gray t-shirt and shorts. He didn’t turn away as he dressed and answered, “Rogue vamp, pretty nasty one. Nice to get back to the basics, though. Only took a couple hours to track him, and there were no signs that he was part of a nest.”
“Good,” Castiel said. “I hope they don’t give you any more trouble.”
Sam pointed to a six pack positioned at the center of the table. “Beer?” he offered.
“No, thank you,” Castiel said. Sam motioned to the second bed. Castiel interpreted this as an invitation to sit down, so he lowered himself onto the edge.
As he breaks, so shall it break.
“How is Dean?” he asked.
“He’s coping,” Sam said. “What they want us to do, it’s...”
“Overwhelming,” Castiel supplied.
“Yeah.” Sam frowned and drank, allowing his head to fall back against the headboard as he swallowed. Castiel wondered what it must be like to experience thirst, how his vessel might process the sensation. To have such physical needs was inconvenient. Castiel’s father was an extraordinary creator, but Castiel did not understand certain aspects of humanity or why his father had selected them.
“How’re you feeling?” he asked.
“Okay,” Sam said with a shrug.
“Sam, what you’re doing with the demon blood—”
“Look, I had to,” Sam interrupted. “I knew Dean wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t gonna sit back and let him get killed. And it’s a good thing I showed up when I did.”
“Your timing was fortunate,” Castiel agreed. “If you hadn’t intervened, Uriel’s plan would’ve worked.”
“I’m sorry about Uriel,” Sam offered.
Castiel didn’t say anything.
Again, the shower switched off. When the door opened, Dean entered with a towel and a frown.
“You’re still here?” he asked.
“I was talking with Sam,” Castiel replied, wondering if he had overstayed.
“You get those ribs fixed?” Dean asked Sam, who tilted his beer in Castiel’s direction. Dean took a shirt and pants from his bag and threw them on the bed. He turned his back before he dropped his towel and pulled on the shorts.
“You know, Cas,” he said when he glanced over his shoulder. Castiel was still looking at him. “If you’re gonna stare at my ass like that, you’d better be prepared to do something about it.”
Castiel frowned, uncertain what Dean meant, and returned his attention to Sam.
“Let Castiel heal your arm,” Sam snapped.
“It’s fine,” Dean shot back. “Besides, I’m sure he’s got better things to do.”
The first time you sliced into that weeping bitch, that was the first seal.
“Yes,” Castiel confirmed. “I am needed in Heaven.”
“See?” Dean said smugly to Sam and pulled the covers back.
“I will await your call,” Castiel said.
“Bye,” Sam said. “Thanks again.”
Dean muttered, “Later” but didn’t look up from the magazine he pulled out of somewhere.
Castiel did not understand human behavior. He opened his wings.