Chapter Text
Dean awakes even grumpier the following day. Castiel supposes it’s because of his poor sleep. Dean had kept ignoring him, even as the night was falling around them, starting a fire and wrapping himself in his blanket instead of relying Castiel’s wings. Castiel had watched him in puzzlement, doubting that Dean could have survived a month like this—let alone a whole year.
Dean follows his morning routine before setting off again, not uttering a word to him, not even glancing in his direction. He’s doing a bad job at ignoring him, though: Castiel can feel many of his sharp emotions turned against him.
“Do you really think that’s God’s plan?” Dean asks one hour later.
“What?”
Dean stops and spreads his arm to embrace their surroundings.
“There’s no one left. It’s not the opposite of what he should do? You know, the Creation, the seven days and the whole she-bang.”
“If you have read the Bible, then you should know about the Apocalypse.”
Dean pinches his lips. He turns his back on him and stomps eleven steps away before whirling around to face him again.
“I read the Bible. The meek should have inherited the Earth. Everyone should have been back and have their happily-ever-after. That’s not what happened. There’s nothing, no one. Those were lies. No one came back.”
They did, in a way. Humans have been killed admittedly, but most of them found their true home in Heaven—those who were fated to Hell don’t deserve to be talked about—and the power of their souls has been used to bring the Earth closer to Paradise.
Castiel doesn’t think that Dean is able to understand that. His soul is mostly hidden to him, except when Castiel focuses on it, but his emotions are not. Castiel perceives his anger in the shape of daggers are aimed at him—human daggers, harmless to him... or they should be.
“Don’t you have anything to say in your defense?”
Castiel could. After all, Heaven had fulfilled their promise.
But Dean would hate the irony of it.
The certainty hits Castiel and takes him aback. Why should he care about the irrational opinion from a human?
Castiel doesn’t care, not really. It’s just that he’s bathing in the human’s emotions. They’re trying to infect him.
Kill him. Kill him before it’s too late and resume with your life. Be who you are supposed to be.
It’d be so simple. Dean is so close. So fragile. Castiel could do it so quickly that the human wouldn’t even notice what would be happening. Castiel could do it in less than one second.
One second passes by. Another.
A whole minute.
Neither he nor Dean moves.
Dean is the one breaking the spell. He turns his back to him and walk away.
Castiel follows him.
As the morning drags into the afternoon, Dean’s gait loses some of its confidence. The human needs more time and more precautions to move. Castiel hears his stomach gargouiller.
Dean doesn’t pause. He doesn’t go looking for food, or ask him to bring him something. He keeps moving forward and ignoring—pretending to ignore—Castiel.
Until he stops.
“Are you gonna follow me for long?” he snarls.
“I explained the situation to you.”
Dean squares his shoulders. Animals of flesh and blood count so much on posturing. Even though it’s foolish now—Dean could never make himself big enough to daunt Castiel, even if Castiel was easily intimidated—Castiel doesn’t tell so. Lowering his wings could soothe the human but he scoffs at the very idea. He won’t mock Dean for his human reactions but, given his behavior, Castiel has no reason to humor him.
“Why don’t you just kill me then? There’ll be no more evidences of your mistake.”
“I’m tempted to do so.”
Dean flinches but he hides it quickly. Something pleased rumbles in Castiel. He arches his wings higher and moves closer to Dean. Dean keeps his ground. Castiel stops only when one of his feathers is brushing his shoulder. He’s so little, so frail, that Castiel could destroy him with only one of his feathers.
And yet, Dean still doesn’t back away.
“Is it really what you want?”
Dean leans back.
“BECAUSE I CAN DO SO.”
Dean flinches. He diverts his face, not glaring at him anymore. Castiel hears his heart thudding louder. He stays there, close to him. Dean doesn’t provoke him further—he had understood the threat and doesn’t want to die, which makes Castiel feel more relieved that what he expected—but Dean doesn’t submit either. Dean is a warrior. He’s tough. Castiel likes that.
Castiel flies away. He had decided to keep this human alive, in a good shape, so he’s going to do so. He picks up a couple of fruits—Dean had eaten a piece of mea this morning and omnivores need a varied diet—before flying back to him. Dean hadn’t moved. He hadn’t tried to use this short windowto flee. It pleases Castiel further.
Though Dean startles when he notices him.
Castiel lays the food at his feet. Dean looks down at it, frowning.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
He pursues his lips.
“Is this what I am for you? A pet? You reprimand me and, once I get the lesson, you dump my food on the ground. Should I learn a trick too?”
“I... do not understand,” Castiel admits reluctantly.
Dean has already too many advantages over him. Castiel doesn’t like to let him see another of his flaws.
Dean crosses his arms. Castiel thinks the gesture is meant to be defiant, but it feels like Dean is trying to protect himself.
“You spared me only to have a human following you around all day long. I guess it’s exotic for an angel. Waf-waf.”
“It’s not a game. It’s a crime.”
“So you said.”
“You are my Father creation.”
Dean snorts. “Like dogs.”
“You are an animal—a mortal animal—indeed, but I do not see you as a pet.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes.”
“How do you see me then?”
Humanity. Flawed and complicated and beautiful. Short-lived and strong. Weak and mortal and yet with the power to change the world.
“You’re human.”
“Isn’t it like a bug for angels?”
“It is.”
Castiel expects Dean to get angry at him for this truth but the human once again takes him by surprise: he narrows his eyes, studying him, his mind piecing out something. Castiel stares back at him. He remembers the way Dean had offered him food the very first day. He picks up a fruit with one of his tiny wings and holds it to Dean.
Dean eyes him defiantly. He bites down on his bottom lip, but he unfolds his arm and accepts the offering.
“You, humans, are very complicated,” Castiel sighs.
Dean frowns. “How so?”
Castiel picks up the other fruits without answering. He doesn’t think that Dean can understand. He’s human, after all.
Dean stores two of the fruits in a canteen in his bag. Castiel can find food for him whenever he wants but he isn’t offended by Dean’s reactions: mammals feel better when they have food supplies.
They resume their journey. Castiel had stopped trying to understand the path Dean follows. The human is advancing aimlessly. He was serious when he said he didn’t have a destination.
Castiel still wonders how he could have survived so long, though.
“What happened to them?”
“Who?”
Dean glares at him. “The poor bastards you and the other freaks possessed.”
“Our vessels.”
Dean scoffs, as if the name doesn’t matter.
“Whatever. What happened to them? Have you dumped them like out of style clothes as soon as they were useless?”
“We didn’t.”
“So you are allowed to lie.”
“IT’s not A lie.” Castiel struggles to keep his voice low enough to talk with Dean, but he has to, this time. He wants Dean to understand. “Their mission was completed so we freed them and sent them back to their families.”
“To die.”
“We lowered Heaven on Earth. We brought Paradise. No human can be alive in Heaven.”
Colors drain of Dean’s face. “Heaven?” he echoes, before looking around him, his breath coming shorter and his heart beating erratically. His emotions are bubbling around him, but not reaching Castiel: they expand, shrink, expand, shrink. Castiel tries to zero in his focus on Dean’s body.
“You are distressed.”
“No shit Sherlock. You’re saying that this is Heaven.” Horror fills Dean’s eyes. “I’m going to be trapped here forever?”
“You can’t live forever.”
“You said humans can’t reach Heaven when they’re alive. You implied it. I’m– Am I dead?”
“You aren’t.”
Shouldn’t Dean know that better than anyone?
Maybe not. Souls happen to trick themselves into believing they’re still alive.
“But you said this is Heaven. Is it really the best we can hope for? And does that mean– Even dead I’ll be here? I have no way out?”
Castiel sees Dean shiver. He feels the terror oozing off him.
And there’s nothing he can do against it.
Dean recovers—in surface.
He stops shaking. His breath and his heartbeat get under his control again. His emotions are as unmoving as a glassy sea.
He doesn’t talk to Castiel anymore, whether to ask him questions or to accuse his kind. He isn’t ignoring him on purpose, either, with his emotions dancing around Castiel.
Castiel finds himself missing the sound of Dean’s voice, the feeling of his emotions.
This night too, Dean lights a fire and lies away from Castiel. It’s not as an insult or a demonstration of defiance. Dean makes himself as small as he can, as if he was trying to hide from him—from the world.
Dean struggles to fall asleep and, when he finally manages to, he doesn’t achieve rest. He tosses and turns, sounds choking in his throat, wriggling out of his blanket and exposing himself to the cold.
Castiel reaches out to him and brushes his forehead.
Whatever it is, it can’t hurt you now. I am here.
Dean’s soul clings onto him. Castiel stills. The soul shouldn’t be touching him—Castiel hadn’t wandered in its realm. It’s crying its loneliness, begging for the comfort brought by company. It’s exsuding a mourn so big that Castiel could drown in it.
Castiel does a little.
He finds himself longing for company too.
Castiel breaks contact with Dean, freeing himself from the soul. He forces himself back on the earthly plane, ignoring the soul trying to hold him back. Dean is shivering and his brow is furrowed, but he isn’t trapped in a nightmare anymore.
Castiel pulls the blanket back on him. It doesn’t stop Dean’s shiverings.
Castiel brings himself to the ground and forms a circle, cutting Dean and his fire from the wide open spaces. He increases his heat.
Soon enough, the shiverings receed and stop.
It’s another day where Dean doesn’t talk.
When Castiel greets him, Dean opens his mouth, as if to answer him, before giving up. He makes no comment when Castiel brings him food and doesn’t ask anything as they resume their walk.
Castiel doesn’t urge him to.
The evening, as Dean starts gathering what he needs to make a fire, Castiel brushes his rudimentary wing to him, realizing with no small amount of surprise that he’s always using the same wing to touch Dean.
Dean tenses, but he doesn’t look at him.
“It’s stupid to waste your time like this. You’ll be warmer here.”
Dean turns his face to him, his eyes looking silver in the darkness. He opens his mouth, closes it and nods. He lifts his left hand to pat Castiel’s wing. Something shifts in his expression, the neutral lines softening. Dean brushes one of his feathers three times, his fingers following it down, catching Castiel’s whole attention. He knows how Dean’s skin and warmth feel on him, but it feels irrationally different now.
Dean wraps the shrunken wing around him and shuffles until he feels comfortable enough. He falls asleep in no time—two minutes and fifty-three seconds—and is unbothered by nightmares. Curiosity defeats Castiel and he peeks at Dean’s soul. By chance, the soul is curled on itself, its guard down, and Castiel is undetected. There’s still a gaping emptiness inside it, but the sould doesn’t seem to be bothered by it. It must be used to it. Castiel wonders for how long it’s living like this.
But it’s feeling safe now. All of Dean does.
Something too akin to pride puffs in Castiel’s core.
Dean doesn’t talk the next day, but Castiel feels that his silence is different.
In fact, this evening, Dean sits next to Castiel on his own. Castiel shifts, too quickly for Dean’s eyes to catch it. Dean was close to one of his rudimentary wings... but the one above the wing Castiel uses to touch him. Dean leans closer to him and Castiel wraps his wing around him. Dean slides his hand down on it twice before closing his eyes.
Castiel can’t push the image of Dean’s hand touching his wing out of his mind.
This day begins like those who preceeded it—Dean being a little cranky until Cas says hello to him, then following his routing—but, after one hour of walking, Dean speaks up, “You really don’t care about your vessel?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well... You shared stuff. Travelled together. You aren’t... sad about what happened to... them?”
“Angels don’t have emotions.”
“Oh.”
Dean drops his eyes and keeps walking.
“What was it, two days ago?” he whispers, his hands twitching at his sides. “It was... nice. It looked like you care.”
He bites his lip and looks straight ahead of him. Unease stirs in Castiel.
“This is different. I decided to take care of you.”
“Why?”
If only I knew.
But Castiel has no idea of the answer, and he’s tired of admitting so to the human.
“You really don’t care about what happened to your vessel?” Dean asks again.
“I don’t.”
It’s the truth and yet it seems to be the wrong thing to say. Dean’s expression darkens and his eyes sweep on the ground, not looking up once.
They seem to be always ending up regressing.
Castiel wonders if making efforts is worth anything in these circumstances.
They’re stuck in a loop. Dean is going to withdraw in himself, not looking at him or talking to him anymore. It’ll last a couple of days, Dean will shake himself out of it and reach out to him only to start again.
Castiel lands in Dean’s path, startling the human. He bends what Dean considers to be his visage to face him. Dean stops, his heart kicking up, his prey instincts urging him to flee.
“Should I kill you?” Castiel asks.
“We already had this discussion.”
“I’m having doubts.”
“Okay,” Dean tries to say casually, but fear is overriding his other emotions and Castiel knows he’s missing the entire point: Dean is only thinking about his mortal, human life instead of realizing what it means for an angel.
Maybe he’s unable to understand what it entails.
“Angels don’t have doubts.”
“You’re an angel and you say you’re having doubts,” Dean points out, annoyed. Castiel is rather intrigued by the thinness of his self-preservation instinct.
“Everything was fine until I saved you.”
Even as he utters those words, Castiel knows they are a lie. Something was off, even then. Meeting Dean had allowed him to act on it. That’s all.
“You decided to save me. It’s not my fault.”
“Your soul–”
“That’s your problem too,” Dean insists.
Dean narrows his eyes at him. Castiel waits, but his fear doesn’t come back. Dean is studying him and thinking about something and Castiel hates to have promised him to stay out of his thoughts. He knows something is going through Dean’s head and he’d like to know what.
Dean steps forwards until he’s right in front of Castiel. He crosses his arms. “Do you want to kill me?”
“Why are you asking that?”
Dean shrugs one shoulder. “It’s the important point. So?”
“I... don’t. But I will if I need to.”
“’Kay.”
“‘Kay’?” Castiel echoes, rather dumbfounded.
“What? ’S not like I can stop you if you ever decide to kill me.”
“You’re awfully calm about this.”
“I saw angels descending from Heaven to start the Apocalypse. Why would I start panicking now?”
Castiel guesses that Dean has a point.
He straightens up, clearing off the path for Dean.
Dean doesn’t hesitate before setting off again, walking right in front of him. His heart doesn’t skid once.
This human is really strange.
“How do you fly?” Dean asks, two minutes and three seconds later.
“I have wings.”
“They don’t look very aérodynamique.”
“Are you trying to get me to kill you?”
“Hold your horses,” Dean eyerolls—he eyerolls.
Castiel is starting to think that the human is damaged. He tells so. Dean huffs.
“You wouldn’t be able to handle a non-damaged human.”
“So you agree with me.”
Dean shrugs again. “Do you have angel friends?”
“I was closer to some of my bretherns than to others.”
Castiel wouldn’t call another angel a friend, though. It implies a closer relationship than the bond that can bind two angels together. They are brothers-in-arms. They can count on each other to die for the fulfilment of a mission. It doesn’t go farther than that.
With a human, though...
Castiel cuts the thought short. It’s dangerous. Though nothing is more dangerous than the living and breathing human next to him, with his beating heart and his shining soul.
“Will you want to see them again?”
A note in Dean’s voice suggests that his question is bigger than the words he used for it.
“I won’t. I was serious when I said they’d kill me, if they ever learn about you.”
Dean stops to stare at him, many things in his green eyes. He quickly turns away. His mood keeps changing and his gait itself changes. He turns around and keeps walking back. Castiel uses three of his eyes to watch the path ahead of him. As annoying and baffling as Dean is, Castiel won’t allow him to get hurt on his watch.
Dean’s eyes trail on his wings, pausing longer on the rudimentary wing that Castiel uses to keep him warm. Something jolts through Castiel at the idea Dean is making out all his wings, now.
“What are you made of?”
“How many questions do you have?”
“This,” he says, patting himself, “is mostly meat.” He bites his lip and starts to reach out to Castiel before retreating his hand. Castiel reaches an extra wing to him. Dean looks at him, surprise swirling so strongly around him that Castiel would like to take back his gesture, but Dean puts his hand on the wing. “But you...”
“I’m a potential wavelength of celestial intent.”
Dean frowns. He spreads his fingers. “How I’m touching you if you’re a wavelength?”
“Is it one of those times where you pretend to ask questions and, when I answer, get annoyed about the ‘sciencey facts’?”
Dean shoots him a smile. “Maybe.” He slides his hand down his feathers, removes it, leaving Castiel adrift, but he puts it back on him and starts again. The motion, the repetition, the touch are soothing. Castiel focuses on it. He feels as if his unease is disappearing with every touch, as if Dean’s hand is sweeping them away.
“What is it?”
“Petting.”
“It’s nice.”
Dean makes an amused sound.
“You’re going to make me believe no one ever pet you? You’re all...” Dean gestures at him with his free hand. “You know?”
“Never. This is soft and I am a soldier.”
The smirk slips off Dean’s face. His hand stops, tiny, not burning or freezing, yet gathering all of Castiel’s attention. Castiel can feel the time move around them, dragging them from one second to the next, but he doesn’t care about removing himself from this moment. Dean and he are looking at each other, touching, and it feels important.
“I’m what?”
“Huh?”
“You said ‘you’re all... you know?’. But I don’t know. You asked me to not read in your thoughts anymore.”
Dean smiles again. “You’re all ruffled.”
Castiel forces himself to keep his wings still. Angels do not fidget. They don’t feel embarrassment either. Any wrong movements could be sending Dean in the scenery.
Dean removes his hand. He starts moving away but he stops, turns around and presses his hands on him. Castiel’s eyes snap on him. What is he doing again? Is it a normal human behavior or another provocation?
Dean’s mouth turns down.
“You’re no fun.”
He turns around and walks away. Castiel has still no idea of what it was about.
But Dean is in a better mood and that’s a good thing. Castiel follows him, wondering if there’s a reason for this change, if there was one for the previous ones. How many other aspects Dean has and how can Castiel ensure that Dean reveal them to him?
When Dean falls asleep in his wing, this night, Castiel takes care of his wings. He never really did. He isn’t—that much—vain. He isn’t a bird either. His wings allow him to fly and hit enemies, and what an angel can ask more of them? But this urge is itching at him since Dean looked at them and called them ruffled and denying it is useless. Castiel has about four hours before him. It won’t make him waste any time.
Once all his feathers are straightened and his wings are unruffled in a way there weren’t since the Creation, Castiel lets more of his eyes focus on Dean. He’s hit by the knowledge they had met one week ago. This time span is important for humans, so important that they even wrote that the Creation had lasted one week.
Castiel didn’t use to think much of time, except when it was wasted. He’s immortal. He can be eternal. He had been alive for eons and he survived the Apocalypse. And yet this week... Those short seven days... It’s different. It’s Other. Everything changed and changed again and kept shifting. Intertwining his life with a mortal’s is changing the meaning of time. Days, minutes and seconds have a whole new meaning, now.
Castiel hadn’t thought about that when he had saved Dean.
Castiel lets go of Dean as soon as he stirs. The man glares at him. Castiel doesn’t take it personally: that’s how Dean is in the mornings, no matter how he had slept.
“Is waking up that hard?”
Dean asks him so many—strange—questions that Castiel is allowed to ask him some things too.
“What?”
“You’re grumpy everytime you wake up.”
Dean starts to protest but Castiel keeps talking. Dean is grumpy. Why does he try to deny the truth?
“I used to think that sleep helped humans with their emotional balance. Is it wrong or doesn’t it work for you?”
Dean doesn’t answer.
“So?”
“Not when you’re startled awake.”
“You awake on your own–”
“That’s not the problem,” Dean interrupts him. “I’m comfy and warm and you just throw me in the cold.”
Dean glares at him more, but his face is darkening.
“Is it my fault you are grumpy?”
Dean hides his face in his hands. Castiel curls his rudimentary wing around the man. Dean tenses.
“Is that better?”
Dean peers at him through his fingers.
“...It is.”
Humans are so fragile. So complicated. How could they have existed so long when they need so many things?
...though Castiel doesn’t mind this weakness.
Dean clears his throat and mutters he’s okay now. Castiel opens his wing enough for Dean to slip away. The human takes care of his routine, his cheeks pink, hardly daring to look at him. Castiel files this reaction for himself. He’s starting to understand those birds gathering pretty rocks, proud and defensive of their collection that no one else cares about.
Dean glances at him before rummaging through his bag—he checks on it every day. He stops, a frowns painting on his face, and lifts his face to study him.
“What did you do to your wings?”
Castiel stretches his wings to allow Dean to see them in their full glory. Not that he cares about his appearance or this man’s opinion on it.
Dean tries to control his features but Castiel feels his disappointment. Dean forces a smile on his face.
“If that makes you happy.”
Dean turns on his heels and walks away. It didn’t go as Castiel expected.
He doesn’t know what he had expected.