Chapter Text
Dean oversleeps the following day.
Castiel doesn’t worry over it. He doesn’t think Dean is oversleeping: after all, Dean went to bed at 3:06 AM and it’s only 10:23 AM. Thinking in terms of wake up time instead of hours of sleep is another human nonsense.
But Dean sleeps more the next day, and more still the day after that, and Castiel can’t lie to himself anymore. He’d want to tell the human stories, using his curiosity to keep him awake, as he did in the final days of the year. He prevents himself to, reluctant to disturb his sleep. What if Dean needs to sleep? What if trying to keep him awake is nothing but selfishness, because Castiel wants more than lying to his side?
It could be. Castiel misses talking with Dean, listening to his stories and watching him improving his home. He’d like to see him draw or sew or create anything really.
Castiel concludes this is selfish.
He forces himself to be patient, not fretting over Dean’s long hours of sleep or short hours of being awake. Since he can’t bear being useless, he uses his grace on him, pushing it through Dean’s skin as he’d do for a wound. It can’t hurt.
Castiel can’t help but worry inwardly. Holding Dean in his wings makes him see how tangible he is. How fragile. Castiel can feel him disappear with every passing second. Advancing every day, every minute toward their death is what mortal beings do. Castiel knew it. He knew it when he decided to heal Dean and take care of him. He knew it every day since then.
But now... it feels different. Dean’s vitality faded and there’s no enthusiasm, no curiosity, no overwhelming emotions to distract Castiel from his mortality. All he sees is that Dean is mortal and dying and that he would be dying even if he wasn’t so very tired.
Days become increasingly important. Castiel doesn’t remember how it feels to be indifferent to the passing time, as if he had never been. He’s changing and he doesn’t care. He only cares about the human slipping away from him and about finding a way to prevent it. The prospect of having one more day at his side overshadows everything else, every day. Castiel finds himself praying for more.
Father, please, do not let this human die.
Castiel is self-aware enough to realize his pleas are foul, given what he did. He’s asking, praying, for mercy when he has been anything but merciful.
It won’t make up for my sins but, please, I would defend this human with my life. I’d give up everything for him.
Dean doesn’t get worse but he doesn’t get better and Castiel wonders if this is punishment for his actions. He only followed the orders, acting like a good soldier and a good angel. He helped to fulfil what was planned since the dawn of time, before even angels existed. Shouldn’t it have made God happy with them?
The angels are wondering so since they made Earth theirs. They did everything that has been expected from them, and yet God didn’t appear. He didn’t praise or acknowledged them, and He’s leaving them wander with no purpose. He let them kill mankind and He let Dean live and He let Anna find them and He let Castiel kill her. Is there truly a path here? What if the Apocalypse was a test? What if angels should have chosen humanity before the plan?
I was wrong, but I understand now, so you have to save him. Please.
His prayers go unanswered. Dean keeps fading away, with Castiel unable to hold him back, despite using all the grace he can.
He would leave himself dry if it could help Dean.
It’s not fair. Why Dean should pay for Castiel’s crimes? The human did nothing wrong... Castiel recalls some of his confidences and some dark memories Dean’s mind prompts sometimes, and he persists. Dean did nothing wrong. He only defended himself and Castiel would be a hypocrite to blame Dean for having killed one human to save his life when Castiel tortured and killed so many of them, when he murdered fellow angels. He’s only a human, better than most of them, isolated from his kind and yet mourning for them, standing in front of an angel and hold accountable demanding answers for what the angels did.
How can you punish something like this, Father?
Castiel watches Dean sleep.
Please... Have mercy... Save him.
His prayers are left unanswered. Maybe they are ignored.
It’s my fault...
If only he tried to do the right thing, Dean would be... what? Safe? Happy? He wasn’t safe and happy and having everything he needed before meeting Castiel. He never had. So Castiel would have rebelled... and failed... and Dean would be miserable still? He wouldn’t have anyone taking care of him?
Dean buries his hand in his feathers. Castiel realizes he’s fidgeting, his frequencies buzzing jerkily, his claws flexing.
He curls more quietly around Dean and lays his chin on his chest. Feeling its rise and fall is comforting. His heart pounds steadily, echoed by Castiel’s frequencies.
If only I met you sooner... I could have saved you. I could have saved everyone.
But it was late, way too late. His regrets were useless.
Castiel wonders if this pain in his frequencies is genuinely for Dean or if it’s only his bruised ego talking. He had never failed before. Dean could be the very first failure of his career.
Castiel hates the idea Dean could be nothing more for him.
“Have you ever watched the stars from down here?”
Dean’s whispered question sounds alien in the silence. It’s the first time in three days he’s saying something other than ‘heya’, ‘sorry’ or ‘goodnight’.
“Why are you asking this?”
“I never did. I’ve seen a couple of stars, but city lights used to hide them. I’ve heard... or read, maybe... that at some places it feels like you can grab them.”
Castiel doesn’t understand why Dean is saying this—he doesn’t think Dean knows either—but Dean is awake and talking to him and it makes this moment important.
Dean chews on his lip. His thoughts are slower than they used to be, treading quicksand instead of surfing rapids.
“Stargazing should have been an upside of the Apocalypse. If we had to lose everything, we should have had the sky left.”
Dean sits up, slipping out of his embrace. Castiel folds his wings back against his flanks. He doesn’t like the direction of it... but Dean is talking.
The silence stretches, but Dean clings to his thoughts, refusing to doze off. Castiel watches the back of his head and the curve of his neck and the way his hand is put over his mouth and his distant eyes... Dean keeps forgetting that Castiel has eyes all over his body and that turning his back on him is seldom effective.
“Have you always wanted things to end like this?”
“I didn’t want. It was orders.”
“But it had been planned forever and you didn’t mind.”
“Everything that begins must end.”
Dean turns to face him. His eyes reflect Castiel’s light, looking like two pools of grace. Unease twists his frequencies as he spies his pale skin and sharp shadows.
We aren’t alive like them, he realizes once more. We don’t belong in the same realms.
“Couldn’t you let things end their own way?”
Castiel doesn’t answer.
“Millions of years don’t make a difference for you. Why didn’t you wait?”
Castiel still doesn’t answer. He can’t read Dean and it’s disturbing. The human is keeping purposefully his emotions at bay, carving them into stone.
“Cas, please.”
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”
“The truth would be a good start.”
“It’s the truth.”
Dean looks away again. “Then why didn’t you start the Apocalypse sooner? The 1940s would have been a good choice. You could have announced the truth about yourselves instead of pretending you were here to save us.”
“We didn’t pretend.”
“Right. You saved us from demons.”
Castiel detects a note of sarcasm. He decides to not acknowledge it.
“And brought you to Paradise.”
“I thought we agreed to say Paradise sucks.”
“We didn’t.”
“Ah.”
Dean doesn’t speak up again but the armor is still over his emotions and his thoughts are dragging him further and further away. What if he went so far that Castiel couldn’t catch up with him?
“Why are you bringing this up now?” Castiel asks, trying to pull Dean back to him.
“I wwas thinking about the stars. I’d have liked to see them.”
Castiel dislikes Dean’s wording. It sounds like...
“Then I start thinking about the Apocalypse and I remembered about the Flood and... why did you spare humans then if it was to kill all of us now?”
“Not all of you. You’re still here.”
For how long? Does Dean wonder too?
“One single human. I can do nothing. Humanity is already dead.”
Castiel disagree. As long as Dean is alive, humanity will be—the best parts of it.
“Would you have wanted to be a Noah? An Adam?”
Dean scoffs. “Of course not.” He reaches to rest a palm on his side. Castiel presses a shrunken wing over his hand. Dean’s expression softens and the armor thins, letting care and fondness whisper between them. “Don’t change the subject,” Dean adds as an afterthought.
“I didn’t.”
“I want to understand why you saved us at one point to kill us the next.”
“It wasn’t the time. Things had to happen in a certain order.”
“Had to,” Dean echoes weakly.
“Indeed. We talked about it.”
Dean looks down, pondering, and Castiel wonders if he’s rerunning their previous discussions in his head. Is it going to change what he feels for me? Castiel recoils at his selfishness. Dean is thinking about the billions of humans who died and here he is, thinking about himself.
Why would God help him? He isn’t acting as if he understood the lesson.
Dean’s thumb strokes him. Castiel focuses on the touch, allows it to soothe him.
“...Do you regret?” Dean whispers.
The answer he wants is so obvious.
“Of course,” Castiel lies.
Maybe it’s not a complete lie. Castiel regrets that Dean is suffering. It has to matter, if only a little.
After fifty-six heartbeats, Dean lies back into him, pillowing his cheek on Castiel’s throat. Castiel keeps his hand in his remnant wing. He can’t imagine losing this.
“I can show you the stars.”
“It’s probably awesome to fly in space, but I’d have liked to see them from down here.”
“I know. I had... several vessels through the ages and I have walked upon Earth before your kind mastered electricity. My senses are sharper than a human’s, but I know your limits and I can adapt to them.” Castiel uses another vestigial wing to brush Dean’s hair. They’re fluffy like his feathers. Castiel likes it. “Let me show you.”
Dean cranes his neck to blink up at him. He gives a shy nod. Castiel runs a feathertip across his forehead, doesn’t resist the urge to follow the brink of his nose, before running it back up. He presses it on the smooth skin between his eyebrows. Dean closes his eyes and gives a content sigh. Castiel’s feathers fluff up and he wants to run them all over Dean’s skin. He shakes his wings and stomps on the urge while one of his eyes glares forlornly at Dean’s long-sleeved shirt and pants—there isn’t much skin to touch anyway.
Castiel pushes a touch of grace in Dean’s mind, recalling a night, twenty-three centuries ago. He was sent in the steppes with a mission... but Dean doesn’t have to know this part. Castiel conjurs every detail of the landscape and of the sky. He hadn’t dawdled at the time, didn’t pause to admire anything, but that’s how angel memory works. There are many advantages to not be bound to a body of flesh.
The Galaxy spirals above them, with... countless stars—that’s how a human would describe it. They’re pouring their light unconditionally over the Earth, drawing the outlines of the plants and the rocks and the moutains in the distance. Dean’s breath itches and his fingers dig into his side. Castiel understands. The sight is... inspiring. He finally gets why humans have spent so long looking up at the sky, why they imagined so many stories about them, why Dean asked to see them. The perspective of a human changes everything.
And I’m not fragile or mortal like them. How does it feel when the world is so big and you’re so small, when it’s so old and you’re so young, when it seems immovable while you change with every heartbeat?
Castiel can’t comprehend it but something tells him it must be formidable, the kind of revelation an angel would feel by meeting God.
How many things did he miss because he didn’t care enough to watch?
“That’s– You aren’t making this up?”
“This is a memory.”
“Wow.”
Dean’s awe blends with Castiel’s, overgrows it, strenghtens it. Their emotions feed each other and keep growing, growing, growing... trying to turn bigger than Castiel.
“It’s beautiful,” Dean sums up.
“It is.”
Dean looks at him. Castiel could have borrowed his vessel’s appearance. He should have, to give Dean the impression mankind is still within his reach. He could, still. Why didn’t he think about it?
Dean squeezes his remnant wing in his hand as a silent thanks before looking up at the sky. His fingers intertwine with Castiel’s feathers here and in their bed.
Dean is thanking this version of him. He wants to share this moment with him.
Castiel shrugs his thoughts about vessels away and watches the nightsky with his human.
Excitement rushes through Castiel when their timezone tips from January, 23rd to 24th.
It’s a Wednesday, not a Thursday, but it’s Dean’s birthday, so Castiel doesn’t care that much.
Next year, Dean’s birthday will happen on a Thursday. It’d be even better.
If Dean lives that long.
The reminder sobers him up. Castiel watches the human, sleeping deeply and peacefully at his side. He’s still not getting better... but he isn’t getting worse either. He’s tired. He’s famished. No matter how much he sleeps or eats. Since their stargazing, he started talking again, even if he’s no buzzing with energy as he used to.
Castiel waits for him to wake up. He senses Dean’s consciousness rising and sinking back, following his sleeping cycle. Once. Twice. Impatience grows back in Castiel. He has to settle his talons underneath him to not shaking Dean awake. Castiel had never wished a happy birthday before. Angels don’t have such and Dean is the very first human he bounds to.
To say Castiel is eons old and discovering new things... All thanks to one human.
He can’t lose Dean. He can’t. He doesn’t care if his reasons to save and protect him are selfish.
Dean stirs awake. Castiel’s attention snaps on him. He waits for Dean to struggle out of sleep and sit up to say, as solemnly as he can, “Happy Birthday, Dean.”
Dean freezes mid-stretching. He turns to look at him, his eyes round, his lips parted. Blood surges in his face. He diverts his eyes and starts fiddling with the blankets.
“Thanks,” he mutters.
He makes sure to not meet any of Castiel’s eyes for an excruciatingly long time of four minutes and thirty-two seconds. Castiel’s frequencies press together. This isn’t the reaction he expected. Dean was so happy for the New Year and Christmas. Shouldn’t he be as happy today? Did Castiel make a mistake in the human protocol?
I didn’t give him anything.
Dean taught him humans give each other gifts for special days. Castiel brought him food for Christmas and bottles of beer for the New Year. He doesn’t have anything now.
“I’ll be back.”
Castiel slithers through the curtains, out of Dean’s room. He flies away once he’s out of his sight. He has an idea for a gift.
Dean just left his bed when Castiel returns. Castiel keeps his gifts hidden in his primitive wings as he waits for Dean to complete his routine. The human is lost in his thoughts, removed from him. Castiel wants to grab him, put him in the reading corner and offer him his presents to fix the situation. He forces himself to be patient. It’s not as easy as it should be.
When Dean is finally free, Castiel finds himself hesitating. What if his idea isn’t enough?
“Cas?”
“I have this. For you.”
Castiel unfolds his remnant wings, showing the complete collection of Vonnegut. Affection softens Dean’s face as he watches every cover. He looks up at him and acknowledges his attention with a heartfelt ‘thanks’, but there’s no sparkling joy in his soul. He piles the books on one shelf, keeping only one of them in his hand.
“It’s been a while since I’ve read Cat’s Cradle. Let’s go outside.”
“Outside?”
“I’m too tired to read here. You’ll keep me warm.”
Castiel nods. They go outside and settle on the flat rock Dean uses as a table or a bench, according to his moods. Castiel is so pleased that Dean is doing something that he doesn’t care that he relies on the sunlight.
Castiel stands next to Dean. The human leans his side into him as Castiel bends wings across his shoulders, like a châle, and curves his body behind him. His tail follows his leg and twirls around his ankle.
“You’d like me to read or...?”
“I’ll read.”
“Okay.”
Dean opens Cat’s Cradle. He reads some pages, but he tires quickly and they have to return in the cavern. Castiel is pleased to see Dean settle it next to his beloved Slaughterhouse Five and line up the other Vonnegut novels. He can’t shake the impression that something is off though.
“Did I make a mistake?”
“What do you mean?”
“You are distant.”
“Am I?”
“You are.”
Dean doesn’t retort.
“Dean?”
“’S nothing.”
“Dean.”
“I swear it’s nothing, Cas,” Dean says, offering him a smile.
“Did I hurt you?”
“You didn’t.”
“What happened then?”
Dean bites on his lip. Castiel feels like he isn’t going to answer, but Dean proves him wrong.
“It’s been a while since someone wished me a happy birthday. It’s weird.”
“You didn’t react that way for Christmas or the New Year,” Castiel points out.
“It’s different. Everyone knows when it’s Christmas or the New Year. You can have people wishing you that anytime you hang out at that time. You didn’t even have to know them. But a birthday... It’s different. Personal. Someone has to know you a little for that.”
Castiel knows Dean more than ‘a little’ and Dean is aware of that.
“Why does it bother you?”
“It doesn’t bother me. It’s... weird. I shouldn’t have been surprised given everything you did for me but...”
Dean shrugs. He couldn’t help it.
“That’s all?” Castiel insists.
“Yeah.”
Dean rubs a hand on his neck, embarrassed with himself. Castiel wants to comfort him but what could he say? I prayed God for you feels too much and way too little.
Dean eyes him. He slowly drops his hand and keeps watching him. He takes a step closer, loops his arms around his neck and buries his face in his mane. His breath plays with Castiel’s feathers and his chest presses into him.
“Thanks, Cas.”
Castiel folds his wings around him.
Their routine shatters on February, 1st. A Thursday. Castiel should be used to it. Thursdays are signs of change for him. He met Dean on a Thursday, after all.
Maybe this is what being the Angel of Thursday means.
Dean is facing the bookshelves, his fingers tapping on his thigh, when he says, “I’m dying, aren’t I?”
Castiel’s frequencies freeze. He suddenly understands why animals get still when they perceive a danger. He can detect a tiny, stupid hope that this discussion won’t happen if he doesn’t move.
Dean breathes out. “It’s not that bad. I pictured it many times in many ways and I’d never imagined it could be so... gentle. Tiring,” he says, shrugging one shoulder, “but gentle.”
“Stop.”
Dean turns to face him. “It’s okay, Cas. I lasted more than I thought I would. How many days I outlived other people?”
Three hundred three days. Castiel refuses to tell Dean, though. They’re starting their one hundred sixty-eighth day together—one hundred sixty-first, if Castiel removes the seven days of his travel—but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. Dean can’t disappear now, no matter what happened to the other humans. He isn’t like them. He doesn’t deserve to share their end.
A part of Castiel—his conscience, if he has one—points out it’s not the same end: Dean is dying slowly, somewhere safe. Those other humans suffered. Their deaths were brutal and bloody. The angels didn’t give them anything.
This would have meant something at the time of the Old Testament, especially if other angels sharing this pain: they had no remorse wiping mankind out so God taught them to care about a human before losing him. But this isn’t the case. God didn’t show up to prevent, stop or salute the Apocalypse. He wouldn’t meddle in this.
Dean tugs at his highest vestigial wings and walks to the bed. Castiel follows him. Dean gestures at him to lie down. Once Castiel is settled in among the blankets, Dean curls up on him. All of Castiel’s eyes move out of the way. Dean trails a hand on his flank, on his wings. Castiel presses his wing closer so Dean keeps petting it.
He’s so very much alive, in so many ways—changing, breathing, blood rushing in his veins. How Castiel is supposed to believe he’s losing him?
“I’m sorry,” Dean says.
Something rebels in Castiel. “Don’t.”
“If you leave, maybe you can find somewhere to hide.”
“I won’t leave you.”
“Cas...”
“I WON’T.”
“You can’t heal me. You said it’d be dangerous for you if other angels found me, because they’d know what you did. You said that before spending months trying to heal me.”
Castiel’s wings tremble. How Dean knows?
Dean gives a sad smile. “You underestimate me.”
Castiel draws a wing across Dean’s back and another around his legs. He wants to keep the human here and to protect him.
“Rest.”
“Cas–”
“Arguing with deprives you from your energy. Rest, Dean.”
“I don’t want you to be hurt because of me.”
“You think I wouldn’t be hurting if I know you’re dying here and I stay away without doing anything for you?”
Dean startles and Castiel’s wings ripple. Dean tenses.
“You should leave,” he repeats, misinterpreting Castiel’s reaction.
“I won’t.”
“You said they’ll hurt you if they know what you did. I’m going to die anyway.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“Like what? It’s the truth. It’s just happening sooner you or me expected. You don’t have to... I don’t want them to hurt you because of me.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be dead. What could they do to me?”
Many things that Castiel can’t help but picture. A soul can suffer. Horribly. Worse than a body. Souls are inherently mortal. They keep the spark of their mortality, the idea of pain and distress, even after death. Except they can’t die. Their pain can be eternal because they are.
Should I tell him? Should I hide it?
What would be the point in telling him?
Dean deserves to know what he risks.
“Cas? You’re scaring me, buddy.”
Castiel holds him tighter.
“I’ll protect you. I won’t let them hurt you.”
“That bad?”
Castiel gives a nod.
Dean drops the discussion and relaxes in his embrace.
The next day, Dean doesn’t bring back the topic. Castiel doesn’t refer to it either.
The silence sounds heavy with implications.
Dean sighs. He rolls on his back, stretches his legs and sighs again. Castiel keeps trying to fight off his exhaustion with his grace—he has no other weapon, no other tool—but it doesn’t help. Dean is tired. He is hungry. His heart beats steadily, as if there’s nothing wrong. His emotions are dulled.
Dean is fading, and there’s nothing he can do against it.
“Spring is closer,” Castiel says.
Dean spent much time talking about spring, with the flowers that would cover the land and the animals they would spot. Castiel wants him to cling to the idea. Humans are able to do so much with their will. If Dean wishes it hard enough, he’ll live until then. Once they’ll reach spring, Castiel will find another reason for Dean to live longer, and another after that, and another, as many times as he needs. Until Dean lives forever.
Dean displays the ghost of a smile.
“Yeah.”
Dean rolls on his side and falls back into sleep. Castiel tracks his breathing and his heartbeat. They’re as stable as ever, but Castiel still fears they’re going to vanish if he doesn’t pay enough attention to them.
There has to be a way to save Dean, and Castiel will find it. He will. Dean has to recover. Castiel can’t– What would be the point of his life if Dean isn’t in it anymore?
Castiel stares at the human, feeling unnaturally vulnerable. Is it... love? This terrible thing that spread in him and could strike him down when nothing has been able to slow him down in eons?
The realization slips away. It’s not possible. Angels aren’t meant to love. This is too human. Love belongs to creatures who are born and die, who are in flesh and blood. Castiel cares about Dean. Dean is his purpose in this pointless world. But he doesn’t love him. He can’t.
“I understand your stories better.”
Dean doesn’t answer, but he stirs in reaction to his voice. Castiel pets his forehead with an atrophied wing. Since what he feels for Dean is far weaker than love... Since it constricts his frequencies and tears his purpose out of him anyway... Loving and losing this love must be a pain beyond reason, the kind of pain an angel wouldn’t be able bear. Castiel has never seen humanity as weak—they are his Father’s creations—but he didn’t imagine they held that much strength. Living with their emotions, even for such a short amount of time, require strength beyond his comprehension.
As Dean doesn’t, Castiel feels his purpose bleeding out of him. It’s weirdly human: a loss slowly numbing him. All his bonds to the world are vanishing with Dean.
If Dean dies, he wouldn’t move from here.
He’ll stay in Dean’s home, in their bed, keeping his skeleton warm in his wings.