Not so sure I'm happy with this, but I needed some fucking fluff and Cas needed a fucking hug. So here it is:

Dean marked it as chance when he rose from the clutches of a peaceful, dreamless sleep in a jolt to read the fuzzy, red-tinted neon numbers glaring at him from the depths of the darkness. 4:21. He blinked to clear his vision, and read the clock again to be sure. For a long moment, his thoughts struggled to free themselves of the fog that always crept in whenever he woke up without the alarm that came with a hunter's sense of imminent threat. Then, he caught onto details of the past few moments that alerted him to the circumstances of his sudden state of consciousness.

Most notably, that he hadn't been dreaming.

Sometimes this was more of a tell than when he had pleasant dreams of a younger Sammy or of Mary's smile. Sometimes his angel had no means to transform the nightmares into sweeter, softer images, so he just removed them altogether. Dean squinted through the darkness of the room, but instinctually knew he wouldn't find Castiel inside. He would have sensed the edge of the electric storm that charged the air and tainted it with the scent of ancient, snowcapped mountains if Castiel had joined him here.

He unknotted his limbs from the sheets tangled around them, and threw his legs over the side of the bed. When they had arrived at Bobby's earlier he had fled the company of his brother and his surrogate father and had hidden in his bed, pleading exhaustion. He was fairly sure that was some ten hours ago. He rose, pulling on the jeans he'd dropped to the floor and foregoing his boots to pad downstairs. Sam and Bobby had also retired by this point, and the house had become settled and still. He passed through each room, then gingerly stepped onto the front porch and was finally hit with the blast of electric-charged winter air he'd been seeking.

Castiel stood at the far end of the porch, facing outward into the darkness. The slight tilt of his head was enough acknowledgement to draw Dean closer, though he kept a few feet between them when he finally reached Castiel's side. A part of him hated that he felt the need to create this distance, the same amount of space that was usually filled by the angel who had broken every boundary of propriety and personal space between them. Dean almost hoped he would edge closer now; when he didn't, Dean withheld a sigh.

Castiel's shoulders rose in an aborted shrug and settled low as his head dipped forward. Dean heard him breathe shallowly, far too uncontrolled for Castiel's typical aplomb. That was fine. If Cas was short on words, Dean had plenty for the both of them. "It's getting worse, isn't it?"

Another shallow breath, followed with soft, hesitant words: "It's become...urgent." Desperate, Dean heard. Castiel seemed to shudder, his voice a fragile whisp of smoke over stone as he reluctantly confessed, "I stopped praying."

And there were plenty of things he could say to that. Mocking, mean things maybe, though he'd try to soften them with words about Castiel's undying faith. Somehow, he always managed to scuff even the nicest things he tried to say with derision these days. He could tell Castiel how worried he was, wouldn't have to say that he was terrified because Cas knew that already every time he gave Dean that soul-searching stare. He could say that he wished there was something he could do to help in this strange war in Heaven that he couldn't comprehend without experiencing firsthand. He could say that he saw how Castiel's hands sometimes started trembling now whenever he showed up, he could say how he saw his fingers curl and rub against his palms like he was trying to rub away dirt and blood and skin. He could say how terribly angry he was that he couldn't seem to react the way he wanted to whenever Castiel was around. He could apologize for that, for never knowing how to say what he meant and for giving the angel malice in the stead of comfort.

Instead, he said, "God, Cas, what are you doing to yourself?"

And the angel flinched. His head turned restlessly, half-toward Dean then away. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, shifting as though he wanted to do something with them—to reach out for something solid, to ground and steady himself against it. Castiel drew in a breath, stuttering, and then another, seeming lost. Dean watched his struggle for a moment before he reached out and touched the cuff of that familiar old trench coat, curling his fingers around the fragile material and tugging gently.

"Stop. Just...just stop for a minute, Cas."

The words drew a low keening noise from deep in Castiel's chest, wounded and vulnerable like what Dean said meant something. The angel trembled, and seemed to lean across the space between them like Dean was the sun of his whole universe. The feeling was as overwhelming as it always was—but instead of the usual urge to cut an insult and flee, he sidled closer and allowed Castiel to lean into him. The angel's body quaked now, over a year of repressed tension threatening to shake him apart. Dean's hand slid up Castiel's arm and curled around his shoulder, pulling him more firmly against Dean's body. Castiel seemed to cave in, and his tremors morphed into uneven breaths, deep and sob-like.

Dean turned his body, shifting slightly so he could wrap his angel in a proper embrace. He brushed his lips against the soft hairs at Castiel's temple, and murmured, "It's okay, Cas. Just let go for a minute."

Castiel took one last deep, trembling breath, and his body melted against Dean. Dean tightened his arms around the angel to hold him upright, feeling Castiel's hands gathering fistfuls of his t-shirt and clinging to him desperately. He could feel Castiel's lips working, forming syllables into his shoulder, and had to duck his head to hear the litany that Castiel breathed against him. Dean, Dean, Dean, please...

And just as he never had to tell Castiel what he needed, Dean already knew what the angel was asking for. "It's going to be okay, Cas. You're doing what you have to do." I just wish you didn't feel like you had to do it alone. I wish you didn't have to do it at all. Then, because he knew that Castiel needed to hear him say it, Dean added, "I forgive you."

Castiel made another low, deep noise and shivered. "You don't know what I've done, Dean," he said quietly, and yeah, that was true. Dean didn't know what the angel had done, didn't know if he was working his way down that proverbial path paved with good intentions. But he liked to think he had learned his lesson when he faced the shitstorm Sam had gone through and had accepted it, losing the relationship he'd had with Sammy in order to build up the brotherhood they now had. Things weren't what they used to be, but they weren't awful. If he could do that for his brother, he could do that for his best friend (and wasn't that what Cas was? His best—his only—friend?). Sure, he'd probably be pissed later on. He really couldn't fathom what Castiel had been doing, the decisions he'd been forced to make, but if the angel felt so strongly about it then it probably wasn't all rainbows and unicorns. Dean understood that, and he knew he had a tendency to condemn the angel for the choices he made—he'd been doing it since they met. Damning Castiel for acting like a dick when he worked with his brothers, then cursing him a fool for allying himself with Dean after. Mocking him for his faith when he thought God would be able to help, then again when Castiel decided he needed to bring order to the chaos in Heaven.

But right now? Right now, his friend needed this, and Dean had plenty enough experience being a nurturer to understand that for the moment, he could put off the rest of it and just let Castiel need him. "We'll worry about all that later, Cas," he whispered, and pressed a kiss to Castiel's brow. "I just want you to stop for now."

So Castiel did. He clung to Dean like a drowning man clinging to rescue, and Dean let him. He wrapped himself around the angel, sharing what little comfort he could the only way he knew how. Maybe later, he'd regret this moment. But for now, he was content to press his lips to Castiel's forehead, to his eyes and his face, and he refrained from comment if he found the slickness of tears there.

And the night whispered of redemption.

Reply · Report Post