After Sam and Dean are arrested, Castiel is left alone and scrambling to find them. He knows they’re locked away in a government facility, and he’s still able to hear their prayers, but no matter how he tries Castiel can’t seem to track them. He chases leads and even attempts to hunt on his own, but Mary is AWOL, Crowley refuses to help, and Castiel’s options are running out.
Weeks pass, Castiel’s hope dwindles, and through it all Dean prays, keeping them connected. His voice is comforting, frustrating, and occasionally annoying, but in his solitude Castiel comes to cherish it. But then one day, without warning, Dean stops praying, and Castiel is forced to confront some uncomfortable truths about his feelings.
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Castiel parks the Impala at the head of the road, then retrieves a machete from the trunk. There are a tiny set of initials inscribed into the wooden handle, and Castiel takes a moment to trace his thumb over the roughly-carved scratches. The work is neat, but juvenile. There’s an unexpected pang in his chest when he thinks about how young Dean must have been when he put them there.
A noise up the tree-lined driveway draws his attention, so Castiel shakes away his thoughts and closes the car’s trunk quietly. He starts moving down the road, mindful of his footfalls, until the old stone ruins come into view. There’s flickering firelight coming from inside; someone is clearly using the building. He slows his steps and grips the machete tighter.
“Hey Cas. You awake?”
Castiel startles. Dean’s usually asleep this time of night.
“What am I talking about. You’re always awake. It’s just that it’s after midnight – I think – and I can’t sleep.”
“Dean, this isn’t the best time,” Castiel hisses, then he rolls his eyes. Talking to himself isn’t terribly practical right now.
“I was just thinking, maybe you can talk to Mom for me. I’ve had a lot of time to think in here, obviously, and I keep thinking about how bad she and I left things.”
“Can we please talk about this later, Dean?” Castiel whispers, moving forward to put his back against a tree trunk. He cranes his neck around the tree and spots several figures moving back and forth in an open area of the ruins. There’s a low stone wall surrounding them and they’re all silhouetted by the fire, so Castiel can’t make out any details.
“But just do me a favour, man. Let her know I get it. Her needing time away, needing space – I shouldn’t’ve come down on her so hard for that.”
Castiel briefly abandons his spying and leans his head back against the tree. He closes his eyes and listens, blocking out every sound that isn’t Dean.
“Y’know, I’ve spent my whole life thinking about her, this – this myth of a perfect, flawless mother, but somewhere along the line I kinda forgot she was a person. That’s not fair. And y’know. . .”
He trails off for a moment, and Castiel just breathes.
“Okay look, there’s actually a whole mess of crap for her and me to unpack here, so. . . maybe don’t try to tell her all that. No offense, buddy, but you’ve got some work to do with the whole ‘communicating human emotions’ thing.”
“True,” Castiel murmurs.
“But just tell her I get her needing to leave. And I don’t blame her.”
He’s silent again, and Castiel nods to himself. “I’ll tell her.”
“‘Kay. I’m gonna try to sleep again. Good talk, buddy.”
“Goodnight, Dean,” Castiel says softly. He takes a moment to refocus, gently thumping his head against the tree a few times, but then he squares his shoulders and looks back around at the ruins.
