Word Count: 1,790
Tags: There was only one bed, Divorce-Era, Post-Episode: s15e09 The Trap, Complicated Relationships
Also on AO3
Dean had wanted to drive home.
After Chuck destroyed the spell he and Cas had risked their lives for, Dean had been ready to pack it in for a little while, lick his wounds with beer and bad television.
Sam was quiet. “Short version – Sammy lost hope.” Eileen looked guilty. “He’s controlling her!” And Cas…
“Cas, I need to say something.”
“You don’t have to say it.”
Dean wasn’t sure he had the bandwidth to handle a real conversation with any of them tonight, and he was grateful when both Eileen and Cas climbed into her car rather than the backseat of his. Still, he didn’t fight when Sam pointed to a motel sign, or when the little red car behind him followed.
The motel only had two rooms left, both with only one bed. Dean was ready to use it as a sign that they should just keep driving, but Eileen had said it was fine, that she and Sam needed a chance to talk privately anyways. Sam had nodded in agreement and followed.
Dean, on autopilot, let himself into the other room.
He didn’t know why he hadn’t driven himself home. It wasn’t far, just under three hours. Eileen had her car, and Sam was well-versed in hot-wiring, so Dean didn’t have to stick around for Sam’s sake, even if it’d be kinder to do so. It’d be easy enough to explain himself, easier still to just drive around all night and come back in the morning, but he couldn’t find it in himself to do anything but sit on the bed.
He was getting tired of this: being on the road, being on edge and worn down, being defeated and trapped. He’d spent his whole life constantly in motion, at the end of his rope, always expecting the worst. He’d never thought he’d even live this long, and honestly, he hadn’t. Chuck just kept bringing them both back through different means for different ends.
At the end of the day, it didn’t matter what he did, or what he wanted. He was still just the plaything of a writer.
“Mind if I hang out in here?” Castiel asked. Dean hadn’t even heard him come in. “They closed the office until morning.”
“Sure, man.”
Castiel took a seat at the table of the kitchenette at the opposite end of the room, and Dean remembered all over again how horrible it was to have lost him.
“Cas?”
The angel looked up, but not for long. Dean hesitated.
“Are we…good?”
Castiel sighed as though he was exasperated with the question.
“I’ve been asking myself that all day, and I don’t know.”
Dean had been doing the same. Sure, they had both apologized, but at the end of the day, it had all still happened. And unlike the last few times they’d had a potentially relationship-destroying betrayal of trust, this had killed people they both loved, not just them.
“I want things could go back to how they were, Cas, I really do.”
“So do I,” he admitted. “But with everything we’ve said and done, and what we haven’t done…” He shrugged.
“I wish we could just… I don’t know. Do it over. Forget it all.”
“Do you want to forget it happened?” Castiel asked, more out of curiosity than seriousness.
No. That was the problem. He couldn’t forget, whether he wanted to or not. He couldn’t just forget what Jack had done, or that Cas hadn’t told them about Jack’s soul, but part of him had already suspected it. Cas should have told him, but Dean had known, hadn’t he? He could have done something, he should have done something. He should have saved Mary, he should have saved Jack, he should have walked away to collect himself instead of chewing out Cas as cruelly as he had. He was still angry, of course he was, but that anger wasn’t directed outwards anymore.
“Dean?”
“No, but it’d make everything simpler, wouldn’t it?” Cas nodded his head once in agreement. “Do you want to forget?”
“No,” Castiel said more easily. “It’d mean forgetting Jack, and forgetting Mary.”
Dean felt something rise up in him and bit back the small part of himself that didn’t even want Cas to say her name, even though they had been friends.
“Yeah.”
It was nothing, just their names, but still more than he could handle tonight. Even if Cas could say it already, he couldn’t. Too much. Too close. Too raw.
“I can’t talk about this anymore now.”
Cas nodded from his chair and turned his attention to the window.
Dean tried to sort himself out in all that space and silence, failed, and locked himself in the bathroom.
Staring in the mirror, Dean came to some hard truths.
Ten years ago, Dean would have said that grief was a messy human thing, and that angels didn’t feel it as keenly, if they felt at all. It was easier to fall back on that, to lash out with a pain that only he felt.
He knew better now. Cas was just better at hiding it. He didn’t wear his anger so close to the skin that it came out. He didn’t show anything quite as easily as Dean did.
They were grieving the same people, they felt a similar grief, even if their relationships to each loved one were a little different. Even if Castiel was able to talk about it already.
Dean had spent his whole life mourning his mother, hadn’t he? So much time mourning and memorizing John’s stories, and so little of that time knowing her as a person, as she was. At the end of the day, hadn’t Cas known her just as well? Had he known her – the real her, free of martyrdom and a child’s memories of his mother – better? When Jack told him what happened, surely Cas had felt this gnawing pain, too.
Jack… he had been everyone’s kid. He had been everyone’s responsibility. And when things got bad, as they always did, Cas had managed to look past his grief, see his scared kid, and step up. Dean hadn’t, not until the very last second.
Chuck had killed him, but Dean hadn’t fought hard enough. He hadn’t realized he was being played until it was too late, because he was too angry and too lost. And even if Chuck had been controlling them both every step of the way, they both had made those decisions, and now they both had to live with it.
Dean was a little surprised to still see Castiel there when he came back. Cas didn’t look back, and Dean let the silence sit with them.
Finally, he asked, “Can we be okay? Just for tonight, and figure it all out later?”
Castiel smiled a little in that worn down way he did.
“We’re okay tonight.”
And just like that, Dean felt some of the weight in his chest lighten. He had his best friend back in spite of everything, at least for tonight.
Cautiously, he asked, “With Chuck MIA, what will you be doing?”
“I’m going to Heaven. I need to see if anyone knows where he is now.”
“Oh.”
“Once I’m back, maybe we return to this conversation?”
“Sure. Maybe.”
Castiel gave him a somewhat strained smile, and left it at that.
“What will you and Sam do now?”
“More of the same, probably. Keep hunting, saving who we can until we figure out our next move.”
“Glad to hear nothing’s changed, then.”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve got a pretty good track record with that approach. Seems to work better than most.”
“If you say so.”
They fell silent again, and Dean watched Castiel’s shoulders slump as he pressed his fingers to his eyes.
“You seem tired.”
Castiel shrugged.
“You okay? Other than…?”
“Other than everything?” Castiel asked wryly. A little quieter, he said, “My grace is working about as well as it ever does anymore. Not as bad as it was a few years ago, but I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to…”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” He looked to where his hands rested on the table. “Tired comes with the territory.”
“You could come lay down if you want.”
Castiel cocked an eyebrow.
“I thought Sam would be coming back.”
“If he was coming back, he’d’ve been back already,” Dean said, gesturing to the clock. “And I imagine he and Eileen are having a conversation like we are.”
“Do you think they’re ‘good’?” Castiel asked, quoting the word with his fingers.
“I hope so. They’re good for each other.”
They didn’t talk about Eileen having been a puppet for Chuck. She hadn’t known. It wasn’t her fault.
Did it make what she and Sam had any less real?
Castiel stifled a yawn and Dean sighed.
“Come on, Cas. Who knows the next time you’re going to be able to rest up.”
“An unfortunately good point,” Cas admitted as he rose and joined Dean, shrugging off his trenchcoat as he walked.
Dean would be lying if he said he didn’t stare, especially when Cas took off the suit jacket as well.
“I said lay down, not strip down.”
Castiel rolled his eyes but stopped after losing a button on his shirt. Dean distracted himself by turning away and untying his boots. He swallowed hard around a new lump in his throat, made worse when he felt the bed sink slightly, and by the quiet thump of Cas’ own shoes hitting the floor.
When he had the strength to look over, Castiel was lying flat on his back, eyes closed and arms draped loosely over his torso.
“Do you sleep now?”
“No, I just close my eyes for a little while.”
Dean chuckled quietly.
“What?”
“Have you not heard about dads and resting their… You know what, never mind. Do you not want to get under the covers or anything?”
“No,” Cas sighed. “I’m alright like this. You should though.”
Dean nodded, mostly for his own benefit, and tentatively stripped down to his boxers and shirt before climbing into bed.
It felt strange, this level of intimacy between them, when only hours ago they were barely speaking.
Dean caught himself staring unabashedly at Cas in the dim light, making up for lost time and preparing himself for the next long stretch of losing him again.
“You don’t have to say it. I heard your prayer.”
“You should get some rest,” Castiel said quietly, breaking the silence that had fallen over them and Dean’s resolve to ask what he’d meant earlier.
Instead, he nodded, mumbling a quick “g’night” and turning away.
Dean didn’t know what the morning would bring, but ultimately it didn’t matter. Tonight, he was just grateful for Cas.
Word Count: 1,086
Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Coffee Shop and Bakery AU, Childhood Friends, Falling in Love, Misunderstandings
AO3 here
Happy holidays, Liv! @blue-eyed-cutiepatootie
All Dean wanted was for the coffee shop next door to stop selling baked goods.
Sure, he was a little biased, since he ran a bakery, but come on. Nobody should want a baked good that’s been mass-produced, wrapped in plastic, frozen, and shipped from who knows where to be microwaved in some café. Especially when there was a perfectly good bakery next door!
He’d thought about starting to offer coffee, but he wasn’t like the asshole next door. He wasn’t about to sully himself by stooping to Castiel’s level, and he didn’t exactly have the time and money to hire new people and buy everything he’d need to do so now that he’d lost what felt like a third of the morning rush.
The worst part was that they used to be friends. Sure, they’d drifted apart when Castiel’s parents had enrolled him in some fancy private school and then sent him off to college, but still! He’d thought they could reconnect once Castiel took over the shop next door from his uncle, and once the holiday demand died down some, but now?
“You should just go talk to him.”
Dean looked over to where Charlie was decorating some tiny peppermint bundt cakes he’d made a little earlier, and frowned.
“Easier said than done.”
Charlie rolled her eyes. “I’ve done it.”
“No, you’ve traded our cookies for coffee with the barista.”
“What can I say, she’s hot” she replied with a smile. In a singsong, she added, “And so's he.”
Dean felt his face flush. “So?”
She shrugged. “So, give him a chance. It can’t be easy, taking over the local hot drink shop at the peak of hot drink season. I mean, I’ve been here for years and if you up and left the bakery to me right now when we’re swamped in cookie orders, I think I’d die. Plus, you’ve told me what his parents were like.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Sure, his parents were controlling assholes, but that doesn’t mean he gets to just encroach on everything I’ve done over here.”
“Okay, then just go talk to him.”
Maybe he should.
“Uh, might want to wipe off some of the flour, first,” Charlie cut in. “And wait for them to open?”
Right. It was only just 5am.
Dean kept himself busy laminating a few different batches of croissant dough and setting the cranberry cinnamon rolls he’d made into the display case.
Soon enough, the coffee shop opened, and Dean left the bakery in Charlie’s care.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” a voice called from the back.
Dean nodded silently and waited until Castiel emerged, carrying a stack of cups and a long tube of lids. He looked mostly the same. A little taller, a little leaner, and still afflicted with the same air of perpetual exhaustion. And yes, unfortunately, Dean found himself agreeing with Charlie. He was hot.
“Oh. Uh, good morning, Dean. I haven’t seen you since… How are– Uh, what can I get for you?”
“I actually run the bakery next door, and I wanted to talk to you about those,” he said, pointing to the display case on the counter, stocked with some stiff-looking iced cookies and chocolate croissants.
“Ah,” he said shortly.
Castiel set down the cups and lids, and couldn’t quite meet Dean’s eyes.
“Unfortunately, it’s not that simple.”
“Okay?”
“Dean, I’ll be honest. Things aren’t looking good here. My uncle left the shop with debts, and if I don’t magically create more sales right now, it isn’t going to be around much longer.” Quieter, he added, “I didn’t mean to step on anybody’s toes. Bakery items just seemed like a logical next step.”
Dean felt the irritation he’d been nursing deflate.
“I’m sorry, and I get that, but…”
Castiel nodded and sank forward to put his head in his hands. “Yeah, I understand. I’ll figure something else out. Should work through the rest of what I’ve got by next week.”
He sighed and pushed himself upright.
“Well, since you’re here, can I get you something? On the house.”
“Uh, sure. Hazelnut coffee, if you’ve got it?”
While Castiel worked, Dean took in the coffee shop and Cas’ fear of losing it. It was nicer looking than it had been under his uncle – someone had added a peel-and-stick backsplash behind the counter, a fresh coat of paint, tinsel and lights for the holiday season. Still, he knew how much it cost to keep a business going, especially with the economy how it was.
Castiel handed him his coffee, and Dean thanked him, only to see Cas had a new light behind his eyes.
“Hey, how about we make a deal?”
Dean raised his eyebrows in a silent question, and Cas said, “I’ll stop having bakery items shipped in if you supply them instead.”
“You want to go into business together?” Dean asked, not really believing what he was hearing.
Castiel shrugged. “Our businesses complement each other, and we used to work well together, before…”
“Before you went off to your fancy school?”
“I was going to say before my parents forbade me from seeing you again, but that works, too.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You didn’t know?”
When Dean shook his head, Castiel sighed uncomfortably. “I used to have a crush on you. They didn’t like it, so they had me change schools. I thought it was embarrassingly obvious.”
“What?”
“It was a long time ago,” Cas hedged, crossing his arms. “But getting back to the matter at hand, do you want to work something out?”
Dean was still reeling from the realization, and completely reevaluating everything he thought he knew about Castiel, and finally, he found himself blurting, “Do you still?” Face going red, he clarified, “Like me, I mean?”
Castiel turned a matching shade, and eventually struggled out, “I don’t think I ever stopped.”
The two gaped at each other for a few moments before, mercifully, a customer walked in.
Dean took a few steps away from the register, hiding his burning face behind his coffee, and watched Cas stammer through the sale, only to walk back once it was complete.
A little more composed, he said, “I think I want to try out more than just business partners, if you know what I mean.”
Cas smiled brightly, and Dean felt that warmth in his chest all the way back to the bakery.
“So? How’d it go?” Charlie asked, filling éclairs and lining them up in the display case.
Five Times Dean and Cas Were Trapped Together (and One Time They Weren’t)
Word Count: 1,405
Tags: 5+1 Things, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Trapped In An Elevator, Trapped In A Closet, Purgatory, Castiel Saves Dean Winchester From Hell, Happy Ending
Also on AO3
Written for Renu @angelcasendgame <3
When Castiel arrived in Hell, he found it much the same as it had always been. While his brothers and sisters fought, he found the objective where he was told it would be.
The warped and twisted soul before him turned away from its work as he approached, bearing more teeth than it should have had.
“What are you?”
“I’m an Angel of the Lord.”
A wet gargling sound came from the soul’s throat. “Sure you are.”
“We’re here to free you.”
“Free me?” the soul asked. “A little late, aren’t you?”
In the flashes of lightning, Castiel could see the other angels losing their fights. They were running out of time.
He prepared to break the chains trapping the soul before the lightning illuminated the space again and he realized there were none. There were deep, half-healed wounds where it used to be held in place, but nothing actually binding the objective in place.
Instead, another, fresher soul was held down, and Castiel realized exactly what he was looking at.
They hadn’t told his that it was this far gone, more demon than human.
Castiel looked at the burnt and bloodied thing left on the rack, quivering and crying until the soul buried the points of what used to be fingers into what was left. It screamed and twitched until it fell unnervingly silent.
“Still think you can free me?” the soul asked, a taunting, cruel edge to its voice as it turned. It shook the fresh gore towards Castiel and started to approach.
Castiel’s mind was racing as he heard his brothers and sisters die, and he threw together a new plan. He knew he wasn’t supposed to do what he was going to, but surely it would be excused if the alternative was failure.
He flashed his true form, blinding the soul and alerting nearby demons of his location. Before the soul could respond, he threw out a hand and with a quick touch rendered the thing unconscious.
Demons he’d barely even realized were closing in began to chitter, and desperately, Castiel clutched the objective and threw himself the way he’d come. He heard the panting breaths just a few paces behind him but refused to look until finally, finally, they fell away and Castiel could assess his charge.
The soul looked more human when asleep, and Castiel felt his grace reach out in tendrils to heal it. With a touch, he felt bones snap back into place, skin regenerate, the raw edges of invisible wounds start to knit themselves back together, and he learned the creature’s name.
“Dean Winchester is saved.”
-----
“Come on, can’t you, I don’t know, angel poof us out of this?”
Castiel bristled at the phrasing, but Dean didn’t care much.
“I told you climbing in this…thing was a bad idea. And the word is teleport.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. So can you do it, or not?”
“Yes, I can. No, I won’t.”
“Well, this is great. Just friggin’ great,” Dean complained. “Trapped in an elevator is exactly how I wanted to go.”
Castiel rolled his eyes, and it struck Dean just how much humanity was rubbing off on him.
“You could call Sam,” he reminded. “Or hit the alarm and wait.”
“Like hell I’m doing that,” Dean responded, scanning his surroundings until he found what he was looking for. “Can you get that panel open?”
Castiel shrugged and Dean understood the meaning.
“Yes, I can. No, I won’t.”
Son of a bitch, had Cas always been this contrarian?
-----
Cas knew even before they tried that it was hopeless.
“Even if it exists, it’s a human portal,” he told Dean one night as Benny slept.
“What do you mean? If Benny says it exists, it exists, and I’m not leaving you. So, we’ll figure it out. Like we always do.”
He didn’t want to take away Dean’s hope, or to remind him how untrustworthy the vampire probably was, but he didn’t much see the point of it. Not here, not now.
“Don’t you think we would have heard if there was an escape from purgatory? Wouldn’t there be stories?”
Something shifted in Dean’s expression, barely visible in the dim light.
“I made that same argument to Sam about angels. You ended up existing.”
“That doesn’t mean this will,” Castiel tried to break gently.
“Cas, you gotta stop talking like we’re never getting out of here. Okay? We’re getting out.”
Cas nodded in submission and dropped it for now. He watched as Dean rose and did a circuit of their little camp, and hoped desperately that Dean would learn to let him go when the time came.
-----
Dean came to tied tightly to something firm and with his head aching.
“Dean?”
Dean tried to turn towards the voice only to realize it was coming from behind him.
“Cas?”
“Dean! Are you alright? The room is warded, I didn’t get a chance to heal you before they tied us together.”
Dean did a quick self-assessment: he was probably concussed, at least one of his fingers was definitely broken, and his bad knee ached.
“I’ll be better once we get out of here. How’s that coming along, any progress?”
He felt Castiel shake his head and winced at the motion.
“Nothing I could do on my own.”
Dean tested the rope binding him to Cas. It was tight enough that he wouldn’t be able to wiggle free, but he could probably shift his hands from where they were in front of him, given enough time.
“Don’t you usually stash your angel blade up your sleeve? If I can get my hand back there, I might be able to catch it.”
He felt the ropes around his chest tighten slightly as Castiel huffed.
“They took that.”
“How about the knife I got you?”
“Took that, too,” Cas sighed. “And before you ask, they also took the one in your boot. Not that either of us could have reached it.”
Damn.
Dean squirmed slightly, trying to take stock of what weapons he might still have before feeling something familiar just under him.
“I have a knife. In my back pocket, I have a knife. Think you can reach it?”
“Maybe?”
There was the sound of rope creaking as Cas shifted his arms, and then Dean felt fingers cautiously hovering at the seam of his back pocket. Dean rolled his eyes. Of all the times for Cas to actually respect personal space…
“Cas, this is a life-or-death situation. If you have to grab my ass to get us out of this, so be it.”
-----
“Closet! Go!”
Dean quickly shoved Cas inside before closing the door on them both. He barely even dared to breathe until he heard the creature chasing them round the corner to another hallway. He’d never been so glad the place was abandoned.
“Okay, so this,” Dean chucked the weapon he’d so painstakingly made last night further into the tiny, dilapidated supply closet, “didn’t do shit.”
“Because it’s not the Jersey Devil.”
“We’re in Jersey.”
Castiel rolled his eyes and moved to cross his arms, brushing against Dean in doing so. “Frankly, I’m not convinced the Jersey Devil even exists.”
“There have been sightings since the 1700s!”
“Look, we’ve seen it ourselves now. Even if it’s real, that thing isn’t it. No tail, and I’d hardly call those wings. Let’s get out of here, call Sam, and come up with a new plan.”
Cas had a point, much as Dean hated to admit it.
“Fine.”
He listened intently for a moment, and once he was satisfied that the Jersey Devil was somewhere far enough they could escape, he opened the—
“Oh, son of a…”
“You’re joking.”
Dean fiddled with the knob again, but it didn’t budge.
“Okay, we might be staying in here a little longer than we planned.”
-----
The ceremony had been perfect. A beautiful day, their closest friends and family, what more could they have asked for?
“So, I guess you’re stuck with me now, huh?”
Dean winked over at him, flashing the new wedding ring on his finger. He was practically radiating happiness, and Cas loved him all the more for it.
“I don’t know that I’m stuck with you,” Cas gently teased.
“Damn right, you’re handsome enough you could have anyone.”
Castiel felt his face flush. “I meant more along the line that I choose you.”
I know how it feels now, when an angel loses their wings.
It feels the same as this.
The words don’t flow the same as they used to.
These stilted sentences might still sound pretty, but I know I could do better.
I used to do better.
My words used to let me soar, and heal, and feel something different. My best parts and my worst, neatly balanced. My pain gone to seed and blossoming into something constructive. Something alive.
I used to feel alive.
Now I’m broken on the ground, staring at what used to be my imagination, my creativity, my view of the world. It’s shattered there, inspiration seeping into the ground, inseparable and irretrievable from the dirt and the muck.
It’s a loss of part of myself. The death of something defining.
This must be how they feel to lose their wings, their grace, their home.
The worst part: it’s inspiring. It makes me want to write, to lament, to bring something to life even if it’s just me in all of my pieces.
How does an angel fly without wings?
How do I describe it when I don’t have the words I used to?
It doesn’t.
I don’t.
I’m not the angel, but I understand it.
Though it understands me, it can’t heal me, or itself.
We're both screaming, trying to wake up from this nightmare.
Angry. Scared. Confused. Hurting.
What are we if not ourselves?
Every second we don't use them, our muscles forget their purpose. Inspiration wastes away likes the memory of flight, nothing but a distant dream.
Perhaps with enough rest, we’ll both fix ourselves. Maybe the angel will fly, and the writer will write.
Perhaps we won’t. Maybe we’ll stay stranded where we are, staring at our pieces in silent lamentation while we rot, unable to move on. Our futures will lie buried by our pasts because of it.
We don’t want to let it go.
There’s something very human in that.
We know that in letting our pasts die, we will find ourselves anew. Maybe the writer will fly and the angel write, our purposes senselessly thrown aside because we can no longer do what we were meant for. We will change into something different. Someone different.
It's always been building to a boil, but only reached it recently.
You know now that it started when you were nine. You weren't concerned. When you're young, you don't notice the change of scenery, how the walls are steel, the ceiling so high above. You got to leave the pot when you and your brother are well behaved, or when you went to a friend's. Life was easy enough.
You don't remember middle school. The water must have gotten warmer, but you don't know for sure.
In high school, you meet other frogs online. Their pots aren't just warm, they're boiling. The frogs are croaking, begging. They ask for help hiding bruises, reasons to keep trying to hop out when there could be more boiling just outside the pot. You don't know what to tell them. You hear their water bubble.
Maybe they realize what you don't: You're in a pot, too.
Your water is simmering when you finally start to realize where you are. You start to realize that other frogs don't have singed skin. You still go back to your pot. It hurts when you do.
You escape the pot when you go to college. The world is cold outside of the pot.
Is it supposed to be like this?
Other frogs don't understand the question.
Everything burns so much worse when you go back to the boiling water. You learn about the pot when you're out of it. You try to understand that other frogs know the cool waters of ponds, that boiling pots aren't normal, and that you're almost like the frogs who begged for your help.
You're boiling. Do you see it yet?
One day, you come back, and it's excruciating. For the first time, you're cut off: A lid is on and the heat doesn't stop rising.
You know now that you live in a boiling pot, and it burns your skin. Your brother doesn't, but he's starting to realize.
Is it better or worse to tell him?
This isn't how it should be.
He croaks and clamors, and you feel the water get hotter, almost in retaliation. He doesn't notice, it's all he's known.
You notice because you've been outside the pot, and you feel your temper grow.
He's making it worse for both of you. The water is cool compared to the anger you feel, towards him and your pot. Doesn't he know how it's burning you, how you're going to boil, how it's torture to stay in a home of steel walls and glass ceilings where the water never cools?
You open your mouth to yell, and boiling water pours out.
-
How helpful to have an analogy,
To never have to say that the pot is a home.
I am a boiling frog in a boiling pot.
I cannot get out, I cannot get out, I cannot get out.
Summary: Castiel begins to feel like himself, and like he has a lot to make up for.
Castiel woke alone in his room for the first time in what felt like weeks.
He turned his head and saw the chair empty, though the table beside him was anything but. Several bottles of various colors waited there for him, precisely written labels on all. He considered trying to read them, but it was dark and he didn’t feel well. Maybe later he would bother with them, but right now, he would much rather check in with the Winchesters on how the plan for rescuing Jack and Mary was going.
After a brief struggle, he was able to get himself upright, though he was fairly sure he blacked out during one of the attempts. He tried to leave, but the hallway was unbearably bright. His head was pounding and standing only made the dizziness and nausea worse. He could feel the world spin underneath him even as it was reduced to pinholes. Despite everything, from the buzzing in his ears to the fact he could barely see, Castiel slowly staggered out into the library.
“Cas? Woah there, hang on.”
He could feel someone rush over to him, hands on his forearms keeping him steady, but it took a minute before his peripheral vision came back to him and he could tell who it was.
“I wanted to be of service,” he replied as Sam gently helped him into a chair. He felt so much better getting to sit.
“How are you going to help anyone if you don’t let yourself get better?”
Tags: dermatographia (skin writing), medical conditions, shitty doctors, author is projecting ✌️
He never did find out why they started, but he certainly did notice when.
They were sitting on the couch one winter evening, watching some kind of western that Dean had picked out, and Castiel was watching with apparent contentment. It was perfect. Well, almost. A small patch of his back itched, and no matter how he tried to scratch it, it wouldn't go away. He twisted and reached and shifted so many times that Cas took notice, going so far as to pause their movie.
“Dean. Are you alright?”
“Yeah.”
Cas gave him a look.
“Yeah, just have an itch I can’t scratch.”
“Allow me.”
Castiel had reached across the space between them, offering sweet relief for a few seconds.
“Better?”
“Mmm.”
Even so, the itch hadn’t been gone. Only minutes later, Dean had stood abruptly and walked away, driven mad by the itching.
Summary: Castiel is getting better, and Rowena reveals how Dean can see Cas' true form.
The first day Castiel opened his eyes, he was too weak to do anything else.
Everything was heavy, and slow as molasses, but he tried to greet whoever stood over him anyway. His eyes drifted shut of their own accord, and by the time he had the energy to open them again, the person was gone.
He felt…strange. More whole yet more broken than he’d been in years. Freezing and burning. Hollow and bursting. Awake and exhausted.
He tried moving again, but nothing happened, save for a distant throb. He was grateful for how far away it felt, knowing all the while that when he regained his strength it would be so much worse.
He heard noise, so he forced his eyes open again, only to find the grace extractor.
He panicked instinctually, but hardly had the energy to fight like he wanted to, especially as something pressed him down, coaxed and tried to calm, but his attention was solely on the extractor. It shone in the light, lingering above him like a silent threat only to come down, sink itself into more than just his vessel. Its tip found a home in him, the real him, and god, it was worse than dying.
