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A lot of times, bright lights still make him dizzy, loud noises startle him, and the dead quiet of darkness makes him anxious. He watches as Dean sits near a window, nursing a warm beer. Castiel counts in his head all the ways things have changed, and then counts all the ways they haven’t.
A changed man. Such a poignant concept, really, he thinks. A useless one, too. People always say you’re the sum of your experiences—and Castiel thinks that has to be, at least in part, true. It doesn’t mean people should appreciate all their experiences or not wish they’d never happened. There are any number of things Castiel wishes he could take back, had never done-had never even thought to do. If being less than he is now could mean setting the world right, and setting his relationship with Dean right again, he would gladly take the opportunity.
Sam keeps glancing between him and Dean, eyes never quite deciding the best place to land. Dean ignores it; Castiel pretends to ignore it too.
Castiel’s been out of Purgatory for nearly three months and Dean nearly six and still nothing—nothing has been said. Nothing substantial, anyway. Sam asks, but Dean deflects by asking for pie, and Castiel doesn’t feel it’s his place to divulge any information Dean doesn’t want Sam to be aware of. He could talk about his own experiences, probably—but they’re so tied up in Dean’s, inexorably bound—so sometimes he lies, says he doesn’t remember much, and sometimes he simply shakes his head no. Sam will sigh, but he’s learned not to press too hard.
There’s snow falling outside and Castiel turns his head towards the window again.
More snow, more static from the TV, more wishing—
Castiel turns away, walks into the bathroom of the most recent motel, splashes water on his face. There’s something about the act of cleaning himself, the physicality of it, that he finds soothing. He avoids looking at himself in the mirror; he already knows what he’ll find, and it’s nothing he relishes seeing at the moment.
When he walks out, Sam is packing a bag and Dean is gathering salt. Pulling his coat tighter around him, Castiel asks if they need any help, watching the way Dean’s shoulders slump as he follows Sam out of the door. He catches Castiel’s eye, a silent question—asking if Castiel will be accompanying them. Even if Castiel had anything else to do or anywhere else to go, he doesn’t suspect that he would.
He takes his place in the back seat of the Impala, tries not to frown at the distinct lack of 80s music blaring from the speakers. There’s a faint smell of whiskey lingering, and Castiel knows this is where Dean has escaped from his brother’s worried glances to do his drinking. He knows alcoholism is a dangerous route, has seen millions upon millions of humans wrecked by it in his years—but who is he to dictate to Dean the course of his life? He’d tried that once—and destroyed everything. So he likes to think of himself as there for whatever Dean needs, but he knows it’s unlikely that Dean will admit to needing help, to needing Castiel—now that they’re back on Earth, back in real time, and there’s always another hunt and another life to save.
It was different, sometimes, in the half-light of Purgatory, just the two of them and the dichotomy of either eerie silence or wrenching screams. Dean would promise that if they got out, they would do it together—or not at all. And Castiel would nod, tired and dirty, but he’d smile and it would feel like they were already free.
Now he just stares out the window and wonders at the fate of all those he’d wounded.
It’s a salt and burn, typical case—“Or it should be,” Dean says.
Castiel doesn’t add that rarely do things go as they ought to—especially for the Winchesters. He just nods, walking a half-step behind Dean and fixing his line of vision on the old Victorian style house that is apparently haunted.
It’s cold, but it doesn’t bother Castiel; he notices because there’s a slight tremor in Dean’s shoulders, and maybe he shouldn’t pay so much attention, but there are a lot of things he shouldn’t do. A lot of things a lot of people shouldn’t do.
It doesn’t stop anyone.
Dean and Sam keep their flashlights on the lowest setting, reaching to pull their guns from the holsters.
It should all be so easy—
Castiel is almost certain time stops momentarily.
The problem with old houses, Castiel thinks—is everything. The fire department, the police, they’ll probably blame it on faulty wiring—which is just as well; it’s easier to explain than aggressive ghosts who apparently “have fucking secret poltergeist best friends, Jesus Christ,” Dean swears.
The match goes flying from Sam’s hand.
Castiel tries to keep track of it, but there’s too much happening—too much debris flying through the air, and he doesn’t have the power that he used to yet. Purgatory had taken nearly everything from him. He’d barely been alive when he’d gotten out—but that’s another thing he and Dean don’t discuss, another thing that makes the human heart in his body thump and ache.
There’s an explosion, a series of flashes and bangs, and for a second Castiel almost thinks he’s back in Purgatory, lying in a damp cave after nearly being shredded by Leviathan in a storm, thunder rattling overhead.
But—no.
He’s in a house, an old house, and Sam is sprawled, face down, on the floor, but Castiel can tell he’s still breathing. The biggest problem is the fire—spread across what were once walls, crackling, and Dean is—
Dean is—
Something tightens is Castiel’s chest, panic rising, cresting, and settles heavy in his stomach. He shouts Dean’s name, but all he hears in return is the snapping of the fire, the screams of ghosts leaving this world. “Dean!” he yells again.
Still nothing.
Taking a deep breath, Castiel manoeuvres himself around the wreckage, concentrating on the part of himself that is Dean, more or less—shaped by Dean, alive because of Dean.
He finds Dean eventually, curled in on himself, breath laboured, as fire circles around him. Castiel doesn’t have a choice but to step through it. He’ll heal. Slowly—
But he’ll heal.
The heat slices through his skin and smoke chokes up his throat, makes his eyes water—but he keeps going. It’s hot, blistering, but Dean is there and Dean is trapped and Castiel knows what this will do to the hunter, so he ignores the agony—sure he’s endured worse?—shuts his eyes against the blistering heat.
Dean is panting, sweating, his fingers digging into the floorboards, and Castiel can see and smell the blood under his fingernails, even over the smoke and the smell of burning linoleum. He grasps Dean’s forearms with all the strength he can muster; Dean doesn’t protest, just allows himself to be dragged, his eyes wet and unfocussed.
It takes him nearly a half hour just to make it back to Sam.
Sam can walk, thankfully, though perhaps just barely.
Castiel can feel his body trying to heal itself, and where once it would have been immediate and immaculate, it almost hurts worse than the damage itself. He drops to his knees, and Dean comes with him, still swallowing convulsively, eyelids fluttering.
“He’s having a panic attack,” Sam croaks.
Castiel nods like he knows what that means. He does know what it means—clinically, objectively. But he doesn’t know what it means to Dean, or what Dean needs him to do, and Dean doesn’t offer any answers, just clings to the tatters of Castiel’s overcoat as the rawness of Castiel’s throat tries (and mostly fails) to soothe itself.
He doesn’t really know how he makes it back to the car, and when he wakes up later wrapped in scratchy motel sheets, there’s even less he’ll be able to recall. But he’ll never forget the look in Dean’s eyes, all fear and dread, like if he has to remember the things in his head, why is there a point to even living?
But he can’t keep his eyes open any longer.
Dean won’t talk to him—or anyone—for days.
He doesn’t even go on hunts, and Castiel refuses to leave him. Sam glances at them, conflicted, but Dean glares at him hard enough for Sam to know that means he ought to go, to take care of business—don’t get salad dressing on my seats, Castiel adds in his head.
He misses Dean’s voice.
His hands shake when he moves them, but they shake more when he lies still, so he paces. It’s slow and ragged because he’s still a long way from fully healed, parts of his skin still charred. Dean only looks slightly better, though, if Castiel is honest with himself—and he’s been trying to be so.
He brings Dean a glass of water, watches him swallow it, and inhales sharply. Everything seems blurry, rounded out; he can’t get a grip on what’s real and what’s just a memory, haunting him from Purgatory. So he keeps pacing and pretending that allows him to block it all out—everything, but for the way Dean’s lip quivers, the crescents dug into the palms of his hands, the wobble of his knees when he walks.
Castiel sees it all, can almost taste it if he tries hard enough, but still doesn’t say anything.
Castiel is re-bandaging one of Dean’s wounds that it happens.
His voice is raspy, raw and unused, but Dean says quietly, “I’m sorry.”
Castiel stares at him. “You’re—”
But he doesn’t finish, isn’t sure what to say, so he just stands next to the bed, watching as Dean winces while pulling himself into a sitting position.
“Fire—” Dean starts after a while, when the silence gets so heavy Castiel is sure he can feel it pressing down on his shoulders. The line of his mouth tenses; Castiel waits.
He can guess what’s coming, but this is something he knows he needs to let Dean say. Of everything they’ve been through together, conversations are some of the hardest. So he sits next to Dean, carefully, slowly, and leaves enough space so as to not alarm Dean.
“Dean,” Castiel says. “You don’t have to—”
He doesn’t have to do much of anything, but Castiel wants him to, is ready to. Because he’s tired of everything being broken and shuttered and tucked away. He’s not trying to kid himself; his and Dean’s relationships will never be easy, will never be the sort of thing Dean refers to as Hallmarky. But it’s what they’ve got, and it’s more than Castiel had imagined for himself.
“I just...” Dean coughs exhales shallowly.
And because it’s what he does, what he’s (almost) always done, Castiel waits.
There’s fierceness to Castiel, a line of stubbornness, but he doesn’t need that right now. At least, he doesn’t need it to say no. He needs to stay fierce, to stay strong, so he can mend his relationship with Dean, so he can try to fix the world he broke. And it will take time, but time is one of the few things he seems to have a lot of.
“I tried, you know,” Dean says. “—to get you out...before.” He shuts his eyes briefly. “I just—and the fire, I thought—it was like being back there, you know.”
“Yeah,” Castiel murmurs, because he does.
“The fire my mom died in—that always seemed so distant. I knew—I knew it happened, but I couldn’t remember much about how it felt, that kinda shit.” Dean shifts, takes another sip of water, and his eyes don’t meet Castiel’s. Castiel doesn’t push, holds his tongue, clasps his hands together on his thighs. There are a lot of things he wants to say, needs to apologise for, but this is Dean’s time and he’s entitled to it.
“I never really thought about what Purgatory would be like,” Dean tells him. “I didn’t think there would be so much fire.” Castiel hadn’t either—cycles of them, endless, blazing, destructive. He counts the blisters on Dean’s forefinger.
Leviathan had caught up with them as they’d discovered a way out, a way to get back. Leviathan on earth are bad enough, but Leviathan in Purgatory are worse than anything Castiel had ever seen in his visits to hell—they’re in control, and they’re fire, or the next closest thing.
“The smell is the worst,” Castiel says. Dean looks at him sharply, nods.
A beat—two, three. Castiel watches a drop of water slide down the side of Dean’s glass.
“Your whole face almost burned off, Cas.” Dean looks at him, the whole world in his eyes, and Castiel opens his mouth but he can’t speak, freezes up. “And I just—I just left you. I wanted to get out, and you looked at me like you were telling me it was okay to leave. And I knew it wasn’t, but I did it anyway—just couldn’t take the stench of it anymore. The half-dead and the fire, I fucking—I’m sorry,” he says again.
Castiel exhales, touches the side of his own face, feels how smooth it isn’t now but remembers how it used to be.
“We wouldn’t have been there in the first place if it weren’t for me.” There’s a lot Castiel regrets, a lot he wishes he could take back. He still doesn’t think Dean’s the ultimate source of authority for what’s best for the world—but he should’ve been more careful, less arrogant, and maybe the world wouldn’t have gone to hell.
Again.
Dean licks his lips, unconsciously moves closer to Castiel, hands balled into fists. “That’s not—It’s true, but I. Christ,” he mutters. Castiel nearly smiles; he knows Dean’s frustration, and knows what to do with it. This forthcoming Dean, this one who is honest about his feelings—as much as Castiel has waited for it—he doesn’t know how to respond.
“I know we haven’t...” Dean goes on, “talked—or anything—about it. I wanted...I guess I wanted to see if I could forget it. Bury it away like I normally do with this shit. But the other day, being trapped in that fire, it was like that moment again. You and me and more fire than I’ve ever seen in my entire life—just as we’re about to blow the joint. And it was either leave and leave without you, or stay and fight—maybe die. And I was a coward.” The next part he says so quietly, Castiel has to strain to hear it. “The worst part is I can’t even tell you for sure that I regret it.”
Castiel flinches, but before he can say anything, Dean keeps talking. “I mean—leaving you was the last thing I wanted to do, but it’s good to be out. And if we’d both stayed, I’m not even sure we woulda found another way to get out from the inside.” He sighs, presses a hand flat against the mattress.
Castiel fiddles with the string of Dean’s sweatpants that he’s wearing—borrowing—while he recovers.
He looks out the window; it’s snowing again. He imagines the snow would feel good against his skin; cool, welcoming. He blows out a slow breath. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Dean.” Dean looks at him and Castiel holds his gaze. “I wanted you to be there for me, to trust me, that first time. And you were right not to; I nearly destroyed everything. I can’t fault you too much for wanting to leave Purgatory; you don’t belong there anyway. I am sorry, though,” he adds. “And sorry you had to experience another fire. I wasn’t expecting—”
“None of us were, Cas.” Dean is lying down again, but he’s still looking at Castiel, and his fingers are just out of reach of Castiel’s.
Things that are always just out of reach, quietly ignored, rise to the surface. The urge to touch Dean makes itself known, rattles through Castiel’s ribcage, settles in the base of his spine. Daringly, he thinks, he moves his hand, the tips of his fingers grazing Dean’s.
Dean twitches, but to Castiel’s surprise, he doesn’t move away.
“I’m used to remembering stuff,” Dean says eventually. “Just usually doesn’t happen while I’m awake.”
Castiel is glad it’s not his job to psychoanalyse Dean. “It was a traumatic event for you,” he says anyway.
Dean snorts. “This was goin’ so well, too.”
Castiel’s head tilts to the side but he keeps his eyes on Dean’s, finds the familiar shade of green comforting, less panicky. “I don’t—”
Dean sighs. “There’s only so much of this wear your heart on your sleeve crap I can do in one day, Cas,” he says. “I just—I want to apologise. I should’ve done it sooner. And I shoulda listened to you when you had problems with Raphael. Shouldn’t have waited to say any of it until I almost shat myself reliving it.” He frowns, lifts his hands behind his head, and Castiel watches him silently, catalogues the curve of his mouth, the width of his jaw, the way the lamplight hits his freckles.
“Take as long as you like.” I’m not going anywhere.
Maybe Dean is really A changed man. Or maybe this is where things were always going to go. People have to talk some time. Have to do almost everything some time. He remembers that fire, the one in Purgatory—the one Dean’s been referring to. They hadn’t been prepared for an ambush of Leviathan, for the entire forest around them to burn, smoke thick in their lungs.
It’s a miracle that Castiel’s even still alive—but hasn’t that been the way of things? How many times has he should have died by now?
Dean hadn’t given up on him; had broken through from the outside, pulled Castiel right out and into the atmosphere, heaving and still slightly blistered. And he’ll heal again, he knows, because something is shifting, rearranging, re-cataloguing so much of what he thought was certain.
Dean is still looking at him, wide-eyed but tired, and Castiel’s lips twitch upward.
It seems natural to lie down next to Dean, so he does—carefully so, avoiding Dean’s burns. He doesn’t know how seeing fires will affect Dean in the future, doesn’t want to think Dean’s response will be so dehabilitating, doesn’t know what route alcohol may or may not take Dean down. But he has to be prepared for anything—or try to be, anyway.
“I...” Dean trails off, wets his lips, and Castiel is sure he knows what’s coming—has seen movies. He turns his head, and those unspoken things go from being pushed to the surface to sparking across through his nerves; he shivers. Dean lets out a short laugh, touches Castiel’s shoulder lightly.
Castiel says, “Thank you.” It isn’t enough, in any sense he might mean it. But he doesn’t have anything else at the moment, and Dean’s more or less made it clear that the rest of the conversation will have to happen some other time.
Dean turns towards Castiel, presses their mouths together—brief but wet—and Castiel lets him, welcomes him. He closes his eyes, slides his hand to the side of Dean’s neck, lets years worth of things he never had the words to describe make themselves known through the next kiss. Dean says his name, “Cas,” and it’s low, breathy, and Castiel likes the sound of it, tastes it on Dean’s tongue.
It keeps snowing, Castiel can hear the flakes hitting the window, and Dean’s hand is on his thigh, and nothing is less complicated now—it’s just more visible, more tangible.
It seems like progress to Castiel, and he’s grateful for it.
Grateful for Dean, whatever the future may bring.
Castiel kisses him again.