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There are about a million signs that the world is ending. Cas can see them in the water, can feel them in the wind, rippling through the very earth.
But the biggest sign is Dean.
He doesn’t believe in free will anymore.
So, You asked what about all of this is real? Cas says to him and Dean pauses to listen.
We are.
Maybe it’s because Dean’s heart is broken.
He fights like he isn’t sure what’s worth fighting for. He hunts ghosts not because he wants to but because he’s angry. When the day is over, they go back to the school, Dean’s shoulders just as tense as when they first left.
“It won’t be long,” Sam says, fingers brushing over his wound, and Cas feels a sudden rush of admiration for him, he who tried to kill God. “We’ll let the townsfolks know that the gas leak is fixed in the morning. Do one last sweep for ghouls and clear out before the real FBI gets in.”
They nod and go their separate ways.
Pretending as if there won’t always be ghosts now.
It’s not that Cas needs sleep but the events of last week are enough to make him crave it.
When he enters the gymnasium, there are already mats out, strewn helter-skelter, and soon enough, Sam will no doubt herd the rest here, the one safe place from which to watch over.
Cas takes his place among them.
He pulls his trench coat over his legs and closes his eyes.
But sleep doesn’t come easy.
It’s somewhere between the point where Cas’ mind is already drifting that his phone lights up, vibrating across the floor right into Cas’ outstretched hand.
The number on the screen is Dean’s. For a moment, he considers answering it.
But in the end, he doesn’t have to because it stops ringing altogether.
Dean sends him a text.
Dean 8:46 p.m.
where r u
Castiel 8:49 p.m.
Sleeping.
Dean 8:49 p.m.
u dont sleep
Dean 8:50 p.m.
r u hurt?
Cas doesn’t know how to answer Dean. His fingers hover over the keyboard, wonder how he can put into words the feeling that has consumed him since their last conversation.
But that pause is all Dean allows.
A second later, the phone starts vibrating again.
This time, Cas closes his eyes.
A mat drops next to him and then there’s a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey,” Dean says. “Turn over.”
As soon as Cas does, Dean’s fingers press warm against his jaw.
Maybe if Cas told him that he’s fine, Dean would push away.
But Cas doesn’t want that.
He lets Dean run his hands over him. Dean caresses his face, his arms, runs his fingers down his legs as if checking for something broken (truth is, every part of Cas is barely holding together). Dean presses the back of his hand to Cas’ forehead, fusses when he thinks that Cas is a little warm, and for a moment, things are good between them because they always are when they think the other one’s injured (that’s not the way that it should be).
But then Dean drops his hand.
In the darkness, his breath tickles Cas’ mouth.
“You’re not hurt,” Dean says and Cas says, “No.”
Dean doesn’t leave.
He curls up on his mat next to him as if he intends to sleep there.
It’s an hour later and Cas has spent it lying on his back with his eyes wide open, watching a stream of moonlight through the lone skylight in the gymnasium’s roof while Dean’s hand rests an inch from his own.
A sliver of light hits Cas’ cheek as Sam enters the gym at last, ushering the last of the townspeople inside. There are hushed whispers and the uncomfortable sound of rubber shoes dragging across the squeaky floor as everyone settles in, and then Sam goes group to group, distributing shock blankets—he must’ve found the emergency supplies at last.
When he reaches them, he stops.
He stops for a long, long time.
Then, carefully, “One blanket or two?”
For some reason, it feels as if everything is riding on this answer.
Cas has spent an eternity studying human behaviour but somehow, Dean completely escapes him.
They have never kissed, though based on all of the signs, Cas is certain that it is something that Dean has always desired. They have never held hands—only if urgency necessitates it. They have not done anything but everything, have only breathed want in every word without saying it outright, have only concealed love deep in their chests, curled tight, unyielding even when prodded, though maybe wisps of it have escaped at a moment of weakness.
They have done nothing, so Cas doesn’t understand why Dean suddenly wraps an arm around his waist and slots their bodies together, as if they’ve always been doing this, as if the pretence of sharing one blanket isn’t the only reason to be so near.
“How can you believe it?” Dean asks him, just when the warmth of him around Cas is making his eyes droop. “Damn it, Cas, we were—we were never in control. How can you believe in us?”
Those words are all it takes to pull Cas out of sleep.
Cas thinks of how to answer. Cas thinks of the intricate way his tongue will twist when he speaks, of how he can say what he means while burying the truth under four layers of falsehoods. But then Dean’s arms tighten around him and Dean buries his face into the back of his neck, so simply, quietly, Cas says, “Because I love you.”
Dean shivers at those words, a full-bodied movement that shakes Cas with him.
“Damn it,” Dean says. “Damn it.”
Maybe he’s lost him.
Dean pulls away and lies on his back and looking at the same skylight above them, he says, “You’re wrong, Cas.”
Cas bites his tongue. He burrows under their blanket, and maybe the cold that washes over him isn’t just the absence of Dean’s body against his—maybe it’s something deeper.
“You know what happened?” Dean asks and his voice cracks. “I love you and that wasn’t supposed to happen, and no matter how hard I fucking try, I can’t stop. And he’s gonna use it against us. He’s gonna do something stupid for his story, some drama to entertain himself, and it’s gonna be Sam or you and—and I won’t be a-able to choose. I won’t be able to choose, damn it!”
Cas presses a hand against his chest.
Feels as if whatever’s trapped there is going to burst.
He’d imagined a love confession many times, but he never pictured this.
“I’m sorry,” Dean says.
Somehow, they end up outside, in the Impala, as if that’s the only place they can talk.
Cas looks at his hands, turns them over, traces the lines with his eyes.
Nothing makes him more weary.
“What are you afraid of, Dean?”
Dean doesn’t get to answer.
The rear-view mirror shatters and the screams from the gymnasium are all they need to hear before they abandon the Impala.
More ghosts.
“She’s possessed,” Sam says and his fingers point to a little girl, not more than six years old. “We gotta do something, Dean, Cas—we can’t let her die.”
After that, everything moves quickly. Sam leads the others to safety, persuades the child’s mother to stay back. And Dean, maybe with that same inexhaustible fury, goes toward the child, when all it would take is a touch from Cas’ fingers to rid the ghost that rides in her body.
So, “Dean!” Cas shouts, just as the child throws Dean back against the wall.
But when she sees Cas, she goes abruptly still.
Her eyes are alight with rage.
“Did you say Dean?” she says, and along with the earth, she starts trembling.
Cas has not felt such hatred in a long time.
Maybe that is why the spirit is able to possess him.
For a moment, all he sees are flashes, the life of a young woman in 1779, her secret affair with a certain Dean Wolseley, before he leaves her on his father’s advice for a wealthier woman more suitable to his rank. And then it’s Dean, limp on the gymnasium floor, head right under a basketball hoop, face alight by the skylight as Cas’ body approaches him against his will.
When Dean raises his head off the ground, the ghost speaks.
“I thought you loved me,” she says, voice rumbling low with Cas’ growl. “I thought you said you didn’t care what people thought.”
She raises her hand, and to his horror, his grace begins to surge forth, and in moments, Dean will be gone.
“But you didn’t fight for us, Dean. You believed all his lies.”
Softly, Dean says, “I know.”
It doesn’t happen the way that Cas expects it to happen. Dean doesn’t say I love you—maybe because he’s already said that—and Cas doesn’t find the power within himself to vanquish the spirit—maybe they’ve run that course too many times. Instead, Dean stays where he is, bows his head and says, “I’m afraid I’m going to lose you,” and Cas, unable to breathe, watches as Sam saves the day.
It takes a moment to heal Dean, but maybe because Cas is selfish, he takes his time.
When he cups Dean’s jaw, Dean closes his eyes and holds his hand in place.
“You were going to let yourself die.”
It comes out too angry, and Cas forgets for a moment that he is an angel because when he pushes at Dean’s chest, Dean stumbles and nearly falls.
There’s something familiar about it, when he fists his hands in Dean’s shirt and pins him up against the change room lockers. Maybe it’s all the movies about singing, backstabbing high schoolers that Dean has made him watch. Or maybe, it’s something to do with a rundown back alley and a single lamppost and faith.
“You were going to die, Dean,” Cas says again and his voice cracks in his hysteria. “You were going to leave me in this shithole.”
At Cas’ words, Dean’s lips quiver.
“Better than watching what Chuck does to us.”
Somehow, they end up back in the Impala, and it’s like they never left, only the broken rear view mirror the evidence of what happened (but as it is, Cas is tired of looking behind them).
For a moment, they sit there, unable to speak and then, “What if he separates us?” Dean says. “What if I lose you?”
Cas looks him in the eyes, eyes that seem to waver, that seem devoid of hope, but taking Dean’s hand, Cas says, “Not without a fight.”
Somehow, after everything, that’s what brings back Dean’s fire.
It’s 5:26 a.m. and the sun will be up soon and Cas has been robbed of sleep.
“C’mon,” Dean says and it’s tight and awkward but eventually Cas stretches out across Baby’s seat, head in Dean’s lap while Dean runs his fingers through his hair.
They still haven’t kissed, but for now, Cas thinks he can wait.
“I dreamed of us once,” Dean says and he shifts slightly, pauses his hand in Cas’ hair. His voice is rough, eyes closed in yearning, and in the moonlight, Cas can see every freckle on his face. “We were—we were married.”
But, “You didn’t dream this,” Cas says and Dean exhales, breathes Yes. “You've always just wanted it to happen.”
At Cas’ words, Dean is quiet, only the static hum of silence to keep them company.
Then, voice thick, Dean takes his hand and entwines their fingers.
"I do want it," he says, “But I’m good as long as I got you.”
Cas says, "You do."