Chapter Text
Darkness, chilling and unforgiving, surrounded him, and Castiel knew. He was back, back there in that place, that godforsaken place . Terror swept down his spine, plunging into his stomach and numbing him to the bone. Gripped by his fear, he could hardly move but for the tremor that rattled his teeth in his skull. Death pressed its familiar weight on his chest, threatening to suffocate him for good. No, not again. He couldn’t let it happen again. He had to get out, get away, get home. He had to get home, back to where he belonged. His heart galloped, racing, preparing to fight the delirium that would soon find him so vulnerable. So alone.
All alone in the deep, dark nothing.
I love you, too, Cas .
His eyes popped open. An eerie red glow snatched his attention, and he turned over in his bed. The clock on his nightstand showed the time—three-thirty—and it was then that he realized where he was, the Bunker’s familiar sounds of vitality returning. A relieved sigh seeped from his lips as the tension to which he had clung oozed from his shoulders. He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, untwisted from his sheets, then simply lay there. Breathing.
Holy hell. He’d forgotten how awful nightmares were. And just how real they felt.
There was no use attempting to go back to sleep. He’d awoken every night about this time since returning. Sleep would elude him for the next hour as he tossed and turned, beyond restless despite his fatigue. There was no mystery as to why. Every time he closed his eyes, the same haunting memories, so fresh from his time in The Empty, returned with frightening clarity. It was torture. Pure torture.
I love you, too, Cas.
He wrenched the sheets aside and slipped from his bed. The motions were rote at this point. Get up, get dressed, head to the kitchen. Find something to snack on while he wandered the Bunker, then try to pass out again at six o’clock. If he was lucky. If not… well, then he’d be in for a very long day.
“Hey.”
He froze at the top of the stairs to the kitchen. Dean stood at the bottom, a bag of potato chips in one hand and a glass of brown liquor in the other. A gray henley and darker pajama pants shrouded him in shadow. Angular lamplight from a single bulb above the refrigerator slanted across his shoulders, his silhouette wreathed in gold. And all Castiel could do was stare. Gawk, even. Ogle.
Christ, those shoulders .
“Can’t sleep?”
It took him a beat to realize Dean was talking to him. Castiel shook his head. “N-no…”
“Yeah, me neither,” Dean said. “Nightmare?”
Yeah. Several. And you were in them. All of them . But Castiel only nodded, unwilling—unable?—to trust his tongue.
“Figures,” he said as he waved him into the kitchen. “C’mon, I’ll find you something to eat, make you a drink.”
Shit . He wanted to run, to fly, as far away as he could. It was too much… and yet, not enough. Death and life and humanity and nightmares and fears and loneliness. All of that would be bearable if they had just talked. But given the present company and a distinct lack of communication, Castiel could hardly breathe. He felt everything so acutely, raw and unfiltered without his grace. The room spun and his heart ached as he stared. Drowned. He could lose himself there forever in that sea of green. And just be.
With him.
I love you, too, Cas.
His feet carried him down the steps, and he dropped onto the seat at the end of the table. The thought to do so never occurred to him. He suddenly found himself sitting there, digging into a bowl Dean had set in front of him—candied pecans—and devouring each handful. Maybe if he ate enough, he'd put himself into some sort of carbohydrate-induced coma. On the other hand, there was always plenty to drink. Whiskey's familiar warmth soothed his throat, slowed his hammering heart. And he let it. Let it wash over him, pull him down, pull him under.
I love you, too, Cas.
He pushed the empty glass aside, and when Dean went to refill it, Castiel waved him off. There was a reason he was human again. He’d made a choice. Choices meant consequences. He should live with his. Take responsibility. Accountability. Intent mattered to him. Deeply. So he chose, again, to be fully present. Aware. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew the last thing he needed— they needed—was for both of them to be drowning their very real and akin pining in alcohol.
Dean considered the bottle, shrugged, then set it aside, leaving his own drink as it was—nearly finished. Castiel blinked, unsure of what he had just witnessed. Then Dean sat beside him, quiet but for the crunch of potato chips. He sipped the last of his drink, the heavy glass thumping back down on the lacquered wood, empty. And Castiel sat still, frozen to his seat and no longer hungry. He dared not move, dared not disrupt the serenity of the moment.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Dean looking at him. Watching. Considering. As if Castiel might disappear at any minute. Then Dean leaned in an inch, forearms on the table, and though he was still two feet away, it was close enough. Close enough to feel him, his being, pressing in on his own. And he relished it, reveled in it. He wanted more.
Was this it? Was this the moment he’d been waiting for since finding Dean in The Empty? He had hardly said more than a passing phrase to Castiel since they’d made it out alive. In fact, Castiel had the feeling Dean was intentionally avoiding him. But when they did happen to occupy the same space, he constantly caught Dean’s furtive glances, as if he were… concerned for Castiel. Keeping an eye on him. He had also learned, through Sam’s confidence, that Dean’s penchant for recklessness had reared its ugly head again on their recent hunt earlier that week.
All of it, so much over the course of a single week, had shaken Castiel to his core.
So as they sat there, in the small hours of the night, Castiel hoped—yes, hoped , that fickle thing again—that Dean had gotten it all out of his system and was finally ready to talk. About that thing. That thing Dean had said when he thought he was alone the night Castiel had died saving him. And that thing Dean had confessed to Sam when Dean himself had died.
Oh yes. Castiel had heard him, both times. He had lied to Dean in The Empty. He had heard his apologies, his prayers. But with eternal sleep threatening them both at the time, Castiel had not the gall to admit it to Dean’s face. Terrified of the rejection that would undoubtedly follow, he had focused on surviving instead.
Clearly, they both had some communicating to do.
“Sam might have another case. You up for a hunt yet?”
Castiel blinked rapidly, then shrugged. So much for hope. “I think so.”
“You sure? Something wrong?”
Dammit. Clearly he needed to work on indifference. Or burying his feelings better. Then again…
Dean’s wide eyes bored straight into him as if he could read his mind. His soul. His newly minted, floundering, human soul. There was no way to deny it; Castiel had come clean, and Dean had admitted his own feelings. Twice . Just not to Castiel’s face. And that hurt. Why couldn’t he do it now? They had all the privacy in the world. Anything more private would be so intimate, Castiel would struggle to restrain himself…
Maybe he just had to put it out there. Take the chance. Dean had received that message, loud and clear, once before. Nothing had truly changed. And it was abundantly clear to Castiel that Dean was going to do what he always did—bury his feelings so deep, the core of the earth would consume them—so maybe he just had to say it. Repeat himself. And Dean could do with it whatever he wanted. Even if it meant rejecting him. Now that they were free and clear of any threats, Castiel could handle it. At least they’d be honest with each other. And themselves.
He opened his mouth, words primed and ready.
I love you, too, Cas .
“I’m fine.”
Dean smiled his familiar crooked smile, clapped Castiel on the shoulder as he stood, then headed for the side door. “Great. Get a little more sleep if you can. We’ll get the details from Sam over breakfast.”
Alone once again, Castiel hung his head between his shoulders. Unable to hold back the unrelenting tide, he wept silently.
And that was how things just… were. For six months.
While Jack and Amara had done so much to put things back the way they were, they hadn’t solved all their problems. There were still things to hunt. People to save. So they did. Hunted, saved. Loved. Sam had gotten his happy ending, it seemed. Better than before, even. Between Eileen, Rowena, and—if Castiel wasn’t reading the situation entirely wrong—Gabriel, the four of them had carved out a little slice of Heaven for each other. He hoped to learn from them. To emulate their patience, empathy, and kindness.
Within the first few weeks, though, it had become apparent to Castiel that Dean was spiraling. Hunt after hunt, he watched Dean take greater and greater risks. Too many times, he or Sam—or Jody or Donna or Claire or any number of the other hunters they teamed up with—had to dive in to save him. And that, more than anything, even more than hiding his feelings, hurt Castiel. He could live beside Dean for the rest of their mortal lives knowing they felt the same way, even if neither of them would ever act on it. But the recklessness, actively trying to get himself killed…
That hurt. Like a betrayal.
But there was little he could do about it. Those months passed and fall had arrived in the Midwest once again. Dean hit an all-time low. At least, to Castiel, it seemed that way. He hardly saw Dean in the Bunker outside of his room, and if Castiel ever attempted to visit, there was a high chance that he would ask the wrong question, get too close to the subject—you know, the subject—and Dean would kick him out of his room within seconds. Not maliciously. But insistently. And yet, he made no effort to actively avoid Castiel. Dean insisted he join them on hunts. Wanted him to sit up front in the Impala with him—as long as he stayed quiet. And he never seemed to mind if Castiel was nearby if Dean wasn’t holed up in his room. The inconsistency was maddening.
There was one constant, though. Whenever Castiel asked him how he was feeling, Dean bottled up tighter than the lid on a pickle jar. So he had to learn a new, old song and dance—Dean’s terms—to interact with him all over again.
Talk about deja vu.
It was the week of Halloween when a call came in from Newburyport, Massachusetts. Right about then, Dean’s behavior had taken on a new quirk: a penchant for Queen. That brought Castiel to his final conclusion. The Empty had changed the man he loved. And not for the better.
Something was wrong with Dean.
