[ Arms close around his aching sides, the embrace a familiar mold Castiel’s vessel remembers as well as the weight of his coat on his shoulders — bicep squeezing in somewhere between the sixth and seventh rib, fingers gripping the back of his shirt just an inch or so to the right of the fifth thoracic vertebrae. Dean’s nose tucks between his shoulder and neck, over the grime-covered, threadbare shirt, and the burn of scruff against his skin rattles and roots him to this undeniable reality. The steadying truth of Dean’s heartbeat pressed against his chest is a strong bass beat that runs thrumming through his head, down his spine and through the soles of his feet, grounding him to the earth.
His voice a rich, low frequency in his head, glossing over the ache and guilt and fear of the last month, lighting up synapses tethered to memories of when this man changed him.
If there’s anything worth dying for, this is it. Sorry but I’d rather have you, cursed or not. We’re family. We need you. I need you.
For the first time, I feel.
( It gets worse )
He owes him so much more than the simple cost of his life.
This is where Cas finds himself again, with Dean reminding him, tugging in all the broken pieces and holding them together until they stick, and Cas remembers how to breathe. The bone deep yearning for contact from the Horizon is fulfilled a thousand times over, and still he latches onto Dean’s shoulders, pulling tight as fatigued muscles allow. Something in him soars, the part that comes alive with Dean's close, burns in his chest and sends sparks through his mind. He doesn't have a word for it beyond 'bond', never thought it's needed. Cas drops his temple to his hair, jaw to cheekbone, words a rapid, overwhelmed murmur at his ear. ]
I'm sorry, Dean, I’m so sorry. I thought I wouldn’t find you again. I thought— [ it’s nonsense, but it’s not. He went to sleep knowing Dean’s incident with Jo, and witnessed a vision of a mountain at the end of the world, his dearest friend’s voice swallowed up in an ice storm before he could reach him, leaving just memory and a distant, mocking echo. That hopelessness was the splinter that let the whispers creep in - he failed him.
It’s like you didn't believe we could do it, I mean, you kept saying that you didn’t think it would work - did you not trust me?
Look, I don’t need to feel like hell for failing you. For failing you like every other godforsaken thing that I care about. I don’t need it.
Home has always been Dean Winchester. Be it stubbornly charging face-first into unreasonable odds, cruising down a freeway at ass o’clock in the morning with Dean’s coffee-fueled off-key singalongs, or idle conversations at a diner table in podunk nowhere, like: is water really wet, are ‘wind blowing’ and ‘rain falling’ redundant, if Barbara Streisand and Meryl Streep got into a bar fight who would win based purely on physical prowess and sass? Scooby Doo marathons and wars raged through Hell for one touch that fused them together, some part of Cas forever left behind in the structure of Dean’s cells.
They always end up here again, through betrayal, death, brainwashing, or dimensional displacement, Castiel would always find himself mirrored in Dean’s eyes again, the tempered glass over the well of his soul - good to have you back, man. This one human was the entire mission, after Cas defected. Where he went, Cas inevitably followed, for better or worse. When he fell, Cas fell with him. He's never had reference for what a normal friendship is supposed to be, and some parts of him know that this isn't it, but he'd never once, not through stupid arguments, cold shoulders, or slaughtered angels, wanted to change that. But this - this was more. This wasn’t some absent death or perilous trip to another plane. They were locked in separate corners of the world, subjected to knowledge of each other's suffering and utterly helpless to do anything about it, as they each spiraled out of control. Nothing but hope and belief the other will wait for them, hold out for them. ]
You needed me to be okay— [ Cas heaves a breath, swallowing around grief and relief all wound up in one terrible knot in his throat. A quaking hand splays over the back of Dean's head, dirty fingertips curving into the strands - another anchor, another point to keep him close, keep him safe. absurd as it is to think Cas might be capable of protecting Dean right now, the urge is always there. When Dean's hands are around his throat, it'll still be there. ] I’m okay. We're okay.
[ Okay being a relative term here. In Castiel’s mind, there’s a wide threshold for ‘okay’ and he’s taking it to mean ‘not currently dead, dying, or insane’. Had Cas been together enough to see Dean drop the First Blade to embrace him, it might’ve touched him, made that soul he doesn’t (in theory) have feel light and treasured - hopeful.
Eyes either closed or swimming towards the ceiling, still dizzy and off balance from ritual sickness, he hasn’t yet spotted Sam and Jo nearby. Give him a minute come down from all this, let go of the torture, nightmares, and horrors. Cas shallows thickly, feels his body sag and limbs - held up by toothpicks and duct tape and prayers - cave with how deeply exhausted he is. It’s the eye of a month long storm, and he’s finally, for just a moment, safe. ]
i wrote this in a fanvid fueled fugue state dont look at me
His voice a rich, low frequency in his head, glossing over the ache and guilt and fear of the last month, lighting up synapses tethered to memories of when this man changed him. He owes him so much more than the simple cost of his life.
This is where Cas finds himself again, with Dean reminding him, tugging in all the broken pieces and holding them together until they stick, and Cas remembers how to breathe. The bone deep yearning for contact from the Horizon is fulfilled a thousand times over, and still he latches onto Dean’s shoulders, pulling tight as fatigued muscles allow. Something in him soars, the part that comes alive with Dean's close, burns in his chest and sends sparks through his mind. He doesn't have a word for it beyond 'bond', never thought it's needed. Cas drops his temple to his hair, jaw to cheekbone, words a rapid, overwhelmed murmur at his ear. ]
I'm sorry, Dean, I’m so sorry. I thought I wouldn’t find you again. I thought— [ it’s nonsense, but it’s not. He went to sleep knowing Dean’s incident with Jo, and witnessed a vision of a mountain at the end of the world, his dearest friend’s voice swallowed up in an ice storm before he could reach him, leaving just memory and a distant, mocking echo. That hopelessness was the splinter that let the whispers creep in - he failed him.Home has always been Dean Winchester. Be it stubbornly charging face-first into unreasonable odds, cruising down a freeway at ass o’clock in the morning with Dean’s coffee-fueled off-key singalongs, or idle conversations at a diner table in podunk nowhere, like: is water really wet, are ‘wind blowing’ and ‘rain falling’ redundant, if Barbara Streisand and Meryl Streep got into a bar fight who would win based purely on physical prowess and sass? Scooby Doo marathons and wars raged through Hell for one touch that fused them together, some part of Cas forever left behind in the structure of Dean’s cells.
They always end up here again, through betrayal, death, brainwashing, or dimensional displacement, Castiel would always find himself mirrored in Dean’s eyes again, the tempered glass over the well of his soul - good to have you back, man. This one human was the entire mission, after Cas defected. Where he went, Cas inevitably followed, for better or worse. When he fell, Cas fell with him. He's never had reference for what a normal friendship is supposed to be, and some parts of him know that this isn't it, but he'd never once, not through stupid arguments, cold shoulders, or slaughtered angels, wanted to change that. But this - this was more. This wasn’t some absent death or perilous trip to another plane. They were locked in separate corners of the world, subjected to knowledge of each other's suffering and utterly helpless to do anything about it, as they each spiraled out of control. Nothing but hope and belief the other will wait for them, hold out for them. ]
You needed me to be okay— [ Cas heaves a breath, swallowing around grief and relief all wound up in one terrible knot in his throat. A quaking hand splays over the back of Dean's head, dirty fingertips curving into the strands - another anchor, another point to keep him close, keep him safe. absurd as it is to think Cas might be capable of protecting Dean right now, the urge is always there. When Dean's hands are around his throat, it'll still be there. ] I’m okay. We're okay.
[ Okay being a relative term here. In Castiel’s mind, there’s a wide threshold for ‘okay’ and he’s taking it to mean ‘not currently dead, dying, or insane’. Had Cas been together enough to see Dean drop the First Blade to embrace him, it might’ve touched him, made that soul he doesn’t (in theory) have feel light and treasured - hopeful.
Eyes either closed or swimming towards the ceiling, still dizzy and off balance from ritual sickness, he hasn’t yet spotted Sam and Jo nearby. Give him a minute come down from all this, let go of the torture, nightmares, and horrors. Cas shallows thickly, feels his body sag and limbs - held up by toothpicks and duct tape and prayers - cave with how deeply exhausted he is. It’s the eye of a month long storm, and he’s finally, for just a moment, safe. ]