Chapter Text

Anemoia:

(Noun) the desire to go back to a time you were never a part of

“When I lost you, I lost a part of me too. You left a hole in me no one will be able to fill, because it will always belong to you.”

—S.S.W

The pendulum always swung both ways. The other shoe always dropped. The world always ended one way or another. In the life of Dean Winchester, the end of the world was sometimes literal. But most of the time it was simply a crushing weight on his shoulders, a blurry line of sight, and an aching hole in his chest he never could fix—it did not matter how much beer he shoved in the cavity or blood he spilled in its wake.

No case could fix this. No amount of depressants could dull the pain as it plunged him into sleep. And no heart-to-heart with his brother could rectify what had happened. No matter how hard Sam had been trying.

Dean turned over in bed, shoving himself further into his memory foam mattress and paper flat pillow. He didn’t remember feeling tired, but the necessity of going to bed was unrelated to rest. He just needed a break. So with whisky on his breath, he stripped to his boxers, laid in bed, and crept to the verge of black out.

He replayed the moment over and over again—as the antichrist's footsteps clicked through the hallway, obviously pacing, just like he did every fucking night—forcing himself not to cry. He failed, of course. The stiffness of Cas’s corpse (Or, well, Jimmy Novak's technically—no, wait fuck that. Cas’s body. It was Cas.) still replayed on his fingertips. He obsessed over what it was like to tie his best friend's legs together with a yellow curtain. To place the body next to Kelley’s and let it burn. To give his one and only friend a hunter's funeral. 

Dean did not cry into his pillow. Instead, he clutched his fist close to his side, fingernails digging into his skin, eventually drawing blood. Not that he cared or felt it anymore. Not that he felt much of anything—other than grief, maybe rage—anymore.

Castiel was dead.

Again.

And his (inadvertent) murderer was pacing in the god damn hallway for the third night in a row.

“Lucifer killed me, Dean,” that gravely voice whispered in the back of his mind. “Don’t blame Jack. It’s not fair to him or to you or Sam… or me—”

“Shut up, shut up!” Dean yelled, not knowing better. 

That voice is too loud, too hard, too gentle. He couldn’t stomach it.

So instead, another voice took over. “Just lying here like a dumb son of a bitch.” 

Damn it, Dad, he thought. 

“Just layin’ here crying about you dead ‘best friend’ like a damn fa—”

There was a soft tap on his door—not a knock, this was too quiet—and Sam pushed it open, beams of warm light flooding into his dark room. “Dean?” Sam whispered.

“Fuck off, Sammy!” he yelled, immediately regretting it.

It wasn’t that Dean wanted to be an ass. 

“Yes, you do,” John whispered.

“No, you don’t,” Cas argued. “You’re grieving, Dean, it’s okay.”

Sam sighed, breaking up Dean's internal argument. Sammy didn't even try to stay tonight. He simply shut the door behind him and walked away. That’s a first, but it was for the best, Dean knew. Every night for the past week, Sam had tried to ‘talk it out.’ And every night for the past week, Dean had yelled. He didn't know why Sam bothered coming back. He didn’t know why anyone bothered coming back to him. Then again, some people never would. Not anymore.

“Is he okay?” the kid—Jack, the voice in his head reminded him—asked Sam on the other side of the door.

“No, he’s not.”

“Can I do anything?”

“No, I don’t think so, Jack.”

“Shut up,” Dean groaned, throwing his pillow over his ears, drowning out his family’s voices (as if the spawn of satan could ever be family, no matter what Cas would say).

“Damn broken fool,” John said.

“Shut up,” Cas responded.

Dean lingered on this thought for a long while. He obsessed over every word his brother had said to the kid, though the words were nothing special. Dean couldn’t take it. He needed to break up the thought pattern; he needed to snap the skipping record in half. And he did. This was just the only way he knew how: he downed the rest of a warm beer (rotting half finished on his side table from one of the nights before) and thought of all the ways he could, rather easily, get his hands on something a little stronger. The night consumed him before he could set any of his plans in motion. For a few mere hours after that, he finally didn't think. 

****

When he woke up, he could feel the chokehold on his heart. And he knew that when he would go back to sleep in twenty or so hours, he'd feel it then too. Hell, there was not a time when he didn't feel the weight of his thoughts anymore. It’s only been a week—fuck, how could it only be seven days—yet for some reason, the day the world stole one person from him, the world stole the color from life with it. Everything felt gray, bland, and pointless to an end. Part of Dean wondered why he bothered to keep going. 

But every time, almost without fail, when these thoughts became too much, his brother would text—probably about dinner or something futile and unrelated to Dean’s momentary well-being—and he would be reminded what he owed. Dean Winchester did not save the world over and over again just to leave it willingly. Plus, who else would step up and do the job? That’s right, no one. Dean could not die; he had too much to do.

Down the hallway, the echoes of conversation and a hit of laughter—who can laugh at a time like this?—stifled into his room. He groaned, turning over again. 

The idiot, Dean thought, the complete and utter fucking idiot. 

“I may be an ‘idiot’, Dean,” he could practically feel the air quotes in his tone, “but you’re broken.”

“Damn straight he is,” John added unnecessarily.

Of course, real-life Cas wouldn't say anything of the sort—John would—but the voice that lived in Dan's head took some creative liberties. It jumped from warm to cold depending on Dean's mood and what was floating through his broken system. A swinging pendulum of self-pity.

“I know, Cas…” he muttered, dragging himself upright. Castiel did not die for Dean to rot in his room. 

He placed one bare foot onto the cold flooring of his room in the bunker, a chill running up his leg. Slowly, he got up, pulling on sweatpants and his robe. He wandered into the bathroom, forcing a brush through his hair, cleaning his teeth, staring at his sunken expression in the bathroom mirror. He quickly decided a shower would take too much energy, so he left his room and did his best to not be a complete dick.

“Morning,” he said, entering the kitchen. Coffee and pancake batter lingered in the air, Sam and Jack at the small metal table, their conversation coming to a halt.

“Hello, Dean,” Jack said.

Sam shot Dean a look. Dean bit back a comment. He wandered over to the coffee machine, nausea taking over his former appetite. Hello, Dean. For the first time in his life, Dean was not hungry. 

“How're you doing?” Sam asked instead, a knowingness to his voice.

“Fine,” he brushed him off. “Find a case yet?” 

One sip of coffee at a time, the knot in his throat loosened.

“Not yet,” Jack told him. “But we've been looking into something–”

Dean nearly choked on his coffee. “We?”

Sam cleared his throat, shooting Jack a sideways glance. “I've been teaching Jack a thing or two. How to find cases, basic monster knollage—”

“You sure that's the best move?”

“Dean—” Sam groaned.

“What?” he snapped back.

“Don't talk about Jack like he's not here.” 

This wasn't the first time they've had this argument, nor one like it. 

“It's fine, Sam,” Jack whispered. The look in his eye was far too reminiscent of a lost puppy (or Cas, at times). 

"Pfft. See? It's fine.” Dean downed the rest of his coffee, knowing it was not fine. “So you've been looking into somethin’?”

Jack grinned, a wide-eyed, child-like grin. Something so pure for a being so obviously evil.  “Resurrection spells.”

“But, er, nothing has come up that'd work on Angels,” Sam added. “Not yet.”

Of course not. 

Dean nodded. “Right.”

It’s been nothing but a week of dead ends. They were all sick of it, but, simultaneously, none of them were quite willing to throw in the towel yet. But that’s just the Winchester way, wasn’t it? A family of damn fools. Mostly dead fools at this point.

Just as Dean took the first few steps out of the kitchen, mug in hand, feeling out of his skin, Jack spoke up. “But I have a few questions.”

Dean, reluctantly, turns back. “About what?”

“My father.”

“Lusifer?!”

Jack sighed. “Castiel.”

Sam's eyes widened. “Jack, maybe another time would be better—”

“No, Sam. It's fine. You wanna know about Cas.” Dean chuckled, a bitter laugh from a tired, grieving man. The kind of laugh to come from the bits of despair taking root in Dean’s stomach. “Well, it's simple. He is… was…” as he tried to find the proper words, his imaginary conversation from a moment ago came to mind, “an idiot.”

Somewhere in the corner of his eye—in a place normally blinded by whisky—the ghost of a trenchcoat glimmered. He should have mixed something into his coffee. He hated saying this kind of thing; he hated how it made him feel. He hated knowing how it would make Cas feel every time he said something like it to his face.

 But he was an amazing idiot, a part of Dean thought, but didn't say, who somehow always found the best in me even when I didn't. Someone who fought and believed with every part of himself. Someone who was just trying his best and would always try his best. Sure, he was a little misguided, but fuck it, aren’t we all? And I never told him how great he was. 

“He messed up everything he tried,” a different part of Dean carried on bitterly, “was a blind fool, and had a stick so far up his ass—”

“That's enough, Dean,” Sam snapped. Sometimes Dean forgot he wasn’t Cas’s only friend; he and Sam were close after all, but as Cas once said, Sam and he lacked a certain ‘profound bond.’ 

Whatever that meant.

“And worse than that, he's a dead idiot. A dead idiot who's never coming back—”

He dropped his coffee mug, ceramic shards glazing the tile floor. 

To me, he thinks. He's never coming back to me.

Something like this was bound to happen in hindsight; they were all just lucky he dropped the mug instead of throwing it.

Jack stared back at him, a glint of fear or panic or maybe worry in his eye. Sam let out a disappointed wince. And Dean just gawked at the broken ceramic around his bare feet. He was lucky he didn’t get cut. Maybe—

“We all miss him, Dean,” Jack muttered, “I'm sorry.”

Dean just shook his head, looking down, trying desperately to hide the redness in his eyes. Not tears… never tears. “No,” he breathlessly told him. “You don't get to miss someone you never met, kid! You don't have the right, not after—”

“Dean!” Sam yells. “Hallway! Now!”

“Sam…”

His brother pushed him out of the kitchen and away from Jack. Dirty dishes were left untouched in the sink, broken mug shards abandoned on the floor, all left for Jack to clean up. Not that he minded. The week-old nephilum didn’t know anything else.

“No. You know exactly what you're doing, and I need you to cut this shit out,” Sam hissed once they found a place down the hallway. With his mojo, Jack could probably still hear them, but that didn’t cross Dean's or Sam’s minds.

Dean bit down, clutching his jaw until it ached. For a moment, he hated his brother. “What am I doing then, Sam? Huh?”

“I can’t believe I have to have this conversation with you again.”

He scuffed. “Sammy—”

“Have you even tried to sit down and talk to the kid!? Because… God, Dean, he’s funny! He loves Star Wars movies, and he tries, and he looks at the world with this optimism, which we can only aspire to. But you choose not to see it. You choose to project all your bullshit onto him because it’s easy. Because it’s what Dad did to us.”

“Now hold on a sec.”

“No. This is the last time I will talk to you about this. That kid—kid—is desperate for someone to care about him. He lost his dads and his mom before he even met them. That's a shitty hand. Be nice to him for a minute—just try it! See what you find. He's not all evil, Dean.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, well, he ain't all good either.” 

“I could say the same about you. Or mom. Or Cas. Or me. You're angry. Sure. Hell, you may even have the right to be. But Castiel’s death was not Jack's fault. And you know it.”

The ghost emerged from the corner of his eye, not tucked away for a second. His eyes were bluer than he remembered, but maybe that’s just Dean's imagination. From behind Sam, imaginary Castiel leaned on the wall, a small, barely there smile on his lips. For a moment, Dean could breathe again. Trench coat. Blue tie. Smile lines under his eyes. Cas.

“Fine,” he said, “I'll play nice. Now get off my ass.”

But Sam just couldn’t resist one last gut punch. “And stop acting like you are the only one in pain. You always do this. You did it with Bobby and Dad and—”

“Sammy!” Dean's voice cracked; he briefly wondered if Sam had ever heard such a thing. “I get it. Just…” Dean's gaze is locked on the ghost in the corner of the hallway. “Just stop.”

“Fine.”

Sam shoved past him, brushing his shoulder slightly, sending the bottom of his robe airborne. Dean stood there, frozen over. He was going to be sick, he knew it. Still, he chose to ignore it for just a moment longer. He wandered closer to the figment of a ghost; he wanted to run to it, but chose not to. 

Imaginary Cas smiled more. Real Cas only rarely smiled—Dean could only really remember seeing him once. Maybe twice.

None of it mattered, though.

The second Dean was in touching distance of the ghost the nasha became too much. Dean bolted past the ghost, just making it to the toilet in time before he puked what little he had in his stomach out. Once the coffee, a little bit of dinner from the night before, and whisky, and maybe some beer, were out, dry heaving took over. By the time he had nothing left to puke, his head was light, stomach in knots. 

When Dean finally got around to eating something, it was a handful of dry cornflakes, drowned in something alcoholic that burned his throat on the way down.

****

Later that day, as Dean walked past the library, a tan coat caught his eye. For a moment, his heart skipped a beat, and he doubled back on his step. Hello, Dean, that little voice whispers. 

“Oh, Hello, Dean,” Jack beamed from the end of the table, wearing a tan windbreaker and a navy t-shirt.

“Remember, Dean,” the voice says, “just be nice. That's it.”

“Hey, kid. Eh.” He awkwardly cleared his throat, wandering into the room, wondering if he'd be welcomed. “Whatcha working on?”

That was nice, right? Yes, definitely nice. But what was even the point? Dean wouldn’t be surprised if the next time Jack blinked his eyes were black. Hell, the kid was probably going to end the world all over again, no matter what Cas thought.

Jack squinted, looking down at the large book open in front of him. “Sam wanted me to learn about angel powers. Specifically, time travel and things of that nature. He thinks it’d be good for me to control my powers if I knew how they worked.”

Dean hesitated. “How’d he come to time travel?”

Jack shrugged, still staring at the huge book. “Sam said if I could understand the complicated stuff, the everyday stuff would be easier.”

Dean took a few steps closer, draping his arms on the back of a chair near Jack. Sam had been standing next to the kid 24/7 for the past week; being within six feet of the thing couldn’t be too dangerous. 

“Sounds like Sam to think of it like that. In my experience, the big stuff was always too big, ya know? Plus, time travel is fucked up.”

Jack tilted his head to the side, looking over to Dean wide-eyed. “Really?”

Too much, way too much.

Just be nice. Just try it.

“Yeah, er, almost got my parents and my grandparents ganked, met a Phoenix. Met future me in a zombie apocalypse. Not great times.”

“How many times have you done it?”

Dean chuckled. “Too damn many.” 

And for a moment, a brief moment, he forgot who he was talking to. God, the kid looked like Cas. How fucked is that? The kid may think of Cas as his father, but he wasn’t. The damn devil was. But that smile? That wasn’t the kind of thing one gets from someone evil. 

Fuck. 

“Anyways, I'll, uh, let you get back to it,” Dean says after a moment, patting the back of the chair.

Just be nice.

He was nice, as nice as he could be. He did everything he needed to do. There you go. Check. Done. Cas’s memory was honored or whatever, his brother pleased. Dean could be done now.

“Wait! Um. Dean…” Jack called out, half standing.

“Save it. ‘Kay?” Dean’s eyes stung. He refused to cry, though. Not in front of this freak. Dean couldn’t afford to seem so weak. 

Jack held something back, Dean could tell. He made the same scrunched-up face, all the eyebrows, as Cas did. Eventually, though, all Jack said was, “Alright.”

“Alright,” Dean repeated, trending backwards out of the room. 

“The other shoe will drop,” John said. “You know it.”

“I know,” Dean muttered to himself, finding the whisky decanter in the next room. The easy way out.

“He’s just a kid,” Cas reminded him.

“I know that too,” he whispers as the first amber drop falls to his tongue.

****

Dean spent most of his day in his room again, surfing through porn and newspaper articles on his laptop. He didn't find satisfaction in either. Dean didn't end up coming down for dinner, no matter how many texts from Sam (three) blew up his phone. At some point, he plugged in a pair of crappy wire earbuds to his phone and turned on his liked-songs.

“Now here I go again

I see the crystal visions

I keep my visions to myself

It's only me who wants to wrap around your dreams

And have you any dreams you'd like to sell?

Dreams of loneliness

 

Like a heartbeat drives you mad

In the stillness of remembering what you had

And what you lost

And what you had

Ooh, what you lost”

Dean did not cry. He simply let the music keep on playing, waiting for sleep to take him—finally—from himself. Plus, the pill from his go-bag’s first aid kit (a grocery bag full of a needle, thread, and painkillers) was supposed to help. It was no real surprise when it didn’t.

Dean couldn’t tell if imaginary Cas wandered over to him or vice versa, but for a moment, he just didn’t seem to care. 

“You’re going crazy,” he could hear his father say.

“I don’t care,” he whispered back.

Because for a brief moment, Cas was in front of him again. Not his damn kid—kinda—just a figment of his imagination running off fumes. 

Castiel—in his trench coat, that tie, those sensible shoes—wandered over to his bed, sitting on its edge like he used to when curing Dean from his nightmares. He supposed the Angel was doing the same now, as life had turned into its own kind of nightmare.

“He’s right, you know," Cas told him, the bottom of his coat almost, just almost, brushing Dean's foot. 

“Oh, not you too,” Dean groaned, weakly grinning for the first time in a week. He relaxed into his headboard. 

Cas shrugged. He fidgeted with the sheets, unable to meet Dean’s eye. 

Dean wanted nothing more than to run over and wrap his arms around his friend again, but he knew that’d only break the illusion. And part of him just needed the dream for a moment.

“I need a fucking drink.”

“You need a ‘fucking’ hug.” 

Oh, the air quotes. Those stupid fucking (amazing) air quotes, he thought.

“I do not.”

“Don't argue with me, I'm in your head. You're arguing with yourself. And only crazy people do that,” Cas teased.

Dean snorted. “Then maybe I'm crazy.”

“You're not exactly sane.”

“Your people skills are just amazing from ‘cross the veil.”

“Sarcasm,” Cas hummed.

“Yeah, Cas, sarcasm.”

Castiel seemed to relax then, his eyes meeting Dean’s blurry ones. Even through the haze of his vision, he could see Cas lean back on the shallow footboard. 

“You need to eat, especially after mixing substances, the effects of which will only increase and worsen on an empty stomach.”

“I don’t wanna eat, Cas. Please.”

“Hm. Well, you don’t have to go far. I know there’s a box of Cheez-its in your closet.”

“How did you—”

“Eat, Dean. I can wait.”

Dean grumbled something close to, “Fine.”  He dragged himself to his feet, the journey to his closet much more difficult than it should have been. He stumbled on shaky legs, knocking over multiple items from his desk. Almost falling flat on his face, tripping over a spare pair of boots. 

Soon enough, he did get the Cheez-its, and he found his way back to the bed. By the time he made it back to bed, Cas had moved. Now the Angel took up half the mattress, his shoes off, tossed to the floor, his tie loosened, leaning on the headboard. Dean laid next to him, almost touching, but he never did.

“Eat,” imaginary Cas commanded, so Dean did.

The artificial cheese was not as repulsive as he’d expected. The nausea he’d felt for days eased the more he ate and was virtually gone by the time the box was gone. 

“You need to sleep this off.”

“No, I don't.”

“Now look who’s being a baby.”

The laughter rolled off the tongue and then, on the very next breath, his stomach sank. 

“This isn’t real,” he could hear his father hiss. “You're dead.”

This time, Cas chuckled, that low growly snicker that rested with the dust in the air. "And now you've just remembered. I prefer it when you don't do that.”

“Yeah, says the dead guy." He couldn’t tell whether there was an edge of humor or resentment to his statement. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

The longer he stared at the ghost lying next to him (Not even a real ghost, he’s dealt with that before. He’s survived that. He doesn't know if he can live with the voice in his head staring back at him in corporal form), the more he thought he’d be sick. He needed a drink, oh fuck did he need a drink. He needed to dull this; he needed it to stop. He knew better than to take anything else. Then again, drinking—and some other stuff—was what got him in this mess.

“You drink too much," Cas pointed out the moment the thought crossed Dean’s head.

“I know that, Sherlock…”

“Hm. I'm not here to heal your liver anymore; you shouldn't do it as much."

“Fuck off, Cas…” 

He lifted his chin up slightly, just to get a better view of his long-gone friend. Cas was always something else entirely, even from the moment they met, and Dean thought he was just some dick Angel; he was always something. But everyone thought that about Castiel—because who wouldn’t?

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

Dean could almost feel his friend's hands fall into his hair, running his hands through the greasy mess without complaint. He could almost feel himself lean into the false touch as he awaited a response. 

“No.”

“M’kay.”

Dean shuffled closer to imaginary Cas, and Cas, in turn, moved closer to him as well. Real-life Cas would never do that, Dean knew. Sobar Dean would never do this either. Sobar Dean would also never feel his eyes flutter shut, the invisible touch comforting in a surrealist way. 

When Dean drifted into sleep, he did not dream. He did not stir. He was all but dead to the world. And the second he was, imaginary Cas was too.

Sam texted him again.

He didn't answer.

****

He woke up around midnight, the outro to some Beatles song running through the earbuds abandoned on his mattress. Dean groaned, his head a wreck. He looked over, Castiel was gone. Normally, this would have sent Dean into a spiral, but it became apparent very quickly that he had other problems. 

Outside his door, there was a golden glow, illuminating the sliver between his doorframe and the door. Not the glow from the bunkers' hallway lights. Something more.

A glow that beat with his pulse. Pulled him, drew him in. An angelic glow.

Oh, fuck.

Dean leapt out of bed. He didn't put on his robe, or brush his teeth, or do any of the basic maintenance one normally does after they get up. In his sweatpants, an AC/DC t-shirt with a hole in the color, and a pair of slippers, he shot down the hallway. 

The glow came from the library, a powerhouse flame inside. 

“Jack!” he yelled, covering his eyes poorly with his hand. God, it was too bright. 

Jack turned around, catching the hunter’s eye. Green meeting glowing. 

“Dean?”

Power swarmed around Jack, small beams of his grace flooding around him like a star going full supernova. Every step he took towards the kid felt like he was fighting a wind tunnel. 

“He’s just a kid,” the Cas-like voice says, “Dean. Help him. Please.”

And before he knew it, Dean caught onto Jack's glowing arm, whispers of golden light swelling around them. Still, as it burned, Dean held on, gripping the kids' damn tan jacket tighter. 

And he held on to the child swimming in power until a district pop rang throughout the room. 

The library was empty. There are no traces of light or Jack's mojo to be found. Then again, there is no Jack to be found either. Or Dean. 

Sam wanders down the hallway just then calling out, “Dean?” in a spell-torn voice. “Jack?”

But there's no one left in the bunker to answer his calls.  

Chapter Text

“When they come back, everything you had ever felt for them will come rushing into your bloodstream again. When they come back, you will breathe in their name like an old memory, it will rest softly on your lips like it had never left. When they come back, the laughter will be the same. The touch. The hope.”

— Bianca Sparacino, If They Come Back, Do Not Let Them Break Your Heart Twice

Flying with Jack was unlike anything Dean had experienced before. With Cas, it was always smooth sailing, over in an instant, quick, waitless, and efficient. With Jack, however, it felt like it took hours, janky like driving on a dirt road in a snowstorm, confusion and uncertainty reeking from the boy every step of the way. If Dean dared to think he was nauseous before, let’s just say it was nothing compared to what he felt now.

Landing too was a completely different experience. Instead of calmly touching land, Dean fell to the ground, grass beneath his palms, the force of a thousand turbines behind him. A ringing pierced his ears, loud and unpleasant. The kind of ringing that made your chest clench and your eyes bleed. He clutched his palms around his ears, trying and failing to get up to his feet. What the fuck, he thought, what in the actual living fuck is that? 

“That is how you die, boy,” John mocked distantly.

The ringing grew, building and building and building. Dean couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe. He could feel it as the wine resonated with every hair on his body. He could feel the ringing tear him apart. His head was squished between the jaws of a vice, his eyes about to pop out at any moment, blood dripping down his cheeks like tears. 

This is no way to die, he thought, what the fuck did I do to deserve this? (Well, other than the obvious.) 

The pressure only grew, unbearably so, until a hand curled around his shoulder, and the ringing and the pain came to a halt almost instantly. 

The blood disappeared instantly, his shoulders slacked, his heart beat raced, but soon enough it was stable, his eyes now resting comfortably in their sockets—a feeling he never knew to be grateful for.

Dean opened his eyes. The sun was too bright—when did they get outside?

“Jack?” he muttered, the blurry bright world coming into focus. 

The child—spawn of the devil—nealed next to him, quickly retracting his hand. The golden glow of Jack's eyes was fading back into their natural hazel shade. 

“Hiya, Dean.”

Jack sat back, crosscrossed legs folding under him. Wings sprouting from his back. Wings. Golden wings, with a slight brownness to them on the edge of every feather. What the fuck???

His expression was faltering between ‘I don’t know if you’re mad at me or not’ and ‘isn’t this cool?’ 

Dean did not think whatever this was to be cool. I mean, sure, the salty scent of the ocean was one of the first things he noticed (after the ringing), and the sky was a near-perfect shade of blue, cloudless and forever expanding. Tree leaves shifted in the background, their ruffling not to be missed. The sun's heat burrowed into Dean’s arms, early beads of sweat melting into his AC/DC t-shirt. But this was not cool. And this was not the bunker.

Obviously.

So where the hell did Jack take them on his nuked-up temper tantrum? Why did the kid have wings? Angels don’t have wings! Not from what Dean could see!

“What the hell—” Dean muttered, his brain barely having enough time to catch up with his body before he shouted, “woah!”

He dove down, taking Jack with him, as two things flew above them. 

“On your left!” one of them, brown wings, yelled a moment too late.

“On your right!” the other one, smaller black wings, shouted a moment after. 

It was nothing like Dean had ever seen before. Sure, Dean had seen many monsters in his time, everything ranging from black goo with a soap allergy to werewolves who practice dentistry. But he’d never seen a monster like this.

Dean’s heart thumped louder than before. Maybe it was a Harpie? Yes, he’d read about something like that before. Or some kind of Shifter? Hell, if Dean didn’t know better, he would say they looked like Angels… shit… Jack… wings…

“Jack?” Dean murmured, his voice shriveled. The figures were gone before he had a chance to confirm his suspicions. 

Jack swallowed the lump in his throat. “Huh?”

“What did you do?”

Jack leaned back slightly, letting out a pent-up breath. His wings curled into his side, some of the feathers ruffling. “I figured… if I couldn't bring Castiel back, I'd just go to him.”

“What the hell are you talking about right now? Where are we?” Dean hissed, fighting the urge to scream. Not even the ocean side breeze and bright green grass blades could offset the level of pissed off Dean felt.

Jack shrugged. “Earth. Somewhere that'll one day be East Asia, I think.”

Then it hit him. The real question he should be asking. “When are we, Jack?”

The boy grew sheepish. “Um. It's hard to say. I, er, overshot by a bit. Erm. ‘Before,’ maybe.”

“Before what?”

“Everything.”

Dean stares back at the kid, gobsmacked. “What?” he demanded.

“This, I think, is, um, the creation of the universe.” His eyes shifted uncomfortably, his gaze unsure whether meeting Deans is the right move or not.

It was only now that Dean registered how sick the child really looked: clammy skin, visible sweat, green competition with purple hughes, a slight tremor to the hand. Dean didn’t care.

Dean wanted to yell. He wanted to scream. He wanted a drink. He wanted to drive off in the Impala, leaving all the stupid people behind him in the haze of the dust kicked up from his tires. But Dean did none of these things. 

So, instead of screaming or offering to aid the child in his sickness, he took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Just be nice,” Cas whispered in the back of his mind.

“Alright. Fine. Fine!” he let out, getting off his ass and finally standing. “Wearder shit has gone down so fine.” 

He offered Jack a hand, which the boy gratefully took. Once he was to his feet, Dean took his hand back, wiping the transferred sweat on his robe.

He felt something hard in the pocket, digging it out, he found a flask. Oh, thank God. He took a swig of his flask—amber liquor running down his throat, leaving only that sweet burn in its wake—before pocketing it.

The trees were pushed back in the field, the ocean side grass patch they found themselves standing on only stretching out for another fifteen feet or so before it morphed into sand. Nothing around them—other than the obvious—seemed to be dangerous. Still, Dean's spidey scenes stood on end. They needed to go. Now.

“Can you get us back?” he asked Jack, in a manner he only hoped wasn’t as confrontational as it seemed.

Jack hesitated. “Not exactly.”

“Don’t yell,” the voice of Cas reminded him.

Dean bit his cheek. “Why the Hell not?”

“I…” Jack looked back down towards the edge, where the grass turned to sand and turned to the ocean. “The books said—”

Dean’s fingers dug into his palm, a slight tremor to the action. “I don't give a damn about the books. Try.”

Jack looked back at him sadly before his eyes shifted up above Dean's head.

“What—auh!” Dean grunted, flying backwards.

Someone—something—crashed into him. A bundle of limbs and black wings engulfed him, shoving him to the ground once again. A foot on his face, hands crawling over his chest, and the figure scrambled off him.

Why did the universe seem to be against Dean standing today!? 

The thing muttered vague apologies underneath its breath. It managed to crawl several feet away from a wind-swept Dean. 

“Oh, sorry,” it said. “Em. Hello—oh, my.” The thing turned around, meeting Dean’s eye. It rushed forward, trying, to spite its small size, to help Dean to his feet. “Are you alright?! Did I hurt you?” it asked, black wings unfurling. 

Yes, he thinks. And then, just as his eye meets the kids in front of him, time practically froze, just for three seconds.

The first second: Dean knew the moment their eyes met who it was. It was obvious, really. The universe was having a grand old laugh. His eyes looked so similar, the hair short and unkept, his wings—wings—exactly how he’d pictured them on those late nights when he let his mind wander. But smaller, much, much smaller. A halo, not a real one, just a thin ring above his head, glowing simply, almost imperceptible. Something anyone else would easily miss. He held himself differently. Like someone who’d never seen either side of an angel blade. Not cocky or overly confident. Young. 

The second second: he looked nothing like imaginary Cas. No trench coat, but a Jesus-like tunic. No blue tie, just a flower, though one not like anything Dean had ever seen, tucked behind his ear. No smile lines under his eyes, just a youthfulness Dean lost at five.

The third second: the man—or, well, boy—he looked at was dead. 

The world fell back into real time.

“Are you hurt? Can you talk? Are you sentient?” young Cas asked, a curiosity and excitement to his tone that felt so foreign for who it was coming from.

The boy let go of his hand once Dean got to his feet. It wandered back once more, his legs unable to stay still, his arms shooting behind his back. One wing twitched.

“I… I’m fine,” Dean mumbled.

The creature's eyes fell onto Jack, who was still sitting a ways away from where the Angel knocked the hunter to. Cas’s face melted into a depiction of someone who’d witnessed true horror. His jaw practically licked the grass beneath their feet. 

“Gabriel!” he yelled. “Help! Someone's hurt!”

Dean’s eyes lingered on the creature. Despite its small black wings, its short, black, messy hair, and blue eyes were oh so familiar. Oh. Oh. God.

“What? Cassie?” The brown winged one flew over, landing properly on his feet. He barely looked at Dean before he found Jack. “Move,” he commanded, shoving his way past Dean and… the other creature. “Hey there, little guy. How ya feeling?”

The big one leaned over Jack, placing a hand on his forehead, shoving him back to the ground.

“Dean?” Jack mumbled, now sitting.

“Is that your name?” the brown winged creature asked Jack gently.

“No, it’s, uh, his.”

Dean paid Jack no attention; he was far too busy staring at the other one. Angels. Not just Angels. His Angel. No—Nonononononononono. This… this is too much. Too bizarre. Too fucked. But, he guessed, that's what happened when harboring the anti-Christ. Could the Angels tell? Could they smell his unholiness? 

Cas didn’t look at him; he was paying attention to the nephilim and the archangel. Dean’s heart pounded in his chest; he could feel every individual beat rupture through him. Too much. Far too much.

“I’m dead,” imaginary Cas whispered.

Not right now, Dean thought. Not for millions of years, you're not.

“Oh. Then what are you called, my friend?” he could hear Gabriel—yes, Cas said Gabriel, right?—ask Jack.

Do they have vessels? Are they using their true voices? Is that what the ringing was? The fuck is with the wings? The halos?

“J—Jack.”

“Well, J—Jack. I’m going to heal you now. Or try to. This is going to sting a little, but hang in there.” Gabriel hovered his hand on Jack’s chest. It glowed. Dean looked away.

Dean’s head was swimming, pounding, and light all at the same time. He couldn’t look away. Cas was here—real Cas. Not the voice. Not the fake one conjured from nothing. Real Cas… and he had wings. Odd. Okay. Possibly not the weirdest thing about the situation, but something worth noting. He looked younger. Too young. Maybe the human appearance of a ten to twelve-year-old.

“Why are you helping him?” Dean asked instead of his other thousand questions.

Cas squinted, tilting his head askew. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“He’s a nephilum.”

Cas blinked. “A nephilum? What’s that?”

“You don’t know?” Dean stammered. “It’s the offspring of a human and an Angel.”

Cas stood too close. Far too close.

“A human?” Cas directed his attention to Gabriel. “Is that one of the things Father is working on with the design department?” he asked.

Gabriel hummed. “Not sure, bud. That’s more Raph’s department than mine—Be careful, kid.” He retracted his hand. “You’ll need to rest,” he told Jack, “don’t try flying again for at least a few hours. We can keep the spell on the human intact.”

Dean’s stomach lurched. “The spell? What spell? Am I under a spell?

“Jack here used a bit of his grace to put a thin layer over your eyes, allowing your brain to process all of this without melting your brain,” Castiel explained.

“Like celestial contacts?”

Cas squinted. “I am unfamiliar with ‘contacts’, but I am just going to say yes. It appears, though, that it was rather weak. Is something bleeding through?”

Oh, wings. Halos.

He nodded.

Cas hummed. “Let me take care of that.”

“Wait, wait, hold on a minute,” Dean interrupted, shifting his weight from one foot to another in a petty attempt at what some therapists would call regulation. 

But Cas’s hand was too quick; he pressed two fingers to Dean's forehead before the man could protest. The wings were out of view not a moment later.

“We need to get home,” Dean hissed, shoving Cas’s hand away from his face.

Cas took a step back, looking at him, confused. “You are home.” His hand hovered in the air, like he didn’t know what to do with it for a moment.

“No,” Dean groaned, “I mean—”

Gabriel scuffed from his place next to Jack on the ground. “He’s not from this time, little brother. Can’t you see it? Smell it on his funny clothes?”

The little Angel sighed. “Oh, yes. How could I miss it?” There was no gravel to his voice like the original Cas. No hardness. No hostility or heartbreak, just wonder.

“It’s alright. You're still learning,” Gabriel assured him.

Jack lay on the ground, ostracized from the conversation, visibly confused and tired. Every time Gabriel reached for him, he flinched. Every time Cas spoke, his brow knit.

“Where is home for you then?” Cas asked. 

“With me,” other Cas muttered. 

“When is home?” Gabriel corrected.

Dean didn’t want to answer, but he did. “2017.”

Cas: “Your home is numbers. Fascinating.”

“I’m sorry, who are you again?” Jack spoke up.

You can’t recognize a father you’ve never met, Dean wanted to point out, but didn’t.

“Oh, apologies. I have many names at the moment… em… I suppose Castiel is the most commonly used. That is Gabriel, my brother.”

Jack’s jaw practically hit the floor. “You… You’re Castiel?”

Cas somehow grew even more confused. “I just said that, didn’t I?”

“Maybe humans aren’t the brightest of creatures,” Gabriel suggested.

“No, I suppose they aren’t,” he agreed.

“Okay, I’m gonna need a bit of room. This next bit is gonna get messy.”

“Wait—Wait! Just. Castiel. I… please, I have so many questions—”

Gabriel pushed the antsy child back to the ground. “No—no, kid. Another time, maybe. Right now you're wounded. Perfectly fixable. Um. Cassie, why don’t you take the ‘human’ for a walk or something? Even with the ‘contacts,’ I don’t think it will be good for him to see this.”

Cas nodded, motioning for Dean. “Come on, let’s let Gabriel work.”

Jack looked like he wanted to beg Cas to stay, but he chose to keep his mouth shut. Maybe a part of him pitied Dean and wanted him to have this. Or maybe this was all some big ploy to get Dean out of the way so they could ambush Jack. The hunter just couldn’t decide.

“Oh… Um… O—Okay,” Dean blubbered awkwardly as the Angel took his arm and pulled him away towards the beach.

Young Cas. He was talking to Castiel as a kid—or as close to a kid as Angels got.

The sweet, salty smell of ocean water only grew stronger the closer young Cas brought him to it. In another time, Dean dreamt of bringing his Cas and his brother to a beach like this; tiki drinks with dumb little umbrellas in hand, fighting off seagulls when they tried to take their food, sand in the impala for weeks after, swim trunks and thin t-shirts, sunscreen and flip flops. That would never happen, of course. He and Sammy had far too much to do back in their time. And Cas… well, you know why Cas wouldn’t be able to come with. 

In the distance, Jack let out a scream. Dean chose to let that be drowned out by the ocean waves slapping against rock and sand. Castiel’s small footsteps trailed next to his. This was surreal. 

He wondered about the blue flower behind Cas’s ear. He thought back to how, if Dean's own father had ever caught him with a flower in his hair as a kid, he would have been thrown to the wolves. Or beaten to a pulp. Maybe both. 

“You look shaken up—do you need to be healed?” Cas asked, breaking his thoughts. Apparently, Castiel, no matter the year, always had a way of dragging him back to reality. “I’ve never properly healed someone before. I’d love to give it a go.” The young Angel’s eyes widened, grinning. 

If Dean could still see the wings, he knew they’d be outstretched and fidgeting. 

“I… Um.. No, Cas. I don’t need to be healed,” he told him, keeping his eyes on the horizon line in front of him. On the trees, and the water, and the sky. 

“Okay then. Erm.” Cas paused a beat before asking, “What are you exactly?”

Dean scuffed. “What am I? I’m human.”

“Yes. You said that, but it doesn't really answer my question. You're not an Angel and you're all…” young Cas gestured towards Dean’s body, “googey. Is that what humans are? Goo?”

“Gooey? Gee, thanks, Cas. You really know how to flatter a guy.”

Cas blinked. “Thank you. So are you gonna tell me what y—”

“You miss this, don’t you?” old Cas whispered in the back of his mind, before taking over. While Dean saw young Cas’s lips move, no words emerged from them. Instead, he was left with the image of Cas’s bitter chuckle. “It eats you up inside knowing you can never talk to the man you know like this again. It’s pathetic, really. I would never have felt remotely similar about you. When you died, I wouldn’t miss our talks. I wouldn’t even care. I’d be relieved that the asshole who stole my life was dead.”

Dean hated his head. Hated how he twisted that voice of all voices against him. His angel on his shoulder turned against him.

At least when John did the belittling, that was bearable. Typical even.

“Can we just talk about something else?” Dean snapped. “No. You know what? Let’s not. No more talking. Not today. Not to you.”

The real Cas’s face sank. “I’m sorry. Did I do something to upset you?”

“No… I should be the sorry one… it’s just…” Dean let out a sigh, shoving his hands in his robe pockets, fingers shuffling between a few rumpled-up old bills and his flask. “This is all a little much.”

“What do you mean?”

“I really don’t wanna talk about it,” Dean lied.

Young Cas nodded. “Okay. Then we won't.”

Real Cas would be worried about Jack; instead of leaving him with Gabriel, he would have sat by his side and held his hand, no matter how messy it got. Sam would do the same, even if it wasn’t safe for him to do so. If it were anyone but the anti-Christ, Dean would have to, but at this point, he would have taken any excuse to get away from the kid. 

Maybe Cas and Sam would have been sickened by that. Maybe Dean didn’t care. 

Maybe. 

“What’s that?” Cas asked as Dean took a swing from his flask.

“It’s, um, liquid courage.” Dean put away the flask.

“Humans need to drink to have courage?”

“No, not all of them.”

“So you’re a coward then? Need to drink to not be?” It wasn’t his words that hurt; it was that damn tone. No malice.

Dean sighed. “Something like that.”

Cas huffed. 

Silence fell between them once again. 

They ran out of beach after a while, and instead of turning on their heels and retracing their footsteps, Cas just grabbed Dean by the hand.

“Gabriel should be done by now,” he told Dean before the fluttering of wings answered any question that Dean had about what the kid was doing.

Even at a reasonably young age, Cas was still vastly better at flying than Jack was. They landed maybe half a second after they took off, standing as they were before. No ringing. No falling. Just an easy fly. Dean wasn’t sure if he could have handled anything else.

Gabriel sat up upon their arrival. Jack looked considerably better than before, still a few degrees south of healthy, but there was a visible improvement. 

Jack even, somehow, had a juice box in his hand.

“We better get back to it, Cassie,” Gabriel told his brother, striding over to him, clapping him on the shoulder.

You know, if Dean killed Gabriel right now, he would never become the trickster. He’d never kill anyone. And it would save the Winchesters a lot of trouble in the future. But if unsinking the Titanic caused as many ripples as it did, Dean couldn't imagine what killing an Archangel before its time would do.

It was hard to see how this man—the kind to run over and help a sick child—would become the trickster they knew. While logic would have made the fact of Castiel and Gabriel’s brotherhood simple, Dean did not run off logic. He couldn’t fit the pieces together. How could the same man who stuck Sam in a time loop for over a year be the older brother of Cas? How could Gabriel ever have considered leaving Heaven while Cas was there?

“Get back to what?” Jack asked from the ground, sipping gleefully on his juice. How did they even have juice boxes?

“We’re racing to see who can fill up the lake the fastest,” Cas explained with a wave of his hand, two buckets materializing. 

“Fill up the lake?” Dean asked.

Gabe nodded. “Yes. We're taking buckets full of ocean water and bringing it to that lake.” He pointed to the trees. “Over there.”

“That's it?”

“Well, yes.”

“Not, I don’t know, forging the first volcano, creating stars, talking to God?”

Cas shook his head. “No, we’re moving water from there to there.”

Gabriel tugged his brother’s hand. “Come on, Cas. I bet you can’t get back to the lake before me—”

The archangel flew off. In the distance, he could be seen near the ocean, filling up a large bucket he’d not had a moment before, until he took off again.

“That’s not fair! Gabriel!” Cas yelled before flying off, chasing his brother.

Jack sucked on the straw of his juice box; it rattled, hitting a nerve with Dean.

“Jack, we have to go before this gets worse,” he told the kid.

“What do you mean, gets worse? That's my father. I just met—”

Dean grabbed Jack’s arm, taking a knee next to him. “Lucifer is your father, not Cas.”

Jack shook his head, eyes hollow. “Not to me.”

Dean gritted his teeth. “Jack, you need to make the jump.”

“Dean—”

“We need to leave. Now.”

The boy set down his juice box. “Fine. I… I’ll try again.”

Dean painted on a grin. “Atta boy,” he patted the kid on the arm, standing.

If the Angel hadn’t fixed Jack’s spell, Dean would see Jack spread his wings wide. He would have noticed as the child's eyes glowed and flickered with power. Maybe then he would have known how bad the kid really was hurt. Maybe then he would stop them.

They flew off once more, leaving the Angels to their work.

Chapter Text

“At the end of the day, whether one returns to the past or travels to the future, the present doesn't change.”

― Toshikazu Kawaguchi, Before the Coffee Gets Cold

When Castiel woke up in the Empty—after a great deal of confusion with a cosmic entity—he did not expect to get out so easily. That is not to say he wasn’t grateful. The very moment he woke up in that field, the breeze pressing soft kisses to his newly resurrected skin, he had one thought and one thought only: Jack. So, yes, Castiel was one of the most grateful beings on the planet for just a mere moment.

But happiness, in any quantity, never lasted long for Castiel, now did it?

The Angel reached into the pockets of a trenchcoat (one that was a much darker shade of tan with a longer lapel compared to his previous two) only to find his pockets empty—not Empty empty, but just empty.

With a mind full of far too many thoughts, Castiel did his best to shake himself off and wander down the beaten-up country road not far from his… not far from his barrel sight. He briefly wondered whether it was Dean or Sam who picked it. Which one tossed the match into the fire that burnt his body to ash? Which one spread his remains among the wild flowers? Which one looked poor baby Jack in the eye and told him the one who was supposed to protect him (a father? No, not really. Guardian Angel? Hell no. The weird guy his mother picked at random, who was handed a whole lot of responsibility without a whole lot of warning or information? Yeah, that. But that doesn’t have the best ring to it, now does it?) was gone.

A wave of nasha hit Castiel. After only briefly making it to his feet, he staggered back down to his knees. 

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

A flash crossed Castiel’s vision—“Are you hurt? Can you talk? Are you sentient?” I had asked. Never before had I seen a creature as bright as this. Brighter than Angels, brighter than Father, brighter than every star I flew past day after day. Night after endless night.

“I… I’m fine—” it muttered.

I was worried I had upset it. How could I hurt something as bright—as beautiful—as the ‘human.’

The moment Castiel, present-day Castiel, managed to pull himself from the memory, another hit:

“Okay then. Erm,” I had said. I didn’t know how to talk to something like him. It was all mouth movements and rattling cords, no waves of celestial intent at all. “What are you exactly?”

It scuffed. A small smile stretched across his lips. Amused. “What am I? I’m human.”

“Yes. You said that, but it doesn't really answer my question. You're not an Angel, and you're all… gooey. Is that what humans are? Goo?”

The human laughed. It was everything to me. “Gooey? Gee, thanks, Cas. You really know how to flatter a guy.”

Cas grunted as he pulled himself to his feet. He should have known what it was the very second he awoke in the field. Should have guessed something like this would happen without him. 

Sam and Dean were great, don’t get me wrong. But they lacked any knowledge of young angelic children. Even if Cas didn’t know everything about the min-gods that were Nephilum, he was far more equipped than the brothers. 

The feeling that hit the Angel, for our non-celestial audience members, was that of time travel. Of your past getting ripped out from beneath your feet. All Castiel could do at the moment was pray that there was still a rug underneath to stand on. He should have known when he couldn’t feel Jack's pulsing golden power radiating in the air. 

The boy was lost in his time stream, like a gnat in a honey trap.

Oh, God. Castiel couldn’t imagine those little, fragile baby wings fighting against time’s flow. He couldn’t imagine the pain on untrained feathers.

He needed to find the Winchesters; he needed to find a way to Lebanon, Kansas. He needed to save Jack Kline.

****

The Angel desperately attempted to flag down a passing semi truck. It wooshed past him, speeding up if anything as it kicked brown-gray dust into Cas’s brand-new lungs. Castiel knew he wasn’t the typical demographic for such things—he couldn’t help but think back to a past vessel, how much easier this would be for her—but that didn’t stop him from sticking out a thumb. He waited for a car. A truck. Something.

Nothing.

One of the many benefits of being a celestial being of wavelengths is that even when your vessel’s feet throb in light pain, you cannot feel it. I mean, in some respect, you are aware of the sensation. But it is more like when your shirt has a hole in it. You may be aware of the whole, may even pick at the surrounding fabric, but it doesn’t affect you. 

This meant that long walks had very little effect on him, even if his vessel was pushing forty—the age when human knees begin deteriorating and their spines are more like paper clips. Castiel pressed on, walking many miles down the long, winding country road. He passed windmills, wheat fields, and a lot of dirt. Many cars passed him. None of them stopped.

Eventually, the Angel found the outskirts of a small town. Soon enough, that small town became thick with buildings, alleyways, and people. So, so many people. 

He managed to find a few quarters scattered along the ground outside of restaurants and local shops. He fed those coins into the slot of a small pay-phone box, knowing exactly who he’d call. He didn’t even have to think as he dialed the number.

Come on, Dean…

He was greeted by the tone of Dean Winchester's voicemail.

With a sigh—and the last of the remaining quarters—he tried again. This time, opting to dial Sam (the brother with a far better record of keeping his phone charged). 

“This is Sam Winchester,” the phone picked up. No voicemail.

“Sam—”

A pause. “Cas?”

A smile managed to spread across the Angel’s lips. It was so good to hear the hunter’s voice, even if it wasn’t his first choice.

“Yeah, Sam, it’s me. Where’s Dean?”

“Cas—”

“Where’s Dean?” he asked again. A bit more of a panic set in.

A part of his mind wandered back to those newly changed memories. A bathrobe. AC/DC t-shirt. Alcoholic breath.

“I…” Sam muttered. It was silent on the other side of the phone line. The whoosh of passing wind was as loud as a wind tunnel in Castiel’s ear. “I don’t know.”

Stillness. A wave of lightheadedness.

“You don’t know?” Castiel asked, calmly angry.

“Where are you?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Where are you, Cas?”

A rustling sound.

The ringing of clutched car keys snatched from a hook.

“A small town near where you spread my ashes,” the words were numb on his tongue. 

“I’ll be there in three hours,” Sam told him.

“Sam—”

“I’ll be there, Cas.”

His mouth was dry, tongue tacky as he spat out just three words. “I believe you.”

****

Castiel spent the next few hours wandering from storefront to storefront. At one point, he was stuck sipping water in a random coffee shop until they kicked him out. Eventually, he settled on a bench in front of a record store, desperately trying not to look like a creep as he people-watched.

His mangled black wings felt heavy on his back, even if they didn’t contain any mass in the human-perspective, traditional sense. Their scars and burns were potent against his skin. Such ugly wings. Such an ugly history.

When the deep rumble of the Impala’s engine rang through the street, Castiel let out a pent-up breath. 2 hours and 57 minutes after they hung up the phone, Sam had finally arrived. Castiel barely even had time to stand before arms were wrapped around him, a hug.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam mumbled into his trenchcoat.

“Hello, Sam.”

They pulled back; affection was never awkward with Sam like it was with Dean. Well, awkward was a bit of a scratch as Castiel never felt bad or shameful for giving his best friend a hug after the end of the world or one of their deaths. He supposed what felt awkward were the small touches, unlike a climactic hug or pat on the back. What was awkward was all those times Castiel longed to reach for the hunter’s closed hands when on a mission, all those times their arms brushed as they wandered together like magnets, all those times Dean shot up from the other side of the table when their feet bumped together.

“There’s a lot to catch you up on,” Sam told him, managing a grin.

“Jack is lost in my time stream.”

Castiel assumed it would be better for him to ‘rip off the bandage,’ so to speak. No point in wasting precious time on any more pleasantries than they already had.

Sam gawked at him. “What?”

“I can feel it,” he said, hands in pockets, wandering over to the big black car, “the pull of his magic mangling in my past. I have flashes of moments, but I can’t place where he is.”

Sam’s mouth hung ajar. He half-jogged over to the driver’s side of the car.

“Cas, Dean’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“With Jack, I think. I hope. I—I woke up one night and just poof. Both of ‘em just gone.”

Dean is lost in my past. 

Memories of blades and blood and war flooded in. Of darkness, Hell, righteousness. So much Dean Winchester shouldn’t—couldn’t—see. 

Castiel let his head fall back lazily to the headrest. “Dean is time-traveling with a baby,” he stated, dazed.

Sam turned as much as one could with a steering wheel in front of him. “No—Jack's not… he’s in the body of an early twenty-year-old.”

“Huh.”

It made sense, in a way. If you had the power and perceived maturity to be an adult as a kid, would you choose to not be an adult? Children as a whole are in such a rush to grow up, yet adults constantly suppress the desire to grow young by their side. As a result, all people walk this strange middle ground of insecurity, as they all believe they should be different than what they are.

Angel had no such issues. When they were created, their forms—true forms that is—were what they were always going to be. No reproduction meant no evolution, and so did not entail any kind of aging process.

Castiel supposed that if Jack insisted on being an adult so young, maybe he truly was as wonderfully human.

“Cas, things were bad,” Sam told him, knuckles white as he clutched the steering wheel. “After you died—”

“That doesn't matter.”

“Of course it matters.”

“Not right now,” Cas snapped.

Thinking about death—the Empty—was not an option. They had a cause: find Dean and Jack. Nothing else could cloud their judgment.

“Fine. But, I’m worried. The two of them… they’re not good together, Cas. How do we get them back?”

Thinking aloud, Cas said, “Heaven’s not powerful enough to time travel. My memory’s not good enough to pinpoint a date or location. ”

Memory was always a sore spot with the Angel. From Naomi to more emotional reasons, there seemed to be little hope in that regard.

“Maybe the books in the bunker have something?” Sam suggested, turning the key in the ignition. “A tracking spell plus a time-traveling one?”

The roar of the engine shook the car as it shifted gears.

“A tracking spell across space and time?”

“It’s worth a shot. Do you get anything better?”

Castiel hesitated.

He did not.

Sam let a small smile pass across his lips as they rolled off. It would be a long three hours back to the bunker. Silence hung in the air with nothing but the occasional quip as company. Even then, in the silence with his friend, Castiel was glad to be back home, despite the black ink he swore he could still feel underneath his skin.

Chapter Text

“I suppose it’s not a social norm, and not a manly thing to do — to feel, discuss feelings. So that’s what I’m giving the finger to. Social norms and stuff…what good are social norms, really? I think all they do is project a limited and harmful image of people. It thus impedes a broader social acceptance of what someone, or a group of people, might actually be like.”

― Jess C Scott, New Order

Boots to the ground, a knot in the small of his back, and with a desperation to change his clothes kicking in, Dean landed with Jack on some rich asshole's lawn. Or that's how it looked at least. The grass was trimmed to a near-perfect levelness, straight stripes running in parallel directions, not a weed or rock or blemish in sight. But the lawn, and its many hedges, was nothing compared to the house. Dean stumbled back when he caught sight of it. A mansion, really, tall as can be, a balcony extending from the second or third floor. 

Still, at the same time, Dean was not given an ample amount of time to admire the home or look up its net worth on Zello, as Jack stumbled back into him, falling.

“Whao. Whao, kid. You alright?” Dean muttered, steadying Jack, holding the kid upright in his arms.

“F… ‘m fine.”

“Yeah, okay. Em. Let’s get you some water. Come on.”

With half of Jack’s body weight being held up by Dean. The hunter carried the spawn of Satan to the porch and clicked the front door knocker three times. “Hand in there, kid,” he muttered under his breath.

“Damn, useless,” John told him.

“He just needs some rest. Pushing him won’t do good in this situation,” Cas argued.

“Both of you can it. I’ve got this covered,” Dean said.

Jack's eyes hung heavy as they slowly blinked. “What?”

“Nothing, bud. Hello?” Dean slammed his fist on the door. “Hello!? I can hear the fucking music! Open up, you dick—”

The massive front door swung open, and a sun-kissed man in a suit that hugged all the right places stood behind it, a small smile on his face. His hair was a little long in respect to traditional male beauty standards, but not in the way that would make him a target of bored teenagers. He looked more like the type of guy you’d ask to walk you to your car after a long night out: mid twenties, well-shaven, a sweetness in his eye.

(Of course, on the other side of Dean's celestial contacts, he was not wearing a suit. In reality, the ‘man’ was a bundle of light, firefly rings, wavelengths, and eyes. He was not really sun-kissed; that’s just the way Jack’s magic channeled through Dean chose to represent what he really saw. In short, Dean processed the celestial being as being beautiful, because to picture him any other way would simply be wrong.)

(Dean Winchester certainly and definitely did not just think of another man as beautiful—and even if he did, it was a fact that every heterosexual male would back up. A beauty as this is simply one that defies gender, Dean concluded. That's it.)

“Hello—” the (beautiful) man said, cheerfully. His grin only widened as he caught Jack's eye. “A nephilim,” he gasped, “and a human. Can we help you?”

“Castiel, please,” another voice from behind the door interrupted. “Let them in. No need to be hasty.” The door swung open fully now, another man—gray hair, dark deminor—welcoming them. “Greetings, I’m Isham. Here.” He waved his hand, a glass of water spawning from thin air. He handed it to Jack. “You look like you could use it. Come in, come in.”

Dean helped Jack through the door, the poor kid's shaky legs treating him like a newborn deer. Ihsam put a hand on Jack’s shoulder and acted like that small act did lots of good.

“Castiel,” Isham told the man closing the door, “keep our guest here entertained while I help the little one.”

Cas nodded, neck stiff. “Yes, sir.”

It took Dean a moment too long to fully let Jack go, but in the end, the child wandered off with Isham, the pair disappearing through a hallway off to the side, lost to the massive crowd spread out through the entire manor.

Dean had only seen crowds of this size at crappy rock concerts with loudspeakers and overpriced beer. The room was not nearly as loud as it should have been, a fact he assumed his human nature was at fault for. 

Castiel wandered past him; nothing but a slight turn of the head indicated he had no intention of Dean coming with him. Of course, Dean rushed after the Angel immediately, not caring whether the guy wanted him there or not.

“Geeze. Didn’t know Angels were the partyin’ type,” Dean muttered as they made their way into a place that seemed to be the embodiment of every ballroom from every crap cartoon ever. 

Circles of Angels—male and female and other forms alike drifting throughout the space, each dressed in modern attire to spite their historical presence—danced in waves. They shifted towards and away from each other, swaying and throwing their arms up gleefully. Every move they made was precise, choreographed. Like a drill implanted in each of them since birth.

“The gatherings of Heaven have been known to inspire a certain level of festiveness in us all,” Castiel told him, drifting closer to the center of the room. “Though I don’t think we’ve ever had a human come to one of these things before. Come on.” His smile widened as he grabbed Dean’s hand. “Let’s dance.”

“No—I, uh, I’m good,” Dean tugged his hand back, placing both of them in his robes pockets.

He was severely underdressed for this occasion. Pajamas vs. monkey suits kind of underdressed. Though no one seemed to bat an eye.

“Why not?” Castiel asked as a couple pushed past both him and Dean to make their way to the dance floor. The Angel and Human hovered in the odd in-between place of the ballroom, between where a mob of Angels danced and clusters of Angels chatted eagerly with drinks in hand. 

“I… I don’t know the moves.”

Cas reached for Dean's hand again, only to miss. “That’s alright. Just follow my lead.”

Dean took a step back. “We’re both dudes.”

Cas took a step forward. “I’m an Angel, not a man. What would make you think such a thing?”

Right, contacts.

“Um. Nothing.”

Gently this time, Cas reached for his hand, interlocking their fingers, a cold palm pressed flat against a warm, slightly sweaty one.  “So there’s no reason not to. You never know. It might even be fun.”

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat, the presence of Castiel’s hand in his being very apparent, a sense of ease falling upon him. He let go of the thought of Jack out of his sight, of the yellow curtain and the hunter's funeral, of his father's past scolding for situations like this, and all his biases piled up from the past three decades of his life. Dean took a breath of fresh air—possibly his first in years, Cas’s hand a virtual emotional anchor.

Instead of running, Dean smiled and teased, “You? Fun?”

“I would like to inform you, sir, that I am very fun…” he chuckled, his smile faltering, “on occasion.”

Before Dean even knew what he was saying, he leaned forward and muttered, “Prove it.”

And so, Cas did. He pulled Dean into the eye of the storm. It became very clear, very quickly, how little Dean knew what he was doing. The Angels gathered in a large circle, each with a partner (male and male, female and female, male and female, it didn’t seem to matter). The leader started by placing a hand on the follower’s shoulder, the other hand falling to their waist. Dean copied the motion in the opposite direction, his right hand on Cas’s shoulder, his left hand on his waist. They started out swaying easily, letting the dancers all adjust to the tune of the small band—a bundle of string instruments in the corner—then, the beat picked up. Overall, the moves were nothing too complicated. Dean managed to get by on only Cas’s gentle guidance and peering at the other dancers from the corner of his eye. 

They trotted in a large oval, spinning and throwing their arms in the air, cheering and laughing with one another. Dean quickly forgot about any discontent associated with dancing in Cas’s arms. Of course, any peace found in this moment came crashing down when Castiel turned and dipped him.

“Are you alright?” Cas asked, before swapping Dean back up, carrying on to the next move. “You look sick.”

Dean nodded, spinning Cas before drawing him back in. “I’m just, uh, on the opposite end of this kinda thing. And, ya know, you’re… you.”

“Have we met?”

Shit. 

“Er, briefly,” Dean lied, “a few hundred years back.”

He pushed back any thought of those late-night drives in the Impala, Dean letting Cas pick out the music on the promise to just not tell Sam. He couldn’t think about forcing Cas to watch Tombstone in the deancave six times on those late sleepless nights between cases. He forced every memory of Purgatory—the portal, Cas’s beard, the river, Benny—away. 

For just a second, they didn’t have a history. For just a second, there wasn’t a river ten miles thick between them. No fights. No resentment. No sacrifices. Just them.

Cas tugged Dean's hand, dashing behind Dean and spinning him around until they were back to being face to face. “Oh, I don't remember you.”

“That’s alright. Not really memorable.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

Cas caught his eye, a glimmer of star dust in the ocean of his eyes. For half a second, Dean almost lost himself in them. God, Cas was beautiful—no. No. Nope. Not happening. 

Dean cleared his throat, putting an extra inch between him and Cas. “So, umm, what’s with all this?”

“The festivities? Like you said: a party.”

“But why are you having a party?”

For the whole night, Castiel had worn some kind of smile; from the moment he answered the door to just a second ago when he danced with Dean on the ballroom floor. Now, Cas’s smile sank. He shifted uneasily, any form of eye contact lost. “Some call it a ‘Last Night in Heaven’,” he muttered.

“Last Night in Heaven?”

Cas swallowed the knot in his throat and didn’t answer. 

“Cas?”

Castiel took a deep breath, still not missing a move in the dance. “As of two days ago, everyone here found out they got drafted.”

“Drafted?” he caught Cas’s waist, unscripted, bringing the pair to a halt. The other partners simply moved around them, like a river running around a rock stuck in the sand.

“To train and fight the war in Hell,” Cas told him, staring at his shoes.

Dean shifted his hand to rest on the other man’s jaw. He leaned down, forcing their eyes to meet. “Including you?” he then asked.

Cas nodded, Dean’s hand unmoving. “Yes. We ship out tomorrow. High noon. Training.”

The music cut out. The active dance floor paused. 

“Cas…”

“Shush!” Cas grabbed Dean's hand, ripping it away from his jaw. He spun them both around, staring at the top of a grand staircase. Everyone else in the room also looked this way. Several people wandered down the stairs, their heads held high, their smiles white and perfect, their hands waving at their fellow angels. “It’s the archangels,” Cas explained. “Just shush.”

They came to form a kind of V on the staircase, like geese during migration. At the head of this V was a man in a white and gold uniform, several metals blazing on the lapel, and an Angel blade in a holster on his leg. 

“That’s Michael,” Cas whispered into Dean’s ear, “ there’s Chamuel, Raphael, Jophiel, and Zadkiel. The archangels. Most powerful being in all of creation. It’s an honor to see them before they send us off.” There was a layer of forcedness to his tone, like the Angel didn’t quite believe what he said.

Dean scuffed as the group dropped into dead silence. “Yeah. Five floppy dicks walk into the room, watch everyone drool.”

Cas chuckled, hitting him on the side. His smile was back.

Michael at the head of the flock grinned. “Greetings, dear siblings,” he boasted, voice echoing throughout the hall.

“What a dick,” Dean muttered.

Cas rolled his eyes. “Stop it.”

Michael carried on. “We all, in this room, care for one another very dearly. And we, and my fellow archangels, are so very proud of all of you willing to dedicate your lives to helping our cause. Our fight against Hell. Yes, yes! Cheer! It is one of so few things worth cheering for.”

Dean scuffed. “Oh, come on.”

“Do you hear anyone else talking?” Cas hissed in Dean’s ear.

“Yeah, him. That's the problem.”

Michael laughed as the room clapped and hooted and roared with applause. “Your efforts will not mean little. They will not be taken for granted. Each and every one of you is sacred. And we thank you. Oh, how we thank you.” His gaze shifted when it fell on one person in the crowd. “Is that what I think it is? A nephilum? At my party?”

Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit.

Dean turned around, finding Jack standing between Isham and a brunette woman. He looked relatively unharmed—hell, the kid even looked good for a change. He held a glass of water in one hand, a worried expression on his face. 

The crowd all looked back at Jack, each and every one of them clearly waiting for their leader to say how to feel. Even Cas held the same look, not wanting to feel anything out of line. 

Dean let out a pent-up breath when Michael carried on, saying, “How astounding. We love to see it.”

“What?” Dean scuffed.

Castiel sighed. “Issue?”

“You know what nephilum are?”

“Yes, obviously.”

“So why don’t you hate them?”

Cas turned to face him, a stare of complete and utter befuddlement across his face. “Why would we hate a being which is a physical representation of the love between Angel and mankind? Nephilim are to be cherished. Just as that connection is too.”

Dean's heart melted just a bit. He shifted uncomfortably, looking back to Michael, choosing to obsess about that later.

“Tomorrow you will depart on the first day of the rest of your lives. You will not be the same as you are now. You will be better. Stronger. Faster. So, now, enjoy your so-called ‘Last Night in Heaven’ and look around you and remember. Cheers!”

The archangels in their triangle finally fully made their way down the stairs. They each disperse around the crowd. The other Angels swarmed their brothers like reporters on the red carpet, their chatter eminently filling the silent void of the room. Now he finally understood why Michael had such an ego. 

“Let’s get some air,” Dean told Cas, tugging on his sleeve. “There’s a balcony upstairs, I think.”

Cas nodded, following the man.

Dean pulled the Angel up the grand staircase, several eyes following them and nothing more. Later, Dean might feel bad about leaving Jack in the wind to entertain a bunch of bureaucrats, but that was the same Jack (you know, the anti-Christ) who took Cas away in the first place. Sorry if Dean didn’t feel bad about not wanting the kid around.

But in the end, Dean was a fool to think he’d be able to have Cas all to himself right then. Even though the Angel possessed very few social skills—by a mere human standard—he, at times, was very popular among his own kind.

“Castiel!” a woman holding a glass of red wine called out, making the pair stop in their tracks.

“Bartholomew,” Castiel greeted, pulling his arm out of Dean's grasp in favor of shaking the woman’s hand, “it’s a pleasure.”

“I feel the same. I just wanted to pass on my condolences. Gabriel was a brother to us all, but he was a true brother to you. I am very sorry to hear about his departure.”

“As was I.” Cas looked back at Dean, smiling apologetically. “I, em, have to go though. Our guest is a bit agitated. You know how humans can be.”

Bartholomew nodded and whispered, “I understand. If you ever need—”

“Thank you, Bartholomew. Truly. Have a good night.”

Cas wandered back to Dean, his hand falling to Dean’s lower back, pushing the human away from the ever-thinning crowd of the second floor and towards two wide glass doors. They pushed through them, finding the balcony.

The night was cold, not unbearably so, but just enough to send goose bumps up Dean’s arms. Castiel didn’t seem to notice; he treated forward until he reached the black railing. He leaned over it, taking a deep breath of the fresh night air. If Cas was capable of feeling cold, Dean would have offered him his jacket (or robe in this case), but seeing as Angels were incapable of such things, this did not happen. Instead, Dean wandered next to the man, staring at the same lawn below as he did.

“God, was it stuffy in there,” Dean mumbled. 

“What does my Father have to do with this?”

Dean chuckled. “Nothing, Cas. Not a thing.” 

The air became even colder when Dean took a deep breath. He must have shivered. That was the only reason he could think of as to why Castiel took off his suit jacket and threw it over Dean's shoulders.

(Of course, that’s not what really happened. From Castiel’s perspective, he threw a wing over Dean’s shoulders and drew the human in close. Not that Dean knew this. But that would have explained why the jacket was so warm and the Angel’s hand so cold.)

“It’s gorgeous out,” Dean pointed out for no reason in particular—he supposed he just wanted to say something. 

“Yes, it is, almost a perfect replica of the eastern hemisphere this time of year.”

The navy sky line bled into black, the freckles of the cosmos glittering and gleaming high above. 

“Do you ever wish to see the real thing?” Dean asked.

Cas hummed. “I’ve seen it before. I’d love to visit again, though. But with the humans on a fast and early rise, we’ve been advised to stay out of the way for the time being.” He looked down, picking at his thumb’s cuticle. “It’s not the stars I miss, though.”

“No?”

He shook his head. “No. I miss the bees.”

“The… bees?”

For a moment, he couldn’t help but think back to the time Cas showed up on the hood of his car, naked, covered in bees. Not their worst memory together. (He could feel the ghost of John's disappointment just then).

“I also miss flowers. Plants and insects of all kinds, really. Their simplicity and organization are aspirational. Plus, the bumblebee is very fluffy.”

Castiel stared up at the half-covered cloud sky, and Dean stared at Cas. He relished in this version of the Angels' features, memorizing every freckle, every hair the moon light illuminated. 

“Have you ever considered… leaving?” Dean asked.

Cas just barely shook his head. Even from Dean’s distance, he could see the pink in his eye, the tears on the waterline, specks of water on his lashes. “I am not a rebel,” he hardly whispered.

“But, just think about it. You don’t have to fight or go to war—to Hell! You could get out early, live a life. Watch the bees, tend to flowers. Do whatever you want. Right now. You could just walk off, and no one would bat an eye. Why don't you?”

Castiel did not cry; Dean figured he refused to. “I… I’d be leaving alone.”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “I could go with you.”

Cas scuffed. “I don’t even know your name.”

Oh, yeah. That. It was almost too easy to forget how little Cas knew. He pretended it didn’t hurt his feelings. 

“It’s Dean.”

“Well, Dean, thank you for your concern. Really. But this is my home, my family—”

Dean launched forward, a desperation to be nearer to the other man growing strong. “This cult isn’t family.”

He grasped Cas’s hand, holding on like the lifeline it was. Cas stared at their point of contact before taking his other hand and laying it on top of Dean's.

“It is to me,” he choked out, voice growing hoarse. Dean waited, ready to wipe away the tears that never fell. “You think I want to fight? To hurt people? I don’t! I… I don’t. I… I was going to be an accountant… run the log book of souls. A week ago, just a week, I had the paperwork all set and ready to file with Michael.”

Dean wondered if his voice had ever sounded so soft before. “What happened?”

“Gabriel left. It’s hard to get word in with… with him, when you don’t have an Archangel on your side. I can’t leave. I can’t do anything else here. I’m stuck. By the time I got my letter, I figured, at least someone is telling me what I can do to help. A soldier of Heaven, Angel of the Lord, that’s who I am now.”

Dean clutched the Angel’s hand tighter. “You don’t have to be. Free will? Living for yourself? That’s what makes life worth living, not dying for  some bullshit cause you were manipulated into believing in.”

Cas sighed, eyes locked on their intertwined hands. He ran a thumb over Dean’s knuckles (knuckles with the remembrance of bruising from weeks before blemishing them, the Angel did not appear to mind, though). He met Dean's eye and took a step back. Dean's hands had never felt as cold as they did then, without the touch of the Angel.

“We’re talking in circles,” Castiel pointed out.

Dean hated the mere three feet between them.  “There’s nothing I can say to change your mind, is there?”

“Nor is there a thing I can say to convince you of my stance. You're kind, Dean, but not everyone can be saved.”

Words from nearly a decade ago (or technically thousands of years in the future) found him. “You don’t think you’re worth saving?”

That stupid, sad smile returned. “I know it.”

Castiel turned away, pushing open the balcony doors and rushing inside. Dean hurried after him.

“Cas, give me a break, man!” he yelled, practically chasing Cas back down the grand stairs and back into the ballroom. “Cas—”

“Dean! Castiel!” a familiar young voice called out. 

Both Dean and Castiel stopped in their tracks, turning to find Jack sitting on a stool at the small bar, grinning and waving the man over. In his hand, he still had a glass of water, though by now there was only a sliver of liquid left. Next to Jack, however, was a red-haired man in a brown blazer, chatting away to the child eagerly. 

“Jack?” Dean muttered, hurrying over to the kid. “Who the hell is this?”

The red-haired man next to Jack stretched out a hand. “I’m Anna. It's nice to make your acquaintance."

Dean nodded. Okay, fine. The fallen angel he fucked in 2004 was a dude now. Completely normal. Dean could feel his father's words before that little voice in his head could say a thing. When Castiel made his way next to him once more, he made a point to keep a little extra space between them.

Dean shook Anna’s hand. “Yeah, cool.” He took back his hand and said, “Jack, don’t you think—”

But Anna interrupted him. “And you are?”

“Apologies, I’m Castiel.” Cas reached out, shaking his hand. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“You were close to Gabriel, weren’t you?” Anna said.

Cas nodded. “Yes.”

Jack leaned over to Dean, whispering, “Who’s Gabriel?”

“A dick,” Dean told the child. 

“Sorry for your loss,” Anna hummed. “Well. I know someone who can make any rain cloud right. Balthazar!” he called out towards the dance floor. “Come meet Castiel!”

A man in a very tight floral shirt—only half the buttons done, showing off the entirety of his clavicle and a little too much chest for comfort jogged over. Dean became acutely aware of which part of the man Castiel was ogling at when he came over.

“Hello, darling,” the man greeted, sounding just like he would in the future. “Wanna dance?”

Cas glanced back at Dean, who made sure he held a blank face. If Cas wanted to have a night out with his frat buddy, that was his business, not Dean’s. Dean supposed he wasn’t even supposed to be here, so what right did he have over Castiel’s time?

(No, he wasn’t bitter. What would make you think that?)

“Uh, sure,” Cas answered, taking Balthazar’s hand.

“Wonderful,” the other Angel chuckled, dragging Castiel away. “Now, I must ask, what crawled up your ass and died?”

“I’m just starting to realize my displeasure towards humans.”

“Ah, aren’t we all?”

Their conversation faded out after that. Dean watched as they laid their hands on each other’s shoulders and hips, the music picking up pace and the pair running off, lost to the crowd. Dean swallowed the feeling bubbling in his gut. 

“I best be off too,” Anna said, setting his champagne glass down on the bar top. “Hanna looks like she’s about to start singing again. Oh, no. Hanna!” 

Anna ran off, launching herself towards the small Angel next to the string quartet.

Dean caught another glimpse of Cas with Balthazar, the Angel’s head whipping back in laughter. 

Dean grimaced, looking back at Jack. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yes. I think I’m ready for another jump.”

“Good, good.” Dean nodded, looking everywhere, but at the kid. “Hope the angels weren't too hard on ya.”

“They weren’t. They were kind, actually.”

Dean cleared his throat, awkwardly. “That, eh, that’s great. Happy for you.”

Jack hummed in agreement, casting silence over them for an unbreakable second. God, Sam was so much better at this than he was. Why couldn’t Sam be the one stuck with the kid?

“And how was your time with Castiel?” Jack asked after taking the last sip of his water and setting it on the table.

“Fine. Em. Yeah. Fine.” Dean slid off the borrowed blazer, throwing it over a barstool. “Ready to go?”

(Of course, it wasn’t really a blazer he threw off; in fact, he didn’t throw off anything. Yet a feather, black from the celestial point of view, was abandoned on the very same chair. All a matter of perspective.)

Jack nodded. “Ready,” he told him, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder. They were gone a moment after.

****

Later that night, just as things were wrapping up, Castiel scoured the crowd for the odd human from before. But no matter where he looked, the human (and his nephilim friend) were nowhere to be found.

“You ready to ship out, Cassie?” Balthazar asked near the door.

No, he wasn’t. Who was ever ready for war?

“Um. Yes. I suppose I am.”

He took his new friend's hand, and the pair spread their wings wide, readying themselves for take off.

They were some of the last to leave, each of them not ready to go for a multitude of reasons. But in the end, they did, leaving the mansion cold and empty. 

Chapter Text

“God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of "parties" with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter - they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship—but the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering.”

― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Selcouth (British English) - odd, unusual, or strange

This go around, Jack looked less sick, and they ended up on the porch. Maybe things were looking up on the third try. Then again, Dean Winchester should have known better when it comes to optimism. Jack did not stumble or fall back into Dean’s arms when they touched down; if anything, the kid only looked vaguely nauseous. The same mansion from before stood in front of them, every detail the same, down to the last stone in the walkway. Yet something felt different this time.

A year ago—for they’d only managed to jump a year—the house was bursting with light, music, and conversation so loud and welcoming it leaked to the outside. Now, only silence could be heard on the porch. No warm light burst through the windows. There were no signs of anything remotely pleasurable. 

Dean turned back to Jack, whose expression matched his own.

“You curious?” Dean asked him without the weight or judgment he normally greeted the child with.

Jack nodded. 

“Good, me too.”

Dean reached out, twisting the handle and throwing the door open. He didn’t bother to knock. 

The entryway leading to the ballroom was dim, but one booming voice rang through the halls. “Please, everyone, settle down. Settle down. Take your seats. This is a very exciting day indeed,” it bellowed.

Whereas a year ago, hundreds of angels laughed and danced in circles, spinning around, holding each other close, there now sat a stage and many rows of chairs. The first five rows or so were occupied by Angels in white and gold uniforms, tassels hanging off their shoulders and chests, buttons running down their perfectly fitted pants to the tips of their tall white boots. The rest were dressed in elegant suits and dresses of far duller colors than previously. Everyone here seemed solemn. None of those hidden traces of happiness from a year ago.

“Let’s take a seat in the back,” Dean told Jack, leading them to a nearly empty row of chairs.

On the stage was Michael, who was apparently always making a speech. “We gather here today to honor our new graduates of training, before they depart to their respective duties. For the last year, our graduates have studied under myself and my brothers, mastering many skills: taking vessels as you see them now, wielding Angel blades, the strategic art of battle strategy, enforcing the laws given to us by our Heavenly Father, and so much more.”

Something was extraordinarily punchable about Michael that day. If Cas were there, he would have told him so. Unfortunately, Dean’s only company at the moment was Jack, and something told him the kid would not appreciate the joke as much, only ruin it.

“We would like those who’ve graduated top of their field to rise,” Michael soon instructed. About a dozen or so of the Angels did. “Thank you. Now our secondary accomplished.” Around fifty rose, before taking their seat again. “And third ranking.” Almost everyone else rose then. “And our fourth.” 

Only one Angel stood. 

“We’re sure you tried your best,” Michael muttered as the haphazard applause for this Angel died down and she took her seat again.

Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun, the kind that makes your neck hurt just looking at it. Even with her back turned, Dean caught the familiar way her posture flexed, her shoulders drooping, back straight as an arrow. Even sitting within the masses, Dean saw how her hands fought to itch at the cloth of her visibly uncomfortable uniform, even for just a second. How she shifted awkwardly, outside of her own skin. 

The lowest-ranking angel of the graduating class was one Dean knew quite well. Cas was always Cas after all—even without the large black wings or blue eyes or the trenchcoat. 

This was Castiel in a female vessel.

“I don’t appreciate you gawking at one of my old vessels, Dean,” imagery Cas criticized.

Please, Dean dismissed, it’s not like real you would mind.

He wasn’t sure where that thought had come from. Real Cas probably—definitely—would have minded. And yet… Nope. Snap out of it.

(And yet Dean pictured the slight blush expanding across original Cas’s stubble, how he would have hidden a smile. Dean knew how they would both have gone on, forcing it to be nothing—not that Dean ever thought it would be something, of course. Dean would zone out, maybe while making dinner later that day, replaying the moment over again. Cas would come in and ask him what he was thinking about. Dean would tell him nothing. They wouldn’t talk about it. They never did.)

Michael carried on, giving a speech almost identical to the one from a year ago. The archangel pointed out how grateful he and the others were for the Angel’s sacrifice, stressing how strong and accomplished they had become. Dean didn’t believe a word of it. But every Angel there ate up every single bullshit word he said. After a while, the angels rose, the graduating ones stifling off into two lines like ants to a slice of watermelon.

Dean zoned out for most of this process. Michael made a handful of placed jokes to the crowd, but Dean completely missed them. Some Angels got to make speeches of their own, Dean didn’t know why, and didn’t know what they said.

But by the time the line reached Cas, the ceremony regained Dean's attention. She dropped to her knees like everyone else before her, muttering some words Dean couldn’t make out. Michael took a metal—one in the shape of a flattened rose—and clipped it to Cas’s lapel. Then handed over an Angel blade, which she took gratefully. Almost like she couldn’t believe they were actually giving her the stinking thing. Once she stood up, Michael shook her hand—making Dean want to kill the archangel—and went back to her seat.

The ceremony didn’t last much longer after that.

In all honesty, Dean very easily could have drifted off to sleep, but every time he came close, Jack would kick his shoe. The fucker. Soon enough, though, once everyone began to file out of the room, Cas and three others slipped something from behind the bar and dipped out the back door.

“Let’s go, kid,” Dean said, motioning for the kid to follow him out of the pews.

“Dean—”

Dean tugged on Jack’s hand, making sure not to lose him in the crowd this time around. 

The group's chatter and relentless sush-ing echoed through the hallway as the ground floor turned to the second, turned to the third. Dean could feel beads of sweat sticking to his shirt as he performed the balancing act of keeping far enough away from the Angels for him to go unseen, and close enough to eavesdrop. 

“Oh, Cassie, come on! Lighten up!” one of them laughed, the first discernible words of the conversation finally reaching Dean's ears. 

“I am of a sufficient weight class. Unlike some of us.”

“Ha!” a new voice cut in. “It’s funny, Anna, ‘cause he's making fun of your vessel. See? Clever.” 

“I can tell.”

They pushed through a door leading to the roof. Dean motioned for Jack to kneel next to him, pressing an ear against the door.

“This is all beside the point,” if Dean had to guess, he would suppose it was Balthazar who said this. “Dear old Castiel, I formally request you to get right old waisted with me and our very best friend here.”

Dean cracked open the door, peering onto the roof. He could feel Jack's breath on his neck; somehow, the kid always managed to ruin the fun parts of—well, everything, Dean supposed. They sat on the ground, Female Castiel cozying up against a man holding the bottle of golden liquid. Dean gritted his teeth, nudging Jack away from him.

“Well, when you put it like that.” Female Castiel snatched the bottle from Balthazar, hesitating for a moment—looking to Balthazar for a last beat of encouragement—before she took a swing.

“Yeah!” 

“Waho!”

Female Castiel hissed, whipping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I dislike you all very much.”

“Nah, you love us.”

“It’s just Castiel, you know,” his Cas said in the back of his mind. “Not male, not female, just Angel. How many times do I have to remind you?”

The three Angels sat in a triangle passing a bottle between them in a fashion that made Dean surprised there wasn’t a bonfire and a stoner playing Jumper on guitar. Female—nope, sorry, just Castiel leaned back against Balthazar, whose arm was wrapped around her shoulders. The top buttons of her uniform were undone, showing off just enough cleavage to be unfairly distracting.

Dean pushed the roof’s door open, sauntering through it with the confidence of an egotistical bull in a china shop. Jack hurried behind him. “Hi, uh, sorry. Don’t mean to interrupt—”

“Who are you?” the man with his arm around Castiel asked.

Castiel blinked. “Dean?”

“Who’s Dean?” Balthazar asked, his grip on Cas tightening.

“I, um, met him last year. At the Last Night in Heaven party.”

Anna tilted her head at an angle. “Jack?” 

“Hi, Anna.”

“What’re you doing here?” Castiel asked, pulling away from Balthazar’s arm. 

“Just stopping by.”

“Well,” Anna told them, “don’t just stand there. Take a seat. I promise only Bal bites.”

“And that’s only if you ask nicely," Balthazar added, smirking.

Jack went and found a space between Castiel and Anna. He exchanged a few odd words with Anna, though Dean heard none of them. He was preoccupied as he made a point to sit between Castiel and Balthazar, breaking them up, sending them several feet from each other. Mission accomplished.  

Castiel’s bun was undone, messy locks of dark brown hair falling over her pale face. If Dean had met this woman in a bar on any odd Friday night, he’d probably buy her a beer with the intention of taking her home, only, in the end, they’d end up chatting for hours. Instead of a one-night stand, this was the kind of woman who might offer a real date. In another life, things might have gone down this simply.

“Drink?” Balthazar sighed, offering Dean the bottle.

Cas rolled her eyes. “Bal, that’d kill him.”

“So?”

Anna gestured the golden bottle towards the kid. “Jack can drink it.”

“He’s underage!” Dean yelled. “No, you’re not drinking celestial Moonshine or whatever the fuck this is.”

Balthazar leaned back, muttering something to Cas, the Angel giggling like a god damn teenage girl in a chick flick. Okay, maybe it wasn’t a giggle. But it felt like a giggle. 

You know, Dean wasn't one to speak ill of the dead, but at the moment, Balthazar wasn’t dead, so Dean could say whatever he wanted. He could go on and on about the man’s stupid (obviously fake) British accent, and how he eye fucked everyone he looked at and—

“Better keep your head down,” Anna told Jack, catching Dean's attention, “while you're here. There’s a new law passing soon to outlaw nephilum.”

There it was. That’s the Heaven Dean knew and hated.

(Thank God Anna was back in a female vessel, now that little voice in Dean's head could shut it. Anna was a girl, Cas was a girl—the world was back in order. Wait. No. Hold on…) 

“That's just what the roomers say,” Cas pointed out. 

“And when have the roomers ever been wrong?”

“So you all just trust everything you all hear?” Dean asked.

Anna stared at him blankly. “Why wouldn’t we?”

Dean couldn’t believe she was the first here to fall.

“Because if the system is corrupt, then… What if you found out they were lying to you, huh? Fucking with your heads? What would it take for you to do something about it? To rebel? Leave?”

Balthazar answered with that stupid chuckle. “By God, he sounds like dear old Cas.”

Dean turned to the woman—Angel. “Really?”

Cas shrugged, looking down at the bottle sheepishly. As if questioning the obviously fucked system was anything to be ashamed of.

“What both of you don’t understand is how little we know; you're jumping to conclusions. I’m sure your skepticism isn’t nearly as warranted as you think it is.”

Dean scuffed. “Or you’re just a brainwashed son of a bitch.”

Jack seemed confused. “What does the spawn of a female dog have to do with this?”

“Forget it.”

Jack asked Anna a question about something or other, but Dean wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention (it probably had to do with cursing or dogs). Balthazar and Cas made eyes at each other from behind Dean's back—probably talking shit about the man on Angel radio. 

No matter how fast Dean fell out of the conversation, he didn’t mind all too much. Because Castiel was sitting right next to him. Her hand was only a few inches from his. A small smile shining across salmon pink lips. Castiel, in an almost unjustly hot vessel, was by his side again. Oh. The things he would do with a little time and—No. That’s his best friend he’s talking about. Gross. 

It didn’t matter how far Dean's thoughts escaped him, though. Any time Dean was with Castiel, no matter what evidence there was to argue otherwise, he couldn’t help but feel like he belonged. 

“Come on, fearless leader. Let’s hear a speech,” Balthazar teased Castiel. 

“I am no leader, Bal. If you don’t recall, I am at the bottom of our class.”

Anna hummed. “Something tells me you’ll be higher ranking than us all someday.”

Castiel—finally—smiled. “You think?”

“Definitely. You just asked too many questions in training. There’s no place for questions on the battlefield.”

“Maybe there should be.”

Dean never knew a smile could linger in the air. Even back in Cas’s old sun-kissed body from the year before, it was the same. Even in Jimmy Novak's crusty old meat suit, it was the same. Too many details passed from one body to the next. Castiel was so much more than a damn vessel.

“Ah, not this shit again, Cassie!” Balthazar groaned. “Every damn day with you.”

“Fine. I’ll drop it.”

“Now—Speech! Speech! Spe—”

“Okay, okay. Just shut up before you get us caught.”

Castiel stood up, and the white pants of her uniform covered small specks of dirt. She raised the bottle and said, “Here’s to us.”

Balthazar scuffed. “Come on, you can do better than that.”

“Here’s to us. As we are right now. Heaven is changing every day, warping into something unrecognizable. But we won't break with it. We will fight for what's right on both sides. Tomorrow we leave each other: Balthazar flying out to the Fifth Circle, Anna apprenticing under Zachariah—”

“And you with Uril going to the trenches,” Anna cut in.

“—that too. It won’t be easy. We… we will probably die in the coming months.” Cas paused, her eyes dropping to meet Dean’s, her eyebrows fraying. Dean nodded, hoping she got the message to keep going. “You know, for a species whose jobs are to manage part of the afterlife, I have no clue what happens when we die. I think about it, our dying, as I assume you do as well. Yet no one wants to talk about it. I suppose it is a rather morbid topic, but… if Michael and Raphael, and the rest of them, expect us to die for them, for their fight, we should know. There’s so much we should know but don’t.

“And what they have chosen to teach us is sick.” She reached into the holster on her hip, drawing her Angel blade. “A year ago, I wouldn’t have had a clue what to do with one of these, now—”

“Now you have the fastest take-out time of our entire class,” Balthazar pointed out. 

“The only reason they let you graduate,” Anna added.

Dean met Jack’s eye across the circle, the same sad look (a look which the others lacked) passing between them.

“I thought you wanted me to give the speech,” Cas chuckled bitterly. “A year ago, I wouldn’t have had a clue what to do with one of these. Now I’m a killer. We all are.

“My vessel was a woman named Natasha. She had a sister and a son. She lived a hard life, barely getting by every day—selling false intimacy to prudish, well-off men. It was slowly killing her, in more ways than one. I told her I would save her from it—that’s why she said yes after all. ‘I can bring you paradise,’ I told her. But now that I am here, knowing this is the skin I will wear as I march into the deepest trenches of Hell, demonic blood on my hands, carrying out orders—always with the orders—which I don’t know the true nature of… I can only be sorry. I now realize I lied to her. 

“We all want to think we’re going into this fight the heroes, I mean, that’s what we’ve been told after all, but we’re no heroes. We’re pigs led to slaughter under a faceless Lord that we call father. We all know it… Yet we’re going to do it anyway.

“So, here’s to us: the fools. For assuming any good could come from this.”

Castiel took a swing from the bottle before passing it to Balthazar.  Most of the group was silent after that, lost in thought or something similar.

“You alright?” Dean whispered to Cas. She didn’t even give Dean a sign she was going to storm off before she did. “Cas—”

“Let her go, she does this sometimes. Just needs a moment to calm down.”

Dean didn’t think he could hate Balthazar any more than he did right then. “Screw that. And you know what, screw you, asshole. If you actually cared about him—her, then you’d know the last thing she needs is to be left alone.”

“Please, every time I needed you, you left. Or let me leave. What makes it so different now, huh? Why do you get to pick and choose when my pain is worthy enough for your attention?”

Dean tried to ignore the voice. God, how he tried. A bit of him still believed it, of course. It wasn’t wrong. 

Castiel’s legs were dangling off the side of the very high rooftop. Even though Dean knew that a simple fall (even one at this height) wouldn’t kill an Angel, it still made Dean nervous. Just the same, Dean sat next to her, keeping his feet firmly planted on the lethal area of the roof.

“Shut up,” she muttered. 

“I didn’t say a word.”

“You thought it. You’re going to lecture me, aren't you? Tell me how irrational I’m being, that God has a plan, and I just need to trust it. Tell me to just follow the plan and keep my mouth shut, cut this ‘conspiracy theory crap’.”

Dean scuffed. “I’d never tell you to follow orders.”

“Then why are you here?”

Dean shrugged, watching Castil’s legs carefully as they swayed. Just in case. “Keeping you company, ‘suppose. You're a little drunk, and this is your actual last night in Heaven. No one should be alone for that.”

Cas shook her head. “You don’t make sense, you know that? You’re like selcouth incarnate.”

Dean chose to pretend to know what that word meant. “You don’t mind it.”

“No, I don’t. It’s… refreshing.”

Dean couldn't help but smile. “Is it?”

“Yes. Balthazar and Anna, I care for them dearly, but they’re… narrow-minded.”

“War chances people. Maybe it’ll open their eyes.”

(Or close yours.)

“So they say.”

It always ended like this, didn’t it? Just the two of them sitting in an odd kinda half half-baked silence. Not knowing who was gonna say what next. Not knowing what was okay to say that night. It was almost surprising how little changed while everything seemed to be happening at the same fucking time.

“You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

“Me? Pfft. No. Never.”

“Right.”

“But, ya know, since you bright it up, maybe you could, uh, take a few steps back from the edge?”

“I think I am alright where I am.”

“Great… just, ah, just great.”

A stupid British hand clapped his shoulder, breaking up the moment. “I truly do hate to cut this short, but my dear companions, I think it’s time for us to make our leave.”

Castiel recollected herself, jumping to her feet. “Yeah, you’re right. The sun will be up soon.”

Cas extended her arms in the air, frozen. Dean almost thought she’d glitched or something before his brain caught up to him. This was Cas going in for a hug. Of course, Dean didn’t mind. 

The first few seconds were awkward, Dean supposed the Angel probably had never hugged someone before. Her arms dangled awkwardly at her side once Dean's were around hers. Dean snickered, sliding her hands around his body. Once she found her way around the very complex human task of hugging someone, Dean could feel it as she melted into his touch. 

Cas’s hand drifted up towards Dean’s neck, running a finger over the stubble across his throat. Her hand stopped at the crook of his neck. She somehow managed to make her way closer to Dean before she placed a light peck on his cheek.

For just a second, Dean truly understood that he was in Heaven.

“Stay safe out there, Cas,” he whispered to the Angel.

“You too, Dean.” She cleared her throat, launching herself back from Dean’s grasp. “Keep the nephilim safe. Dark times are coming.”

“I promise.”

She turned back, ears flushing pink. To Dean's horror, Anna, Balthazar, and Cas stood on the roof's edge. 

“Bye, Cas! Bye, Anna!” Jack called out, running next to Dean.

“Goodbye, Jack.”

“See ya, kid.”

“Bye, Balthazar!”

“Au revoir, Jackie.”

The Angels turned back to face the human and Neililim. Cas only offered a quick smile before they all fell backwards, plummeting off the roof. Dean’s heart leapt to his throat. 

No, no, she did not just—

Oh. Wait.

She actually didn’t.

No bodies were on the patch of lawn beneath the roof, or at least from what Dean could tell. Then again, he didn’t dare get close enough to the ledge to get a good look. He supposed they’d flown off. Angels were always dramatic like that.

He let out a shaky breath, a tremor in his hands—one he hadn't even realized was there—steadying.

Dean and Jack don’t stay very long after that.

Chapter Text

“But, you know, that feeling? When you wake up in the morning and you have somebody to think about? Somewhere for hope to go? It's good. Even when it's bad, it's good.”

― Casey McQuiston, One Last Stop

Castiel was the kind of person (sorry, Angel) to enjoy simple things. One of the things he found himself most enjoying as of late was silence. He hated agreeing with the Empty on something, but the feeling that washed over him whilst sitting on the floor in his dark bedroom was unmatched. Some might call what Castiel was doing ‘meditating,’ but he disagreed. Meditation was an act many humans did to realign themselves. Maybe even to find peace. While Castiel sat on the floor, back pressed against his bed frame, he did not do so on some spiritual mission. Or at least not in the traditional sense.

When someone's memory is as screwed with as Castiel’s, it could become hard to pick out certain memories. His past—his past before then Winchesters that is—was very muddled to him. Despite his thousands of years of life, it all felt janky. The closest he could come to fully separating one memory from another was to sit in the darkness and the silence alone.

Maybe part of him wasn’t ready to leave the Empty.

So, no, Castiel was not meditating, even if it appeared as such. Castiel was scouring his mind for a trace (just a trace) of his best friend and/or his son. Even if he and Sam couldn’t find anything to make their return trip faster, Castiel had, well, other motivations for knowing what his best friend and soon-to-be son saw. 

Trying to remember anything before the war was a struggle, even if the Angel tablet restored his memories, something was still going through and changing them. Castiel just couldn’t keep up. 

With a groan, Castiel pulled himself off the ground. There was no good use to the search anymore, everything so foggy—so muddled. Maybe caffeine would help.

(Not in the literal sense, of course. Coffee or anything like it had no real effect on Angels, but something about the warmth sliding down his throat and the smell swirling through the air had that kind of boost he needed.)

After dragging himself through the hallway, Castiel found himself in the kitchen. And in the kitchen… was Sam.

“Oh, hi, Cas. How’s the, er, memory search goin’?” the brother asked cheerfully. He stood by the blender, a sea of greens and bananas in front of him.

“Futile. What are you doing?”

“Making a smoothie, do you want any?”

Castiel sighed, throwing himself onto a kitchen chair. “I don’t need to eat, Sam.”

“But you could. Wanna go for a jog with me? I’m gonna head out after I eat.”

It wasn’t that Castiel didn’t like Sam—he enjoyed the man’s company a great deal, and he would not hesitate to die for him. But something felt wrong without Dean being there. Like a piece was missing from their puzzling lives. Castiel would feel the weight of his absence—Jack’s too, even if they hadn’t technically met yet. It felt like he was missing half his family, and Sam only plunged the knife further into the Angel’s heart.

“What’s going on?” Cas asked.

Sam plucked another piece of spinach and threw it into the blender. “Nothing.”

“You’re lonely.”

“What? No…” He groaned. “Okay, maybe. Can you blame me? With Dean and Jack MIA and you… It’s been a bit lonely—Don’t get me wrong. I love having you back, and you take any time you need to recover from the Empty, but…”

“But humans are social creatures with social needs. Alright. I’ll take your… er… green.”

Sam smiled, Cas smiled too, but it was a different sort of smile. The kind of smile with a forced nature and sunken eyes. A moment later, the blender was turned on, engulfing the room with the sharp whirl of blades hitting fruit and greenery. The brother poured the sludge into two cups and slid one of them towards the Angel.

“And the jog?” Sam asked.

“Don’t, as they say, ‘push your luck’.”

Castiel stared begrudgingly at the smoothie as he took a sip.  It tasted like atoms. Just atoms. 

Sam huffed. “Sure thing. Are you alright, Cas?”

“You really must stop asking that.”

“I’ll stop asking when you start telling me the truth. Is it about the Empty?”

Castiel deflated. “Oddly, no.” 

He pushed the smoothie across the table. Even for just atoms, it was disgusting. 

“Then what is it?”

“I can understand your concern, but—”

“Cas.”

“Fine.” Castiel wasn’t used to the feeling of a lump in his throat, a bared wire wrapped around his neck, just yet. Feeling emotions was still something he just couldn’t get used to. “Dean and Jack are running around in my past, but my past is hard to remember.”

“I thought the Angel tablet fixed your, ya know, Niomai mess.”

“It did. But it is hard to remember for other reasons. For one, it was a very long time ago. Imagine trying to remember a face from your infancy. Even so, I… I don’t like remembering Heaven, Sam. And it feels like something won’t let me. I don’t know what kind of monster or spell could have done this—”

“Cas, that’s not just some supernatural lobotomy. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it definitely could be, I mean weirder stuff has happened—but, I think it’s a trauma response.”

“What do you mean?”

Sam took another sip of his breakfast. “I mean… Listen, we both know Heaven wasn’t all harps and halos. You did awful things, and awful things were done to you. If that’s not the definition of trauma, I don’t know what is.”

“I… I don’t want Jack's first impression of me to be what I was like back then. And… I fear if Dean sees some of those parts—”

“He won’t love you anymore?”

Castiel nodded.

Love you…

Love you…

“Cas, you know that’ll never happen, right? I mean, the guy’s been head over heels for you for years.”

Cas flushed. “No, he hasn’t.”

This was wrong, this was so very wrong. They didn’t talk about this kinda thing, they couldn't—they never did. They shoved this down and put it away and—

“Yes, he has. Hell, the poor guy’s a phone call away from showing up on your lawn with a boom box playing In Your Eyes.”

“Sam, please don’t.”

The tall man shrank. “Yeah, sorry.”

Sam threw back the last bit of his drink. 

“It’s just if what you say is true then… Why would he treat Jack so poorly? If it’s as bad as you tell me—”

“Dean’s a headcase. You know that. He was angry—”

“You don’t need to excuse his actions, Sam. Especially when he’s not here. You’ve told me a lot of things when I have no evidence of any of it. I am going off your word and your word alone. I’m sorry if I need a bit more time or evidence to… I’m confused, Sam—I can’t do anything to get them back, I can’t remember, and any second they could stumble over anything and there’s nothing I can do—”

“Yeah, it’s alright. I’m sorry. I should just let Dean speak for himself.”

“When he gets back.”

“When he gets back,” Sam echoed in agreement. 

Castiel slid out of the chair, completely abandoning any hope of finishing the smoothie. He needed to get out; this was wrong, all too much.

“Enjoy your jog, Sam,” Cas called out on his way out.

“Yeah, you bet.”

Yet hours later, that little voice still rang in the back of Castiel’s mind. Love you. Love you. Love you.