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It’s never truly dark in the bunker. The hallway lights are always left on, a table lamp in the library, the under-cabinet lights in the kitchen; all in service to the late-night habits of the bunker’s residents, both of whom bear far more than their share of nightmares and sleepless nights.
It’s also never truly silent, with the hum of the constant generators, the gentle whoosh of the air handlers.
But it’s more dark and more silent than Cas cares for right now. He feels it, still, the ache of the Empty, the dizzying, weightless absence of sound, of light, of feeling. He’d seen the avatar only once after it pulled him from the storeroom, seen Death sprawled out at its feet, Billie’s eyes wide and shaken for the first time. With a sickening lurch, she was wiped away.
And then there was only the avatar, baring Meg’s teeth at him, and the hiss of its voice. This is the last, Castiel. Only nothingness for you now. Nothing, no one. And SILENCE. And then it, too, was gone and he was alone in the utter void.
There is light and sound in the bunker, but the ambient mechanics aren’t human sounds. He hears nothing from Sam and Dean, each deeply asleep in their rooms, exhausted. Rowena had left earlier, with a last affectionate pinch to his cheek, and then Jack, too, had finally left, tired in his own way and feeling the pull of need from Heaven.
Cas takes the small, hidden staircase up to the roof. Although it’s darker outside than in, the cool night air that greets him is more refreshing than the stillness below. Little gusts ruffle though his hair, and if he turns, he can see a few lights from Lebanon and the highway beyond. Overhead the deep field of stars and the waxing gibbous moon give more light. He can lift his hands and see them, pale and silvery, can see the edge of the roof, can see the dark outline of the few trees at the end of the power station’s property. The stretch of farmlands on the other side are quiet, but not silent; the same breeze trickling along the collar of his coat rustles leaves and carries the low call of an owl, hooting softly as it searches for dinner.
He breathes deeply, feels his ribcage expand, presses his hands against his sides and stands like that for a while, just breathing and feeling and marveling that he is, improbably, impossibly, free again.
Eventually, he goes back down inside, makes another slow circuit of the halls, checks each empty room. He’s outside the storeroom, where he was taken and where he returned. It will need to be cleaned in the morning, scrubbed of wax and blood and whatever else Rowena had used to ink the sigils.
He’d been pulled back to awareness with all the pain and pressure of being born (or so he imagines), sprawled out on the floor with Dean’s hands tight on his shoulders and the echo of his hoarse shouts ringing in his ears.
“Cas.” Dean’s voice was a shredded rasp. How long had it been? How long had he been shouting Cas’ name into the void, calling him out of the dark?
And then Dean had slumped, swayed where he knelt over Cas, eyes starting to roll back. Sam swooped in, wedged one shoulder beneath Dean’s and an arm around his waist to hold him up, and with his other arm grasped for Cas. Sam looked exhausted, but his eyes were warm and dazed with relief. Jack and Rowena scrambled forward and with some heaving and pulling (not always in the same direction) eventually got everyone to their feet.
While everyone had been reluctant to take their hands off of Cas, Sam was clearly the only thing keeping Dean vertical, so he’d carried his brother away to be unconscious lying down instead of upright. There’d been some exchange of words between them as Sam pulled him away, Dean’s fingers tightening on the doorway as he whispered. Sam had murmured a response and coaxed him over the threshold.
Cas had drawn a great, shuddering breath and pulled Jack into his arms, and they’d stayed like that for a long while.
That had been this morning. Jack wouldn’t tell him how long they’d been trying to pull him out, but Rowena had let slip a comment about the ritualistic significance of a third dawn.
Now Cas stands in the empty hallway, looks at his empty hands, and tries to remember the feeling of them all clustered around him. His family, pressed tight to his sides.
He walks back up the corridor until he reaches Dean’s door, presses his fingertips and forehead against the wood. Sam had slept, woken long enough to make a little food and coffee for himself and Cas, checked on Dean – still sleeping – called Eileen, and then crashed again. It’s hours later now, and Cas has still heard nothing, seen nothing of Dean.
He presses his fingers against the wooden door and turns his head, listening intently to the silence on the other side. Silence on the other side and nothing but dark showing around the edges of the door, and it’s abruptly, entirely too much. His hand tightens on the knob, turns, and pushes in.
Light from the hallway outlines the edge of the desk, the foot of the bed, and softens the lump of shadows further in. Stillness. And then a rustle of the covers as Dean shifts, the change in air flow and light slowly penetrating his sleep.
“Cas?” It’s little more than a croak. More rustling and the sounds of fumbling as Dean flails for the bedside lamp. Finally, the light comes on, and Cas can see Dean as he squints, bleary-eyed, in Cas’ general direction. The tension in Cas’ shoulders loosens, and he gives a little sigh of relief.
“Dean. I’m sorry for waking you.” His own voice is low and rough – he’d already been starting to forget what he sounded like. “I just wanted to check on you.”
“What time’s it?” Dean scrapes out as slowly sits up, rubs his knuckles against his eyes. “How long. . .?”
“It’s still today, but very late. Sam’s asleep again.” Cas eases a few steps into the room. “Jack and Rowena have gone. It’s. . .very quiet.”
Cas can’t take his eyes off Dean as he sits back against the headboard, his hair wildly askew, and still squinting as his eyes slowly focus on Cas. Dean is rumpled from sleep, lines of worry and exhaustion still etched deeply on his face, but he is alive, so gloriously human and alive.
Dean gazes back at Cas and tilts his head, listening to the deep stillness of the bunker at night.
Cas steps closer. “Would it bother you if I stayed here while you slept? I don’t need the light. I’d just rather not be alone.”
Dean nods a little, throws back the covers on the empty side of the bed.
Cas startles. They haven’t had a chance to talk yet. He doesn’t even know how long it’s been since he was taken, since he’d spilled out the feelings he’d carried for so long. “Are you sure? I’m fine in the chair.”
Dean manages a hoarse whisper and an approximation of his usual smirk, laugh lines crinkling around his eyes. “Get in, loser, we’re sleeping.” He pauses, then gestures up and down at Cas. “Lose the layers.”
Cas is very still for a moment, half-expecting Dean to change his mind, then slowly turns to close the door. He moves over to the side chair. Slowly he removes his overcoat, folds it over and lays it on the chair. Slowly he steps out of his shoes, nudges them neatly under the chair. He feels the weight of Dean’s steady gaze on his back. He hesitates, then removes the suit jacket as well, folds it, lays it down.
He turns back to face Dean in his bed. The lamp is a little behind Dean from here, shadowing his face, but his eyes are very green as they meet Cas’. Cas raises his hands to the knot of his tie, working it loose until he can pull the loop over his head. A tremor runs through his hands as he coils the tie and places it on top of the pile of coats. And then one halting step at a time he moves forward until he’s at the bed, and lowering himself down, and slowly, stiffly, laying back.
Dean looks down at him, quirks his eyebrows in question, and at Cas’ nod, leans over to turn off the lamp. Before the light goes out, Cas casts his eyes over what he can see of the line of Dean’s body, the corded muscles in his arm extending below his t-shirt sleeve as he reaches out for the switch, the firm, stretching length of his side and his back.
And then it’s dark, and Cas feels Dean shifting back down, settling on his stomach, feels him pull the covers up and over them both, warm from Dean’s body heat.
Cas lays there, flat on his back, unmoving in the dark. It’s dark and it’s quiet, but not silent; he hears Dean breathing, feels his weight dipping the mattress. He thinks back to that morning – just that morning! – when he’d stood shaking in between Rowena and Jack, watching Sam guide Dean, stumbling, from the room.
Dean had clung to the doorway and Cas had heard him whisper, “’ve gotta tell him, Sammy. I’ve gotta. . .”
Beside him, Dean’s arm moves. Under the weight of the covers, Dean’s hand fumbles over the mattress until it finds Cas’ wrist, calloused fingers feeling their way down. Cas holds his breath as Dean links their fingers and clasps their palms loosely together. Palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss, he thinks, slightly hysterically.
Dean had clung to the doorway until Sam responded, a reassuring murmur, “You will, Dean. You will.”
Lying with Dean in the dark, hands tangled together, Cas feels Dean’s weight shift as he turns his face to Cas, and feels Dean’s breath against his shoulder as he opens his mouth to speak.