Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was a Sunday like any other. Perhaps on the more mundane side of things, as Dean spent the day gathering supplies for the Bunker. He and Sam had flipped a coin that morning in order to decide who would do what. Heads said one of them would be stuck with the cleaning while tails said the other would go out on a supply run. It was safe to say who the loser of that game was.

At the top of both Sam and Dean’s list were painkillers. Boxes of them. It didn’t matter what kind, Aspirin, Tylenol, Ibuprofen, Naproxen, so long as it sat on a shelf, Dean was ready to take it to the counter. The past month was one commandeered by headaches, knife wounds, a broken nose, and the most recent of all, a broken finger. When the cashier gawked at the sum of his haul, Dean waved his taped up pinky in explanation and trudged off with the bounty.

He spent the rest of the afternoon packing bags and squeezing them into the back of the Impala. By the time he finished, it must have been late into the evening, the back of his car ready to burst open. The roads were desolate, an old tow truck being the last vehicle he spotted a couple miles back. With the windows down, he could hear just about every creature come to life in the nightlight, the closer he got to the Bunker. The wind had been cool against his face then, enough for a slight chill to settle between his teeth. But mixed into the breeze was music from the tape he played, Zeppelin I, and a part of him welcomed the chaos that came from the wild cacophony of sounds, scrambled together in an almost bizarre homecoming.

To his surprise, he found Castiel, elbows deep in the sink, after he’d managed to bring in the first couple bags of shopping into the kitchen. He was quick to pull off the rubber gloves and take the bags from Dean, placing them gently onto the wooden table, round stools tucked neatly underneath. Though not as quick as Dean had made note of the fact that Castiel stood without his trench coat, and without his blazer. With his sleeves rolled up the way that they were, and his tie tucked salaciously into his shirt pocket, Dean averted his gaze almost instantly, and turned his attention instead on the tape around his pinky.

Heat curled in on the skin of his cheeks, and he thought back to the evening breeze he’d enjoyed, minutes ago. It felt like a lifetime away as he caught his breath. The walk between the kitchen and the garage was a tedious one, after all, especially with the added weight of eggs, rice, and whatever else it was he bought. Still, he continued to pick at the tape.

‘Your sink cant seem to stay unclogged,’ Castiel said, his voice piercing.

‘You seem to be handling it just fine,’ Dean replied, his mouth bearing open around a smile. The edges of that smile ached, pressed tight with solace. Somewhat caught in a moment of relief and dismay, Dean walked over for a quick embrace, chest full yet equally empty. ‘I’m glad you’re back.’

‘Me too.’ Castiel pulled back. ‘Let me see your hand.’ Dean stared at the rolled up sleeves, and followed the line down his arm. From the folds of his shirt sleeve, to where fabric met skin. An arm that was bare, firm muscles twitching as he gestured him near, sturdy fingers waving him forward. It was an open invitation, tugging him closer, and closer, until Castiel’s palm touched his hand.

Aside from the slight heat of Castiel’s touch, for a brief second, he felt nothing at all. But soon enough, there was a tingle at his pinky, a moment where it seemed his blood was made up of edges, sharp in his veins, ready to pierce through his fingertip in successive bursts. The sensation quickly subsided into an itch before disappearing completely. In just a few seconds, it was like the injury was never there. The only proof of it lied in the tape, still wrapped around his finger.

‘Guess I won’t be needing this anymore,’ Dean chuckled, a part of him struck by awe. The week succeeding his injury was one where the fracture shaped his day to day. Habits of comfort were melded into actions of convenience. It was a humbling reminder of his fragility. Faster than he could blink, it had essentially been erased. He thought of the boxes of medication, sitting idly by at the front of the Impala. He supposed he didn’t need those either.

Still holding his hand, Castiel gently picked at the corner of the tape, and slowly peeled it away.

‘I’ve got it,’ Dean said halfheartedly, with no real intention of intervening what Castiel had started. His lashes fanned over his cheeks, meticulous in his every movement, careful not to pull too harshly against his finger. Dean held back a chuckle, had the angel forgotten that he’d healed him already?

‘Good as new,’ Castiel let go of his hand, rolling the tape as Dean twitched his fingers into a fist, releasing them when he felt no pain.

‘Thanks.’

Together, they managed to move the rest of the bags into the kitchen with relative ease. The constant back and forth made all the less strenuous as a result. They picked up on their routine from where they had left off, each divulging into the details of their latest encounters. Castiel was eager to recount a recent discovery of his with an uncharacteristic excitement to the cadence of his speech. Supposedly, not too far from the Bunker, there lay a field of daisies, left, it seemed, entirely undisturbed. A sea of white petals that stretched as far as the eye could see.

While Dean felt far too familiar with daisies to be impressed by the description, the little flowers sprouting just about wherever they pleased, something about the way Castiel had said it made him keep his thoughts to himself. His fingers twitched as he spoke, eyes far away, locked solely onto the image in his mind, as though possessed. It must have been something to behold with the way it left the angel at the edge of his breath.

So he agreed to be taken there.

But, as most of their plans went, something or another kept swallowing their time whole, constantly pushing them apart. A plan to meet in a couple days, stretched into a couple of weeks. After a month passed, the promised trip ended up falling further and further at back of Dean’s mind. Mild curiosity had fizzled out with the days, and left to simmer passively in the background. Though he did not forget, he did not ponder either, his attention better occupied elsewhere.

On a lazy Sunday afternoon, with nothing particular to denote plans outside his scheduled moping, Dean stood in the kitchen, hiking up the pyjama bottoms he borrowed from Sam whilst sucking on a spoonful of peanut butter. The tub sat on the counter, devilishly staring his way before he decided to pick it up, unable to withstand the temptation. He’d woken up with lamentations about the long list of chores he’d put off doing. Piles of laundry left unwashed. Piles of dust that begged to be swept away. Piles of dishes left unattended. Piles amoungst piles of things that needed to be done.

His brother was off to meet some guy called Rudy. The plain name left him buffering, failing to recall an image of the man’s face. Rudy. Sam had said it with such confidence, Dean almost believed he’d muddled the guy up with someone else. ‘You know him Dean,’ Sam insisted, shoving yet another book away into his backpack. Had he not been so taken aback by Rudy, and his apparent friendship with his brother, Dean might have called out Sam’s poor attempt at a guise.

While Dean was left to deal with the bunker and its filth, his scheming brother was ready to scanter off to a bookclub. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. With Rudy, to top things off. Rudy. Who the fuck was that guy in the first place? Rudy? What a stupid name. Like a pestering little brat, he’d interrogated Sam, suffocating him with questions. Who was Rudy? What did he look like? When did they meet? Because of that, he’d missed the opportunity to guilt trip his brother into splitting the chores. The more he lingered on his failure, the faster his spoon dipped into the tub.

Was Rudy even real?

His lamentations were instantly forgotten at the loud slam of the Bunker door. His heart fluttered, startled, skipping past the next few beats with tremendous effort on part of his lungs. Immediately, he threw his spoon into the too-full sink and quickly closed the large pot of peanut butter, fumbling with the lid, before he walked out of the kitchen with haste. Unable to soothe the tightness in his chest, all he could focus on was closing the gap between himself and the front door.

Castiel was back.

In their time apart, not many words had been exchanged between the two, other than a note of safety that was, conversation was scarce. Dean wasn’t much of a texter, neither was Castiel, and phone calls were reserved for emergencies only. Questions of where he’d been, or more importantly how he’d been, rushed to the tip of his tongue almost as fast as Dean had been able to get to the door.

When he arrived at the stairway leading up to the Bunker’s great door, he’d caught Castiel trailing his hand over the handrail, his head turned, neck straight, in a way that reminded Dean of owls when they locked eyes onto their prey.

“Cas,” Dean beckoned, his throat thick with peanut butter. “You’re back.” He should have rinsed his mouth, cleared a path for his voice at the very least. Castiel made it down the final step, and walked his way over, footsteps slow, sluggish almost. He walked like time was a trivial matter. Like it held no bearing over him as he looked around at the floors, the ceilings, then finally at Dean. The pace rendered Dean motionless, his own legs unable to move past the point he’d stopped. Moments ago, an urgency declared over his limbs, and left him pliable to its command. An irrational need fired his body into a panic. Relief would come with drinking up the image of Castiel. In face of the living, breathing Castiel however, he’d fallen into an abrupt stasis.

Each of Castiel’s footsteps was like a second ticked off of a clock. In time with his beating heart, Dean was inclined to believe that during their time apart, his world must have taken a pause. Idly, he’d continue to live his life hunting, researching, eating, binging, and drinking. But it was only then, as Castiel smiled, the white of his teeth framed between his lips, that Dean was able to release a sigh of relief. One that had been bottled up for a long time, and one that held enough tension to keep him suspended in a state of waiting.

“Dean.”

His legs were permitted to move on their own then, arms held out for an embrace. Strong arms met his waist, held tight like it was instinct. Perhaps it was. Perhaps the muffled laughter between the two as they let go, still clinging to whatever piece of the other they could hold onto was ritual. He could feel it all. The deep inhales between them as their chests held steady. Beating hearts beating faster and faster as their bodies caught up in the motions. Castiel was alive. They both were. Such was a moment to rejoice over, and Dean did just that as he filtered away the pesky thoughts in his mind, and held on steady, as though his own life depended on their embrace. Maybe it did.

Castiel let go first, a lingering hand on Dean’s back giving him a slight nudge to indicate that he was walking forward. It was a ghost touch, hardly even pressed against him for a second, but the spot lit up warmly as Dean followed. It was good to have Castiel back. To see him, and all the little things that came with him. The scuffed marks at the back of his oxfords, the slight wear at the bottom of his trousers, and the way his coat swished about behind him as he walked. Even indoors, Castiel’s coat flapped like a bird in a breeze. A man on a mission. Even if the mission was a small a thing as getting to the guest room he occupied when he stayed at the Bunker.

It was the one room that hadn’t been left by the brothers, more specifically by Dean, to collect dust. Once a week, or as often as their busy lives allowed, the two would give the place a quick sweep in case of the angel’s arrival. When they entered, Dean was glad to find the place spotless, if a little disheartened by the emptiness of it. He was quick to recover his spirit however, when Castiel slowly rubbed two fingers against the bedside counter and returned his gaze back towards him in way of acknowledgment.

Dean sat on the bed, lying back against his elbows, T-shirt riding over his stomach as he did. He watched Castiel watch him, standing tall beside the counter, his thumb still rubbing over his index finger in slow circles. It was a pastime that never failed to leave him dissatisfied. Every time he thought he knew it all, that he’d figured out the code to Cas, a cautious look over at the other man would alert him otherwise. He could watch Castiel’s eyes for hours, and spend every second of that time wondering what it was that fascinated him so.

They spent the next handful of minutes in silence. Soothed by the other’s presence alone, a comfortable blanket wrapped around them. One made to contain the momentary bliss that had captured the two as a result of absence. Questions that formed around that absence were easy to ignore, for in their presence, time held no meaning at all.

Castiel emptied his pockets. Each seam littered with entryways to another weapon stored in place. All together, he carried six different knives, including the largest, and most deadly of all, his Angel Blade. Dean sat up at the sound of metal clanking against wood, muscles aching as he did. Beneath the bed was an old knife polishing kit he stored away. A routine that had cropped up one day without his knowledge, and tethered to him the way old habits tended to. One of those occurrences that only hit him once it had been pointed out by another.

Sam had asked him, years ago, whether he had time to polish one more knife. Confused by the question, Dean asked back one of his own. ‘What makes you think I’m polishing knives?’ The two must have been working through a hunt, because he remembered sitting in the Bunker’s library, his back stiff from the wooden chair, wondering where Sam had even come up with such a notion.

With a shrug, Sam continued reading over the page his finger curled around. ‘Thought you could get it in with Cas’ since he’s coming back and all.’ Dropping the pen he’d been fiddling with, Dean stared at his brother, his jaw loosening as he did. ‘It’s fine of you can’t be bothered,’ Sam said, unfazed. A protest was quick to bounce up his tongue, shaped like the knife in question. Though it lost any edge it held, eclipsed by the realisation that his brother was right. Wrung too close to the truth, he chocked on his silence. A part of him, the childish part, knew he’d been bested, in a sense. Caught out in a game he didn’t know he’d been a part of. When Castiel eventually did arrive that day, and began to unload his knives, Dean felt foolish for not realising himself sooner.

“Forget the polish,” Castiel said with a hand around Dean’s wrist. The touch tethered his attention forward, onto those slow blinking eyes. “Remember that field I told you about?”

“Yeah,” Dean said after a beat, crossing his legs when Castiel let go. He’d almost forgotten. “You brought it up like, how long has it been now? Like a month ago?”

“Yes,” Castiel confirmed, stashing his angel blade back into the sleeve of his coat. His movements were short, and concise. Spaced exactly two fingers apart, he began to arrange his knives into a line. Dean couldn’t help but be engrossed by the accuracy in which he ordered them. A pool of intention that sucked him in with a silver glint.

“Dean,” Castiel faced away from his knives, breaking the emersion. “How would you feel about going?”

“Today?”

“Right now.” Castiel cast his energy over at Dean. The same energy that surrounded him when he first described the scene, all those weeks ago. He could have sworn that those stormy eyes blew out a gust of wind over the top his head. Or maybe he was just imagining things. Just as the field captivated Castiel, so much so that the memory alone possessed his careful bearing into something hectic, so too was Dean pulled into the excitement of sharing such an experience with him. His own fingers twitched at the prospect. He licked his tingling lips before answering.

“Give me five.”

Consequence to putting off his chores, Dean ransacked his room for something to wear. With a pair of old torn jeans, bleached too bright for his liking, he marched around looking for a spare T-shirt, fighting with his belt loops as he did. Each he came across had problems of their own. One was too large. One had too many holes. One smelled strange. So on and so forth. He ended up settling on a too tight shirt that should have been thrown away years ago. But it was all he could find.

With one crisis averted, another found him just as easily. Somewhere along the way, Dean had misplaced his keys. He scanned each surface with agitation, tutting when he couldn’t find them. Once again, he rummaged through the piles of clothes littered abut his room until he found his keys, reapplying deodorant as he did. Flustered by the time he laced up his boots, he peered at himself through the bathroom mirror, picking at the stray hairs at the back of his head, holding back a string of curses behind gritted teeth.

Two taps at his door startled him out of the strange agitation that itched him as he got ready. A pat to his pockets reaffirmed the location of his keys and wallet, accompanied by a sigh of relief. Five minutes exactly had passed, Dean realised as he shot out a quick text to Sam. Out with Cas, it read. Another tap. Another release. If there was one thing he could rely on, it was Castiel, taking him on his word, down to the second. Had he asked for five minutes and thirty seconds, he believed wholeheartedly that Castiel would honour those thirty seconds with all of his might.

Would he stand on the other side of his room as he did? Waiting for the seconds to pass. Or would he wait across the hall, a quiet offer of privacy? Could he hear Dean’s sighs of frustration, as he trudged about on the other side of the door? The push and pull of dirty fabric against dirty floors. The zip of his jeans, the rustle of his hair. Could he hear the button of his phone turning on as he tapped a message on the screen, and the folds of his cheeks as he smiled when he checked the time? Truly, how thick was the door that sat in between them?

Dean turned the handle, and was met with Castiel, the picture of his memories. Perfectly imperfect in every way. The wear in his clothes always remained in the same places he remembered. The lines on his face shifted only with expression, as they did in that moment. His hair was short, and mussed about in a strange way that defied any rules that came with it before. Long enough to flick down his forehead, a couple wayward strands that liked to stand out.

So familiar he was to Dean, that the gap between their reunions was made to feel small, almost like it was never there. Not in the way that change made distance all the more clear. Faded scars that marked faded memories. Hair that grew with the seasons. A loss of appetite. The abundance of one. All things that pointed to time, which in turn pointed to distance. He never felt those things with Castiel.

“Let’s go,” Dean said, shutting the door behind him. “Lead the way.”

Directions were easy for Castiel. Seamlessly, he looked to his surroundings then described the turns of their journey like pictures in an old album. Lived in, and folded away, ready to be picked up whenever he pleased. Along the way, Dean liked to point at the landmarks he kept in mind when mapping routes of his own. When the distances between familiar marks grew larger, he picked up on other signs, and tallied them away for later. By the end of the day, he’d probably remember a couple at best, with a shaky memory, maybe even a handful. Part of the beauty of mapping out a new route was seeing how many new landmarks would stick when they returned once again. Castiel would then point out the ones Dean had missed, and they would argue about the signs despite knowing that more likely than not, Castiel was right.

“Then he told me that ‘Rudy’ is someone we both know, and I’m like okay, Rudy who? Rudy with no last name? ‘Cause last I checked, we don’t know a Rudy.”

“I’m aware of three actually.” Castiel pointed at a small cluster of trees where a narrow path cut away from the main road. “We’ll walk from there.”

“Three? Yeah right.” Dean drove into the dip and parked his Baby the best he could before taking his keys out of the ignition. The switch between the engines purr and natures hum was a jarring one, as they stepped out of the Impala, feet cushioned by soft soil. Beneath the shadow of the trees, it was easy to forget the glaring sun, and in turn, the frivolous matters they’d discussed under her company. The shade pulled him in, like a secret, it promised to share something that wasn’t his.

“How’d you find this place?” Dean craned his neck over at the leaves. A green so dark, he thought of velvet folds, and sticky pools of chocolate between his lips. Castiel walked a couple steps ahead of him, shoes crunching onto fallen twigs, fallen leaves, and whatever else had fallen from those great big trees.

“I followed a sound,” Castiel explained vaguely, his harsh voice muffled beneath the shadows. The sound drew Dean’s attention to him, and he peered at the other man from under the forests gaze. Just as the blow of their footsteps had been softened by the soil, so too had the image of Castiel. He stood patiently as Dean took in the new sight, picnic basket balanced between his clasped hands. His eyes were thick, and hazy then, any sharp edge dulled from under the union of the forests shade. The familiar wear to his clothes were made invisible, natures patchwork able to erase them with ease as Dean sought them out hungrily. Greeting him instead was the tassel of grass at Castiels legs, the dark navy of his pant leg lending itself easily to the ever present green.

“Can you hear it now?” Dean walked forward, still focused on Castiel. The one different to his memories.

Castiel stood, unmoving. He didn’t blink. He didn’t speak. When Dean looked to his chest, we wasn’t even breathing. Dean couldn’t explain why he felt the need to stop as well. Though his eyes watered under the strain, and his chest grew tight as he waited, he felt compelled to follow Castiel’s example. He listened. Whether there was a sound to follow or not was unknown to him. So much of the angel’s words were locked behind what defied human limitation. Outside of any capacity to which Dean could understand, or better yet experience, Castiel’s explanations would sometimes appear obscure. Riddles of a wise man, with a curled beard and a pointed hat. Ravings of an oracle, a madman, a prophet. Yet he listened. He waited.

“No,” Castiel blinked, releasing Dean with him. “I can’t hear it anymore.”

“Shame,” Dean said with a slap to Castiel’s back. “Would’ve liked to say hi, but maybe another time.”

“It’s not much further now,” Castiel said, leading the way. Though Dean followed, something had settled between his bones, the further they got from the Impala. Something that had his head turn at every snap in the grass, every flap, every bristle, every sound. The deeper they traversed between trees, and the steeper the climb became, the deeper the feeling became.

Low hanging branches would claw the fabric of his shirt, scratch at his skin in little whispers. It had gotten dark enough where he couldn’t see the fingers usher at him from where they reached out. Sometimes, a brush across his arms would turn out to be nothing more than a figment of his imagination.

Castiel seemed comfortable in the silence. His form was strong, pace steady, he was floating. Dean, unnerved with the silence, yet caught tightly in its web, couldn’t come up with a single thing to say. Instead, he tried to focus his attention on his breathing. The difficult terrain siphoned off his breath easily, feeding it into the green around them. He spent the majority of their hike chasing after it. Part of him wanted to stop and ask for a break. Their pace hadn’t let up, despite the uphill climb, and Dean took the brunt of that pressure. Not wanting to spend a second longer trapped in the forest than he had to, he kept his lips sealed tight. It wasn’t until Castiel turned that the two of them had stopped.

“Why’d you stop?” Dean asked between breaths. It wasn’t so dark anymore, he realised when rays of light struck through the blanket of leaves above them. Sunlight hit the left side of Castiel’s face, and lit his eye on fire. For the first time in about forty minutes, he saw blue. A signal fire. At the sight, his nerves hushed into a distant hum. Every other sound had quieted down with it. There was no sense in swivelling his head around in aimless directions in search of them anymore. It had become mindless static. Only then was he able to turn his attention inwards. To focus on the state of his own body. Calls for help that were ignored in favour of the forest, and her whispers.

He didn’t realise how dry his throat was until Castiel held out a bottle of water to him, lid turned open with a small crunch. With a quick thanks, Dean gulped the water down fervently, wiping his chin with the back of hand when he finished halfway. Unabashedly panting, he handed the bottle back to Castiel before he could finish the rest of it. The last thing he wanted was to have to piss in a bush.

“Do you need to stop?”

“Nah, let’s keep going.”

Parting the way open for them, cracks of light soon became streams, the partition of leaves reminding Dean that there was a world outside of the forest. The trees became less dense, so too did the air. With newfound buoyancy, his limbs made easy work of catching up to Castiel. Eyes no longer glued to the back of his head, Dean looked forward to the opening ahead of them. Closer than it had ever been in his mind, both the possibility as well as the reality of the matter, he felt anticipations grip around his heart. Its pulsing rhythm setting about an example for the rest of his body to follow. To which he did, in twitchy apprehension he locked around the memory of Castiel’s promise, and the wild look he’d told him with. What lay on the other side would reveal it to him once more.

It was like a blindfold had been taken off of him. His eyes squinted, adjusting to the light whose absence had made for a cruel sting. Cupping his hands over them, Dean was greeted by an open field surrounded by trees. They had most likely emerged from one of the many openings hidden around. What stood out to Dean however, above all else, was the lack of green. When Castiel described the field as a sea of daisies, it had not been hyperbolic in the slightest.

From where the wall of bark and leaves ended, the little white flowers sprouted in the hundreds of thousands all around them, right to the centre of that field. Light bounced eagerly, from petal to petal, with a brightness that was almost intolerable. His sight grew fuzzy, a hazy glow emitting from the flowers all on their own. Like a painting, the way color and shape merged with frantic brushstrokes in a way that conveyed detail. He thought of a couple things all at once. He thought of how his brother would love to visit such a place. Sammy always had a poetic appreciation for things, the way that he didn’t. He thought of how he could never capture such beauty in a photo, or even a painting. Not even in his memories.

Swiftly, he tore his gaze away from the sea of white petals, hoping it wasn’t too late for him to fulfil his greatest desire of all. But as it turned out, Castiel didn’t look to the field ahead of them in any form of awe, or expression that he hoped would unfurl a greater part of him. Something along the lines of naked vulnerability in light of something beautiful. Something that had captured a madness in those eyes that was foreign to him still. It was a hunger for that expression that had driven him out in the first place. It was that same hunger that churned in his stomach, and rose up into his throat that made him realise he’d missed his chance. Rather than looking ahead, Castiel looked at him instead.

“What do you think?” Castiel stared, his eyes on fire under the sun.

There was an ache in his stomach. Whether it was a result of the spoonfuls of peanut butter he had indulged, early in the afternoon, the lack of a proper lunch, or the gruelling hike they undertook, Dean wasn’t sure. It rolled in his stomach agonisingly slow. To soothe it, he covered it with a palm, the heat of his hand seeping through his thin T-shirt in all manners of inadequacy.

“It’s something else,” Dean said between breaths.

Castiel smiled.