#attackofthekillermexisaurusrex

Castiel hears Dean’s return to the bunker although it’s quiet. Dean heads straight for his room and closes its door gently so as not wake anyone, but Castiel’s ears catch it regardless. All sounds are loud at 3 AM in a sleeping bunker, though to be fair Castiel has been standing watch, waiting for these sounds. Castiel sighs in frustration and begins to pack away the boxes of relics he has been searching through. The foreign grace inside him churns unsettlingly as he lifts a particularly heavy box and works to wedge it back into its slot. Theo’s grace is both larger and smaller than him and though he wills himself not to mind it, the effects are becoming undeniable. It doesn’t fit in the right places; parts of himself are slowly ripping under the pressure of unaligned pressures while others places inside him have been left painfully empty. Or were they empty before? Too many questions have been accumulating since his time as a human. Castiel wants to address this question in particular, because he knows it’s important, but It has been difficult to digest the brief gap between his time as a human his time now. There has been no time to assess, so much to assess, and so little ground to stand on. Perhaps this is to blame for his reticence now. Words arise unbidden in his head, as they have been ever since Metatron shared his knowledge. There's a hole in my soul that's been killing me forever. It's a place where a garden never grows. Apparently Metatron had digested much of the catalogue of Western music as well as literature. He is fairly certain he remembers Dean categorizing ‘Aerosmith’ as ‘completely unacceptable’ but these words are beckoned by Dean’s arrival nonetheless. Dean hasn’t spoken to him since Castiel arrived at the bunker. In fact, Castiel hasn’t seem him speak to anyone. Dean merely strides forcefully from the door of his room to the door of the bunker, leaves for hours at a time, and returns and strides forcefully back into his room, closing the door behind him. Castiel doesn’t plan to let this continue much longer, but above all his emotions right now he senses the need for caution. He knows of the Mark of Cain, though not as much as he’d like. The precise details of its origin are still unclear to him, but he can see the effects seeping through Dean. Even through the fog Theo’s grace induces, he can see the Mark’s threads cutting their way through Dean’s soul. He sees fissures widening, edges sizzling—and unlike the others in the bunker who are in fear of Dean, Castiel feels fear for him. What Castiel sees is cracked glass, about to shatter. ~ He’s not sure what reaches him this evening as he walks by Dean’s door on the way to his own bedroom. For just a moment Castiel feels, almost wishfully, that he has sensed an errant prayer slipping out from the room, but perhaps he is imagining it. As he passes Dean’s room, however, he knows that tonight is different. Castiel stops hesitantly by the door and listens, then knocks gently. “Dean? Dean, may I come in?” he asks quietly. He can hear Dean’s breath catch, but Dean says nothing. Castiel takes this as acceptance enough and pushes the door open, letting himself in as quietly as Dean had entered. He stands for a minute near the threshold, running his eyes over the room. Dean’s room is sparse and clean, except for a ring of debris around Dean. Whiskey bottle, glass, laptop, knife, blood drops, and in the center of it all Dean, sitting on the floor slouched against his bed. Dean’s lip is split and the drops of blood around him are clearly not his own. He doesn’t visibly react to Castiel’s entrance—he merely takes a generous sip from his glass, ignoring Castiel in favor of a spot on the floor in front of him. Castiel foregoes questions and walks across the room slowly saying nothing. He settles himself down to sit beside Dean. Again he isn’t sure how he knows—perhaps the new stories in his head have had an impact—but he knows it isn’t his concern that Dean needs right now. Dean reaches across him for the whiskey bottle and he hands it to him gently, then takes a small swig for himself. Dean grunts at that and swishes his whiskey around weakly. His breathing is uneven and his eyes are filled with tears he disturbingly doesn’t seem concerned with hiding. Castiel takes this all in, slowly sipping again at the whiskey bottle, then finally breaks the silence. “I’ve missed you.” Dean lifts his head up towards the ceiling and barks out a harsh noise which falls between laugh and sob. “I’m glad you weren't here,” he says. He adds, “You don’t need to be here, Cas.” Castiel pauses. “I want to be here, Dean.” “Trust me man, you do not want to be here.” “If you knew—” “—I know enough.” Castiel interrupts. “Dean…” Castiel sighs. “I know you.” Dean snorts and rises abruptly to his feet, surprisingly steady. He heads straight for the second bottle on his nightstand. Castiel rises after him and picks up his glass from the floor. “Here,” he says, slipping the glass into Dean’s hands. “What?” Dean asks angrily. “Not gonna try to give me a big ol’ lecture?” “Would it do any good?” Dean grunts again at that and refills his glass to the brim. He offers the bottle back to Castiel. It’s Castiel’s turn to grunt as he takes the bottle firmly in hand. He raises an eyebrow suggestively then takes a swig worthy of an angel before returning the bottle to the bed stand. A ghost of wry amusement makes its way briefly to Dean’s lips, and for the first time this night their eyes meet. Talk to me, Castiel implores silently. Dean’s shoulders slump under the warmth of Castiel's attention and he slowly exhales. “What if I did something,” he starts, then swallows. “What if I did something for the wrong reasons, Cas?” he asks, his voice cracking. Castiel holds back the fountain of words that pour into his head at this, so few of them his own. He lets his gaze wander over Dean—absorbing his bloodshot eyes, his shaking hands, his unshaven features. “Dean…” Castiel trails off and reaches his hand out cautiously instead, resting it on Dean’s jaw. Dean quakes under the touch, and Castiel hears more words—Don’t spook a wild animal. But Castiel feels a rightness here and, perhaps rebelling from the unwanted advice, he pulls Dean’s head down to his chest forcefully and wraps him in his arms. Dean is taken by surprise and for a second he stills and leans in. Maybe… But before Castiel's hopes can coalesce, the moment snaps. Just as Castiel begins to feel the beginnings of calm, Dean tenses abruptly in his arms, then shoves him away. Castiel expects him to flee then, but Dean remains, frozen in front of him, and so Castiel tries again. “Dean,” he says determinedly, “Talk to me.” “There’s nothing to say, Cas. I’m doing what I have to do, you know that.” “You don’t have to do it alone.” “Yes.” Dean slams down his glass. “I fucking do, Cas! I can’t work with anyone right now, not when I’m like this.” Dean’s eyes shift to the mark on his arm. “It’s for their own good.” “You’re still you,” Castiel exclaims roughly. “Dean, the Mark of Cain doesn’t change who you are. Not exactly. It’s not that simple. The Mark of Cain is just…power.” “Power? How can this be power?” Dean gestures frantically at the room at large—at the blood drops and the knife on the floor, at the whiskey bottle on the bed stand. “How…?” “It’s raw power. “It doesn’t have,” Castiel searches for the right concept, “viscosity. The power in the mark goes where it can find an opening. It seeps where you let it in.” He touches Dean’s arm lightly before pulling back. “It falls into the cracks.” Castiel fumbles against new words then puts forward. “You are not trained in the ways of the force, Dean.” Dean leaps on this reference with inscrutable anger and replies loudly, “Well then I’m fucking Darth Vader, Cas, can’t you see that?” “Darth Vader was still himself,” Castiel shouts back. His voice lowers. “His anger was his own. And he overcame it.” Dean explodes in fury at this. His reaches for the nearest object and flings it angrily towards Cas. He flings the whiskey bottle first, then the lamp, then starts to empty the shelves above his bed. “Get out of here, Cas! Leave. You don’t know what I could fucking do to you.” Castiel evades the objects easily, but desperation and fear strike him instead. Fear for Dean, raging in front of him like a beast. Fear that he has tried to late. Desperation as he fails again to make Dean see. Fueled by a growing fatalism and urgency, Castiel doesn't know what he's doing until he's already started. "Here," he says and leans down and picks up the blade off the floor. “Hurt me.” Dean snarls. “Cas, just leave.” Castiel shoves the blade into Dean’s hand. “If you think you're a danger to me, if you think you’ll kill me, then do it now.” Dean shakes harder, his eyes bouncing over Castiel's face. “Don’t give this to me.” “Go ahead,” Castiel continues and guides Dean’s hand and the blade to his throat. “No, Cas, I…” “You can't do this, Dean, don't you see? It's not too late. And it will never be too late. You’re still you.” “Who am I then?” Dean chokes out. “You’re Dean Winchester. You’re the righteous man. I raised you from hell, I held your soul in my hands.” Castiel listens at last to the words bubbling up inside him. “You’re the man I love.” “Love?” Dean sounds hysterical. He looks like Cas has slapped him. “I won’t leave you, Dean.” Dean drops the blade and it clatters on the ground. “I can’t…” is all he says. And finally Dean flees. Castiel watches him run through the doorway, more words coming unrequested. There's a hole in my soul, I should have known better. 'Cause your love's like a thorn without a rose.