Dean had never realized that prayers were not composed of words. He feels so many prayers nowâso many whirls of luminous colors and wavering notes, barely sustained by the thin air of the earth. They fall through him from every direction like cosmic rays, millions of them piercing the world without disturbing a single atom. They fill him regardless, screw the atoms. Love, it turns out, is greater than the sum of its parts.
Should have guessed, Dean thinks wryly.
Only one prayer bears the weight of his name, because only one man knows to pray to Dean. It falls on him from above like soothing raindrops, slipping down his heated skin. I can taste him, he marvels. Castielâs prayer is bitter and sweet, a heartbroken vortex of blue and fuchsia, but so bright even in its despair. Dean wonders if Cas had seen this light in Deanâs prayers as well.
Explains a lot.
He feels a smile lift the corners of his lips and feels liquid trickle down from his eyes. His eyes are burning, but he can still see. He can see everything. He sees through the hill in front of him, through its hidden door, through its tunnel of darkness, and through the realm of Heaven itself.
I have enough time, he knows.
He can tell Castiel sure ainât aiming for light, but Castielâs fury doesnât matter. His heart betrays him. Too much heart was always Castielâs problem. Dean thinks he might be laughing, but heâs no longer certain which sensations are coming from within or without. Perhaps the world is laughing. Castielâs prayer guides Dean and propels him on, even as he can hear Castielâs words beseeching precisely the opposite.
Castiel hears Deanâs return to the bunker although itâs quiet. Dean heads straight for his room and closes its door gently so as not wake anyone, but Castielâs 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. Theoâs grace is both larger and smaller than him and though he wills himself not to mind it, the effects are becoming undeniable. It doesnât 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 itâs 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 âAerosmithâ as âcompletely unacceptableâ but these words are beckoned by Deanâs arrival nonetheless.
Dean hasnât spoken to him since Castiel arrived at the bunker. In fact, Castiel hasnât 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 doesnât 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 heâd 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 Theoâs grace induces, he can see the Markâs threads cutting their way through Deanâs soul. He sees fissures widening, edges sizzlingâand 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.
~
Heâs not sure what reaches him this evening as he walks by Deanâs 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 Deanâs room, however, he knows that tonight is different. Castiel stops hesitantly by the door and listens, then knocks gently.
âDean? Dean, may I come in?â he asks quietly.
He can hear Deanâs 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.
Deanâs 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. Deanâs lip is split and the drops of blood around him are clearly not his own. He doesnât visibly react to Castielâs entranceâhe 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 isnât sure how he knowsâperhaps the new stories in his head have had an impactâbut he knows it isnât 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 doesnât seem concerned with hiding.
Castiel takes this all in, slowly sipping again at the whiskey bottle, then finally breaks the silence. âIâve missed you.â
Dean lifts his head up towards the ceiling and barks out a harsh noise which falls between laugh and sob. âIâm glad you weren't here,â he says. He adds, âYou donât need to be here, Cas.â
Castiel pauses. âI want to be here, Dean.â
âTrust me man, you do not want to be here.â âIf you knewââ
ââI know enough.â Castiel interrupts. âDeanâŚâ Castiel sighs. âI know you.â
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. âHere,â he says, slipping the glass into Deanâs hands.
âWhat?â Dean asks angrily. âNot gonna try to give me a big olâ lecture?â
âWould it do any good?â
Dean grunts again at that and refills his glass to the brim.
He offers the bottle back to Castiel. Itâs Castielâs 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 Deanâs lips, and for the first time this night their eyes meet.
Talk to me, Castiel implores silently.
Deanâs shoulders slump under the warmth of Castiel's attention and he slowly exhales. âWhat if I did something,â he starts, then swallows. âWhat if I did something for the wrong reasons, Cas?â 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 Deanâabsorbing his bloodshot eyes, his shaking hands, his unshaven features. âDeanâŚâ Castiel trails off and reaches his hand out cautiously instead, resting it on Deanâs jaw.
Dean quakes under the touch, and Castiel hears more wordsâDonât spook a wild animal. But Castiel feels a rightness here and, perhaps rebelling from the unwanted advice, he pulls Deanâs 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.
MaybeâŚ
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. âDean,â he says determinedly, âTalk to me.â
âThereâs nothing to say, Cas. Iâm doing what I have to do, you know that.â
âYou donât have to do it alone.â
âYes.â Dean slams down his glass. âI fucking do, Cas! I canât work with anyone right now, not when Iâm like this.â Deanâs eyes shift to the mark on his arm. âItâs for their own good.â
âYouâre still you,â Castiel exclaims roughly. âDean, the Mark of Cain doesnât change who you are. Not exactly. Itâs not that simple. The Mark of Cain is justâŚpower.â
âPower? How can this be power?â Dean gestures frantically at the room at largeâat the blood drops and the knife on the floor, at the whiskey bottle on the bed stand. âHowâŚ?â
âItâs raw power. âIt doesnât have,â Castiel searches for the right concept, âviscosity. The power in the mark goes where it can find an opening. It seeps where you let it in.â He touches Deanâs arm lightly before pulling back. âIt falls into the cracks.â Castiel fumbles against new words then puts forward. âYou are not trained in the ways of the force, Dean.â
Dean leaps on this reference with inscrutable anger and replies loudly, âWell then Iâm fucking Darth Vader, Cas, canât you see that?â
âDarth Vader was still himself,â Castiel shouts back. His voice lowers. âHis anger was his own. And he overcame it.â
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.
âGet out of here, Cas! Leave. You donât know what I could fucking do to you.â
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. âHurt me.â
Dean snarls. âCas, just leave.â
Castiel shoves the blade into Deanâs hand. âIf you think you're a danger to me, if you think youâll kill me, then do it now.â
Dean shakes harder, his eyes bouncing over Castiel's face. âDonât give this to me.â
âGo ahead,â Castiel continues and guides Deanâs hand and the blade to his throat.
âNo, Cas, IâŚâ
âYou can't do this, Dean, don't you see? It's not too late. And it will never be too late. Youâre still you.â
âWho am I then?â Dean chokes out.
âYouâre Dean Winchester. Youâre the righteous man. I raised you from hell, I held your soul in my hands.â Castiel listens at last to the words bubbling up inside him. âYouâre the man I love.â
âLove?â Dean sounds hysterical. He looks like Cas has slapped him.
âI wonât leave you, Dean.â
Dean drops the blade and it clatters on the ground. âI canâtâŚâ 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.