#bsficchallenge

Claire groans softly when Cas changes her into her PJs, the careful handling half awaking her. “Papa?” she mumbles, sleepy eyes finding him unconsciously.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Castiel whispers back. He puts the top of Claire's pyjamas over her head and guides one of her arms into the sleeve, and then the other. “I'm sorry I was late for your bedtime story today.”

Claire's little lips smile lazily. As she moves her head to shake it, it turns out to be too heavy and it falls against Castiel's chest instead. “'s okay, papa. Dean read it.”

Cas smiles and kisses her head. “Did you have fun with Dean?” he asks, softly hugging her close. He hates working overtime, being away from his precious daughter longer than necessary, especially on Fridays, after so many days not spent on her and her only.

Claire's hum comes a little too late than it would if she were awake, but she still swallows and mumbles against Castiel's shirt, “I like Dean.”

Warm pours in Cas's chests and moves up, up, till it reaches his cheeks. “I like Dean, too,” he murmurs back with fondness that should surprise him but it doesn't. Gently, he pulls all hair clips out of Claire's hair and kisses her head one last time. Not disrupting her sleepiness, he lays her down in her bed and tucks Mr Grumpy in the space between her side and arm. The girl hugs the stuffed cat close and only then does Cas cover her with her light purple blanket.

“'Dean stay?” she breathes, pressing her face against Mr Grumpy's freshly washed faux fur.

His heart leaps at the idea, like every other time Claire has asked that question. “Maybe next time, darling,” he whispers. She's fully asleep when he strokes her hair out of her cheek and tucks it behind her ear. He's been promising her to get the courage up to finally ask Dean for a long time now, yet he's never acted on it yet. With a murmured, “Goodnight,” he turns Claire's lamp off and leaves her to sleep.

Lights are turned on in the living room and the kitchen when he walks down the stairs, water is running, accompanied by the sound of Dean's voice humming a song from one of Claire's favourite animated movies; sometimes dishes clink against each other, immediately followed by hushed curses. Castiel's heart longs for his house to feel so alive all the time, not only when Claire, the only animation of his life, is awake, or dreaming upstairs and her babysitter is on his way to getting ready to leave.

“You didn't have to do this,” he says softly to Dean upon entering the kitchen. The song breaks and plates clink again as Dean hastily puts them on the dish rack.

“It's no problem,” Dean replies, turning the water off. He grabs the kitchen towel and busies himself with drying his hands. “I cooked, after all.”

Cas breathes a smile and nods. “Exactly. And I could at least do the dishes.” He watches Dean probably too long or too familiar if the other man's reddened cheeks are anything to go by. He drops his eyes, then, and subconsciously starts playing with one of his rolled up sleeves. “I apologise for coming late.”

“It's okay.”

“Thank you for staying with Claire overtime. I really appreciate it and I promise it won't happen again.”

Dean chuckles as he hangs the towel back on its hanger. “I'm not your boss, Cas. I mean it when I say it's fine.” He crosses his arms on his chest. “Claire is a cool kid. I probably enjoy spending time with her more than she does.”

“That's not true,” Cas laughs, shortly, because aside from them the house is quiet and every noise sounds ten times louder. “She likes you very much.” He leans against one of the counters and mimics Dean's posture without a thought. “What's more,” he jokes, “I believe that if I keep being late home, she'll switch her sympathies and start referring to you as dad.”

The silence that falls between them somehow could compete with the usual quietness of the Novak house—and Cas is willing to bet that if it ever came to that, it would win. Seeing Dean look away and nervously rub his neck must be one of the most awkward moments of Castiel's life because he is the one who has caused the discomfort. He sighs and drops his head, and says,

“I'm sorry, that was out of—”

“She already does.”

“—What?”

Castiel is quickly learning that there are definitely more than just two kinds of silence.

Dean stands a bit straighter, lifts his hands up and hurries, “It slipped out today and she was so embarrassed about it, I told her it was okay.” His cheeks are flushed – Castiel feels that his own mirror the colour pretty damn well. “I'm sorry. She said you wouldn't mind, though, so I didn't tell her not to call me that.”

Castiel's eyes go wide with that piece of information. Yes, Claire may have her suspicions when it comes to his feelings, he's sure of that. He's known that she suspects something from the moment she compared him looking at Dean to Tangled's Eugene watching Rapunzel (“In what scene?” he asked, gulping with nervousness. Claire smiled and exclaimed, “The boat scene!”).

“Oh my God,” he groans softly and hides his eyes behind his hand. “I'm so sorry, Dean. It must have made you so uncomfortable, I'll—I'll talk to her tomorrow.”

Feet shuffle against the floor and the next thing Cas knows is the splash of warmth where Dean's fingers graze hesitantly against his forearm. He drags his palm down his face and moves his eyes to Dean—only for them to widen at how closer the man is now.

“It's alright, Cas, I mean it. I don't mind,” Dean says. “That is—if you don't mind, because if you do—”

“I don't, Dean,” Castiel stops him, shaking his head. Standing so close, he notices not for the first time that Dean is slightly taller than him. The hyperawareness of everything Dean makes him feel like he's burning. Surely that's the reason why his face is so hot or his heart is running a mile a minute. He swallows and takes a soft breath, and lets it out in a soft, “I don't mind...”

Dean tilts his head, with surprise or interest or contentment, Cas isn't sure, and gives him the softest calming smile Cas has ever seen. “You don't?” he asks, and all Castiel's eyes focus on are lips and a hint of a teasing smirk in one corner. Dean must have worried his bottom lip between his teeth earlier because it's so pink and soft-looking, and Cas's fingertips itch to run over it. For a moment, he imagines that he does. The phantom thought-sensation makes his breath hitch.

It must be the late hour that opens his lips and spills the next words.

“Are you free tomorrow?”

Dean's eyebrow moves up and he nods, but other than that he doesn't move. “Why? You need me to babysit Claire?”

Cas shakes his head which breaks the spell and finally enables him to look away. “Ah... No,” he admits, quite reluctantly. “We're—going out for ice-cream.” That sounds so lame. He groans inwardly and braces for what comes next. For Claire, he thinks pathetically, even though his racing heart laughs at the poor cover. “You could come with if you want to.”

It's not exactly what he's promised Claire earlier, but when Dean lightens up and nods, he knows it's a good start.

Dean hasn't spoken to him ever since Cas got back to the bunker, and Sam clearly wanted to leave them two alone to “sort through their business”. Castiel wants that more than anything, wants to hear an explanation, maybe an apology, shit, he wouldn't say no to getting forgiveness from Dean, doesn't matter for what. He's used to the brothers blaming him for something.

He just wants Dean to talk to him.

It's like there's a clock in Castiel's chest, counting down to midnight. His heart tightens with every second, like it needs to pump blood to his veins, freely, but it's getting harder for it to work.

Somewhere inside, he knows it's not his fault, none of what happened this year is. He did all he could to help, and maybe they would have succeeded if only all of them communicated better.

Castiel has sworn to protect humanity; the instinct was buried deep inside of him, deep enough not to ever disappear. He himself would never let go of it willingly.

Humans... Such fragile beings. Most of them have no idea what's going on in the world. They're wrapped in their lives, going through their daily routines.

He wants a routine, too. He wants to live.

Staying with the Winchesters doesn't feel like living at all. More often than not, Cas catches himself on thinking, “What if?” What if he can help people in other ways than being there for Dean's every call?

He has helped some of them, back in the old days. Before the Winchesters, before any of his siblings had fallen, he would walk through the streets, alone, healing the worries of the ill, helping the homeless find shelter, feeding the hungry, giving water the thirsty. When he became a new God—he still burns in shame whenever he thinks how that ended—he helped, too. The blind got their sight back, lost children found their way back home again, crops were saved from drought. He even helped with child delivery – one that was supposed to end in tragedy, but it didn't. He made sure it didn't.

If he left right now, just walk out through the door and never come back, he could do great things. He could protect the innocence and ignorance of thousands, millions of people, allowing them to sleep peacefully at nights.

He could do great things.

He's capable of doing great things.

The clock in his chest ticks like a bomb, getting closer and closer to the twelfth hour.

He should leave.

Does he want to leave?

His throat clenches as he looks at Dean. The hunter is watching TV, pretending he doesn't see Cas at all, ignoring whatever tension he can feel. He won't speak to him.

He will when I'm needed, Castiel thinks. It's an ugly thought, and one that drills right through his heart, because it's true, he knows that now.

Dean might be giving him silent treatment because he feels bad for beating the shit out of him, but Castiel's done being here, feeling like he's the one to blame, like he needs and deserves the punishment the silence feels like. He has feelings, too, especially now. Maybe he's not an angel, and not fully human, either, maybe he doesn't belong to either of these worlds.

He's his own being, though. He can see that now. He has nobody to trully depend on, he might as well depend on himself.

Tick tock tick tock, the clock screams in the quietness of the room. It has its limits, it'll break soon, stop ticking, and Cas isn't sure what'll happen next.

He swallows. What should he do?

“Dean,” he says, and watches as the man's body cringes at the sound of his voice. The silence that follows stretches over them both, like clouds before an endless night, promising nothing but thunderstorms and rain and hail.

Castiel doesn't want that. He wants sun and love and gratitude.

They've been in that room for two hours now, together, yet Castiel has never felt more alone.

The clock ticks faster and faster, and then—then it stops.

Whatever has been restricting Castiel's heart gives up, exploding with blood finally rushing through his veins. It feels like shock, like power and electricity and I'm done all at once.

He slams the door on his way out, relishing in the noise. It's raining, but he's glad of it. The rain helps wash the pain, disappointment, betrayal down him, It christens him, turns Cas into Castiel again. A new Castiel. His own Castiel.

It's time to think for himself.