ofimpala

[ofimpala]

fcllencngel​:

Castiel doesn’t laugh at the jokes, but he does give a tiny smile, even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s something sad behind it, concerned. Humour’s one of Dean’s ways of coping, always has been, but there’s also something about the jokes that are so very Dean that it’s also somewhat of a… well, perhaps not a comfort, but Cas doesn’t quite know how else to explain the feeling. It blooms in his chest and curls tight around his heart and it’s Dean just being Dean that puts that feeling there.

He wants to joke back, to say something to make him smile, make him feel even a little bit better, but even now, after 12 years on Earth, he’s not very good with human sense of humour. “I don’t know who Dr. Phil is, but I’m surprised you opted to reference him over Dr. Sexy.” There’s another shadow of a smile on his lips, then it’s gone again.

Blue eyes flicker to the touch of their knees, then to the green of Dean’s eyes, then away again. The feeling grows warmer and tighter and he doesn’t understand why. 

For a moment, he considers telling Dean how he’d once wanted to show him his true form, how he’d almost deafened him by attempting to speak with his true voice. “The shadow of my wings you remember… unfortunately, my wings aren’t what they used to be and haven’t been for some time,” he settles for instead, not realising that wasn’t the time Dean had been referring to. 

This time, when Castiel smiles, it does reach his eyes. He knows it’s meant as a joke, but he can’t help himself. “No. I don’t share much in common with most of the angels. Not since I rebelled.” Not since I met you, he wants to say, but the words don’t come. 

.

         “Dr. Sexy ain’t a psychologist, he’s just a regular MD,” Dean replies on pure reflex -- and wonders when exactly he got comfortable enough to admit that he’s obsessed with a medical soap opera starring a dude named Dr Sexy.

         The more disturbing question is: how does Cas know Dr. Sexy, but not Dr. Phil? Nobody’s introduced him to the wonder of daytime TV, it seems.

         Cas’ explanations -- about his wings (wings! actual real wings! what the fuck!), about the other angels, about rebelling -- they knock on something in Dean’s shitty patchwork memories. Not real recollection, just a feeling that he used to know what Cas was talking about. Something about... falling, and rebelling, and the enormity of it is enough to threaten another headache.

         So. He caused an angel to turn his back on Heaven, to lose his wings. Dean knows it’s his fault, it has to be, because that’s just what he does. If Cas blames him for it, it’s not obvious. But then, Cas does seem like that kind of guy. You know. Overly forgiving.

         Case in point: he’s sitting next to Dean, kind enough to explain and be patient with him, when Dean still blindly fumbling his way through recently-recalled memories of some pretty awful shit.

         “Sorry,” Dean winds up offering, because just like how he knows it’s probably his fault, he also knows he probably didn’t apologize, because he’s always had trouble spitting those words out when it really mattered. What could have happened, to make Cas rebel? What did Dean do? Cas makes it sound like all the other angels are dicks, but is he just softening the blow? Convincing himself it was for the best?

         And he’s officially beginning to hit his emotional talk quota for the day.

         “So, uh--” Dean’s expression creases into something between a grimace and a scowl, not sure if he wants to be apologetic or angry or trying to wave the whole thing off with a joke. “Rest of the tour? I think I’ve seen everything the TV room has to offer, unless you’ve got some juicy shit hidden down the back of the couch cushions.”

[ofimpala]

fcllencngel​:

The empty is almost the opposite of Heaven, yet it’s not the same as Hell. Hell’s physical pain, torture, being ripped to pieces and cut into over and over again. The Empty, however, focuses on the emotional pain. Your deepest regrets playing on repeat. The worst things you’ve ever done. It’s no less impactful, but the two are incomparable. Castiel would know. He’s seen both. 

But he doesn’t know that right now. He’s unware of where he is, or of what’s happening. All he knows is that he’s bad, and wrong, and all he ever does is mess things up. 

There’s Sam, falling to pieces after Cas broke the wall inside his head. He’s wasting away before their eyes, finding it harder and harder to tell the difference between what’s real and what isn’t, and Castiel knows it’s his fault. Everyone knows it’s his fault because it is. He’s destroyed one of the only friends he’s ever had and he should never be forgiven for that. 

There’s Claire, just a child, too young to comprehend Castiel’s original mission, and too young to understand why her family crumbled in front of her. There’s anger and hatred burning in her eyes, and it’s all aimed at Castiel. And she’s right to the feel that way. It is his fault. Jimmy would still be alive and well, Amelia wouldn’t have left, Claire’s family would still be whole if he hadn’t taken her father as a vessel. 

She’s just a lost child. 

There’s Metatron, the angels falling from the sky, betraying and lying to Dean. There’s thousands of bodies laying around him in Heaven, all resembling Dean. There’s multiple bodies of his brothers and sisters, Castiel plunging his blade through their chests. There’s memories of all of the worst things Castiel has ever done, re-enacted around him. 

His death, confessing his love to Dean… that doesn’t appear. Not once.

For now, though, it’s Jimmy. Cas is circling above him in his trueform, invisible to the human eye, and waiting for permission to enter. It’s the perfect vessel, strong enough to contain him without bursting. Nothing else about him matters. His appearance doesn’t matter, his family doesn’t matter, his life doesn’t matter.  Somehow, he knows what comes next; suffering for everyone involved, but it doesn’t– no. It does matter. Because Jimmy isn’t an it, he’s a person, and yet Castiel can’t stop himself. He can’t–

Something grips him tight, and everything around him falls into blackness.

He can hear something. A voice. Familiar. Close yet still so distant, and– and Cas is in his vessel again? There’s a hand under his head, one on his shoulder; he can feel it, and it’s a huge comfort. But his head hurts in a way he’s only experienced a handful of times before. His thoughts are cloudy and too complicated to sort through, and he can’t concentrate long enough to figure out what’s going on. But the voice– the voice becomes clearer.

…pulling that shit, Cas.

He forces his eyes open.

“Dean.” 

His eyebrows knit together as he tries to sit up, shifting his weight with a hand on the human’s – no, not human anymore, Dean feels indescribably different – shoulder to balance himself. He doesn’t understand. “How? What have you done?” The relief that should come with being alive doesn’t, because Dean’s different, and Castiel can’t explain how. 

.

         Relief hits so sharp that he exhales like it’s been punched out of him. He did it. He didn’t fuck it up, and Cas is alive.

         This is usually the point where Dean lets go. He’s never been an overly physically affectionate person -- hugs are reserved for pre- or post-death experiences. Hands on shoulders are very occasionally for an emotional conversation, and only for a short amount of time. He’s confirmed Cas is alive, he can let go.

         But he doesn’t. His hold on Cas’ shoulder is so tight he swears he can hear fabric creaking underneath his desperate grip. The hand he has hooked around the back of Cas’ neck is gentle by contrast, fingertips pushed into the soft messy hair at Cas’ nape, thumb tucked just under the stretch of smooth skin beneath his ear. It’s-- terrifying. Because it’s not just holding a friend anymore, it’s holding a guy that looked Dean right in the eye and said--

         Fuck it.

         The kiss Dean plants on him is probably the worst kiss he’s ever given.

         The thing is, Dean’s always prided himself on being a fucking excellent kisser. He’s been making out with people since he was fifteen, and he’s always enjoyed the dedication of it, taking his time, going slow, learning what people like. Whether they like it soft or frantic, languid or decisive. He perfected his art in school janitor’s closets and the backseat of the Impala, and there’s nothing that makes Dean feel quite so smug or proud as making someone get downright flustered, temporarily lost for words.

         The thing is, it’s never meant as much as it does now.

         It’s too quick, too hard, too panicked, too relieved, too overwhelmed. It really is, easily, the worst kiss Dean has ever subjected someone to. He’ll probably be embarrassed about it later. Hell, he’ll freak out about it later. He pulls back before Cas even has a chance to respond to it, his expression twisting into something awful and too-vulnerable.

         And the only response he can give is:

         “I gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” Dean’s put-on aren’t I so clever smirk has a brittle edge. Cas will figure it out soon enough, he’s always been quick like that, so much smarter. "You self-sacrificial asshole.” His grip tightens, white-knuckling on Cas’ trenchcoat. “You good? Not feeling like you’re... gonna get dragged back any second now?”

[ofimpala]

@fcllencngel​ starter because hashtag the finale never happened, 18 eps sure is a weird number for a season, what a shame covid stopped them before they could make 40 solid minutes of reciprocation lmao

         His phone is vibrating again. It keeps doing that,  Sam’s name keeps popping up on the screen. It’s the seventh time now. Dean’s sure that, in a minute, it’ll be eight.

         He just can’t bring himself to answer. Can’t bring himself to do anything other than stare at the empty spot in the room where Cas was and now isn’t. He’s felt this before. This deep howling void of absolute shell-shock where all he can hear is roaring in his ears and his own panicked heartbeat. It had happened after Mary had died, once when he didn’t speak for six months afterward, once again over her empty shell. Sam; stabbed in the back, fallen into the Cage, torn apart by vamps. Charlie’s bloody lifeless corpse in a bathtub. John in that hospital bed, soul torn out. And Cas-- god, so many times. More times than he wants to remember.

         Dean thinks, maybe, that he should be used to this. Should be used to getting the people he loves torn away from him.

         But this is different. This is Cas telling him about a deal he’d never fucking mentioned before. This is Cas smiling so wide, tears in his eyes as he tells Dean things that nobody’s ever been kind enough to say about him. This is Cas looking at peace while he’s swallowed by the Empty.

         This is Cas saying I love you.

         This is Cas sacrificing himself yet again, this time explicitly for Dean. This is Cas dying because he loves Dean.

         His phone starts up again, the shorter buzzes of incoming texts.

         [Sam]: Everybody vanished          [Sam]: Jack’s still here with me          [Sam]: Dean answer your fucking phone          [Sam]: At least let me know if you’re alive

         Dean thinks of Sam earlier, pale and drawn as he’d frantically texted Eileen, how the texts had just stopped. His thumb hovers over the reply button, because he doesn’t want Sam to worry, he really doesn’t, but a glint out of the corner of his eye stops him.

         Death’s ring, lying small and so harmless looking on the concrete floor between the shelves. Her scythe, fallen awkwardly against some books. They must not have gone with her to the Empty, remaining on earth for the next Death to assume the mantle. Maybe they’ll just pop over to the next reaper that dies, but he doesn’t know how many reapers are even left. Earth might be without a Death for a while, but it’s not his fucking problem. Not right now.

         He opens up a text to Sam, and pauses. His gaze goes right back to that ring.

         He thinks about Jack saying Billie had been there when he’d woken up in the Empty. How the original Death had traveled anywhere he’d damned well pleased. He remembers the deal he made for Sam’s soul, slipping that ring on, graveyard-cold and heavy, touching the almost-dead and helping them pass on -- and he’s sure that Tessa did most of the work ferrying him around, he’s sure he didn’t get Death’s full powers. Maybe humans just can’t. Maybe it’s a time thing. Maybe he would have if he’d worn it for longer. Maybe he just hadn’t known how. Maybe maybe maybe.

         Maybe he can...

         There’s a mission at hand here, and at stake is everything. Life, free will, the entire fucking universe. Chuck needs to die; every single one of Dean’s nerve endings have been screaming that for months now, blinded with fury and loss of control. But Cas is gone, and Dean doesn’t know if they can kill Chuck without him. Doesn’t think he can grieve Cas again, not again, not when the last time had gone the way it had, at the bottom of too many bottles and nearly dead on the stairs of an abandoned house full of restless ghosts. It’d be easier if he could tell himself it’s because Cas is an important piece on the board, but it’s not just that, it’s something he’s been feeling for years and never could manage to be brave enough to face up to it--

         Before Dean can even really think or plan ahead or contemplate how immensely fucking stupid and dangerous this is, his hands are moving. First, to his phone.

         [Dean]: brb

         And then to the ring. It’s cold, sending a chill right down his spine when he slips it on, but he doesn’t suddenly sprout wings or manifest knowledge of the entire fucking cosmos. For a long minute, he’s pretty sure he just looks like a goddamn idiot waiting for something to happen. It’s only when he picks up the scythe that he spots it against the far wall: a ripple in the air like a loose thread, a weak spot between realities where the Empty had ripped it open and hadn’t bothered to patch it up quite right after.

         There’s no other course of action he can contemplate right now.

         He steps through.

         And, god, it’s-- Dean’s pretty sure a human mind was never meant to comprehend the Empty. Humans aren’t meant to be here. There’s nothingness and towering dim pillars of light and darkness, what must be angels and demons, and the noise is ear-splitting, rumbles and high-pitched whines, he doesn’t know how to find Cas or how to even begin looking, but he’s Dean Fucking Winchester so he marches forward. He spends a minute, or maybe an eternity, looking, running, hoping his brain doesn’t melt out his fucking ears before he catches a glimpse, a half-formed note of a familiar noise, and then--

         Everything shifts. He tumbles down through flashes of memory like Alice down the hole to Wonderland, flashes of angel wings burned into a field and Lucifer’s burning red eyes, and Dean thinks he spends time there calling Cas’ name, but he can’t say for sure. There’s a house, then, and Cas-- no, it’s Jimmy, the lines of his face are softer, and something’s circling.

         Something enormous and bright, something that, much like the Empty, Dean can’t comprehend. He sees it in dizzying half-glimpses, churning grace and twisting animal heads and gleaming ink-dark feathers.

         It’s Cas. He knows it. Knows it deep in his soul and his fucking bones.

         Dean will never be able to explain how he reaches out and grabs that celestial entity, skyscraper-massive and millions of years old, but he does it. He grabs Cas like he’s an errant puppy, tangles his fingers in what might be a feathered wing or a zebra’s mane or a spinning wheel or maybe all of them at once, and yanks.

         And proceeds to bounce right off the bunker’s warding -- maybe he’s a little bit other than Dean with the ring on, different enough that his energy signature’s changed -- and into the gravel and trees outside. He thinks his eyes might be bleeding from those tiny glimpses of true form, knows his impact into a tree scraped him up, but it’s nothing compared to the agonizing jolt of relief (he did it) and fear (oh fuck what if he did it wrong) he feels when he sees Cas sprawled out on the bunker’s winding driveway.

         “Cas.” It comes out a whisper, a croak, because what if he did something wrong, what if he brought back an empty shell like Mary was, what if Cas wanted to stay in the Empty. “Fuck, Cas--”

         Dean scrambles, dropping to his knees beside Cas’ prone form, curling a hand underneath the lax curve of his neck to lift his head, the other hand on a too-still shoulder, shaking him. “C’mon, come on, wake the fuck up.” The words want to be an authoritative bark; they come out far too wobbly for that. “You have to be alright or I’ll kill you myself for pulling that shit, Cas.”

[ofimpala]

fcllencngel​:

Castiel’s busy trying to decide between just using his grace to clean up the mess, or taking the time to do it by hand. Grace, of course, is the easiest option, but he’s beginning to think that he’s already pushed Dean too far in trying to get him to remember things, and maybe he should try harder to not overwhelm him. 

Then Dean speaks, and he realises the harm is already done. If Dean remembers seeing proof, remembers seeing his wings, then he must remember one of the times Castiel projected their shadow behind him. When they met, perhaps? He’s not too fond of that thought; he’s changed a huge amount since then, become a more loving, caring person, someone who can make his own choices, who can fight for the whole world, and those changes have happened because of Dean. But if he remembers that, then he remembers shooting at him, remembers the sparks literally flying as Castiel walks towards him, and he remembers stabbing him in the heart. 

He remembers seeing things that Castiel thinks would be more overwhelming that broken glass and a spilled drink – but it’s always hard to know for sure with Dean.

So he snaps his fingers and the mess vanishes. Just like that. Sorted. 

Then he walks towards Dean, sitting down next to him, close enough for their knees to touch. “I know you didn’t,” he says. “You had so little faith before you met me. And as it turned out, rightfully so.” He doesn’t elaborate on what he means by that, doesn’t go into the corrupt system of Heaven. Dean may have been wrong about his disbelief in God and angels, but his reasons for not doing so were correct. “I assume you’re referring to my wings?”

He looks towards Dean, frowning slightly. “I think it might be best to give you a few more minutes before we continue with the tour. You need to process what you’re remembering.”

.

         “Fuck’s sake. Enough with the soundbites, Dr. Phil, I’m fine,” Dean bites out.

         Fucking process. As if Dean didn’t just see Cas snap his fingers and vanish glass like it was as easy as breathing. As if Dean’s gaze doesn’t keep drifting to focus just over Cas’ shoulder, trying to see something he knows is there. As if he isn’t getting memories of him fucking slaughtering whole houses full of people. As if Hell didn’t feel like it happened about an hour ago, and he’s really starting to think that he got brought back wrong.

         God, he hates the way Cas is looking at him. All concern and worry and the weight of a years long relationship that he doesn’t remember, trepidation like he’s expecting Dean to just fly off the handle or break into pieces. He hates that he kinda doesn’t hate it. He hates that he doesn’t know what that feeling in his gut is, there’s just too much of it, too twisted up and tangled for him to decipher.

         Finally, at length, Dean says, “Yeah, the wings.” Reluctantly, like it’s dragged out of him. He shifts, couch springs creaking in protest underneath him. It sends his knee knocking against Cas’, ripped jeans up against neatly pressed slacks, and he doesn’t move it, doesn’t know why it scares him so much either. But the throbbing in his temples is fading, there’s no further memories pouring in, not yet.

         He’s got eleven missing years and the knowledge that he was a demon at some point, and that what he did as a demon kinda paled in comparison to what he did as a human. Great.

         Rightfully so, Cas said. Dean chews on that statement for a while, figures he may as well just ask. “So, what, all the other angels don’t have your winning personality?”

[ofimpala]

fcllencngel​:

The moment Castiel realises something is going through Dean’s mind, he reaches out to grip onto him with his hands, holding him upright. The first wave of memories are happy ones, if Dean’s description of them is anything to go by, and for a moment Cas is relieved, but by the second wave– it seems like Dean’s in pain, and he doesn’t need to wonder which of his memories are returning for long because he’s gripping tightly onto his own forearm like it’s burning. The Mark. He’s remembering the Mark. That could include a wide range of memories, but whichever specific moment it is, Castiel’s certain that it’s bad. 

He wants to know what he’s thinking about. He wants to help but has no idea how to go about doing so, can only hope that the good memories outweigh the bad.

He doubts it. The duration of Dean’s time with the Mark was likely one of the darkest times of his life. 

“You should go sit down,” he says, eyes flickering towards Dean and giving him a pleading look. Don’t fight with me on this. Look after yourself. “I’ll clean up the mess.” He lets go of him, considers for a second, and then, “Whatever you just remembered, it’s okay now. It wasn’t your fault, and the Mark is gone.”

.

         Before Dean can consciously think about it, he’s doing as he’s told, parking his ass on one of the couches. His arm, his back, is still lit up with the lingering warmth of Cas’ bracing hold, and Cas is saying something about a mark but Dean’s not really listening.

         If that memory of beating the shit out of Cas was a battering ram, it’s opened the floodgates, remembrance quietly ticking away while memories slot back into their respective places. A ramshackle house, a group of men who might have been scumbags but still just human, they died as easily as humans after Dean was done ripping them apart. Another house, another slaughter -- mostly bad guys, that time, but still a few innocents, bodies draped over banisters and scattered in pieces over marble floors. Other, smaller memories: snapping at Sam over and over because he can’t think beyond relentless obsessive need, some douche with a smarmy smile and a sweatervest, Metatron, an office building full of angels.

         Sam’s face, pale and terrified. Cas’ arms locked around him like iron bands while he snarls and struggles like an animal gone rabid. Something brushing soft against his forearms, something he could almost swear were feathers.

         It’s not everything, just bits and pieces from a short span of time. And Dean doesn’t know what the fuck to do with any of it, so he’s up again before Cas can start dealing with the broken glass, shoulder-checking him out of the way so he can grab the broom, growling out a, “I got it,” on the way.

         It’s the work of a moment -- he’s been cleaning up broken glass since he was four, bottles dropping out of dad’s hand after falling asleep on the couch. Hey, at least Dean didn’t throw this one at the wall. That’s always a hell of a lot harder to clean.

         He wants to ask Cas-- so many things. Why he’s still here. Why he’s being nice. Why he isn’t rightfully telling Dean where he can stick it. But what winds up coming out is: “You really are an angel.”

         Which is the dumbest fucking possible option he could have gone for, but it’s out there now. He doesn’t know when it was, but back in that hallway, the immovable circle of Cas’ arms, Dean’s pretty sure he caught sight of wings out of the corner of his eye. Insubstantial, but just visible to a gaze gone demon-black, which Dean would be freaking out about if he hadn’t walked through three devil’s traps on the way here. He’ll probably still freak out about it later.

         “I never used to believe in angels,” Dean continues, and for whatever reason, it comes out accusatory. Like it’s Cas fault, like he spontaneously manifested himself into being just to spite Dean’s disbelief. “Never saw any. Never met a single hunter that had seen one. And here you are, with the...” Is wings even the right terminology? He doesn’t know, so he just gestures over Cas’ shoulders, not that he can see anything there right now.

         What next? Unicorns?

         Dean scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, carefully shutting away all the confusion. Whatever vulnerability might have shown get tucked behind grit teeth and a hard set to his jaw. “Whatever. Where’s the next stop on the tour. Might as well rip this band-aid off quick.”

[ofimpala]

fcllencngel​:

The look in Dean’s eyes, the tone of his voice– Castiel is fairly certain it means that he just remembered something else. It’s difficult to know for sure if he should leave it alone or pry. Knowing Dean, he wouldn’t share much if he asked, but he’s sure that it’s unpleasant being unpredictably struck by memories, and he hates that he may force himself to fight through it without assistance. Especially if those memories are bad – which Dean has plenty of – but it’s hard to tell if they are, because Dean does what he always does; hides behind a smile. 

The tone of his voice, however, would imply that yes, whatever he’d just remembered… it wasn’t exactly something he remembered fondly.

Perhaps it really is better to just leave it alone until he decides to discuss it.

“It’s nothing you should be concerned about,” Castiel says, offering Dean a warm smile. “Follow me.” He walks away without looking back, expecting him to follow close behind. He leads him through the bunker, a maze of corridors and numbered rooms, until he finds what he’s looking for and comes to a stop outside of the door. “Go inside.”

.

         This place is a goddamn maze, and Dean neglects to focus much on the bare concrete walls in favor of the taste of whiskey he brought along with him (shut up, he needs this, damn it, he’s finally starting to get a buzz), the way Cas’ smile changes his face in alarming and fascinating ways, and that flash of memory that leaves him with a lingering sense of guilt. He doesn’t know the specifics, doesn’t know the context. All he knows is, at some point, when Cas needed him the most, Dean tossed him out on his ass.

         He’s starting to regret even wanting these memories back. Fuck.

         As directed, he palms open the door in front of him, eyebrows knitted in faint confusion as he takes in what Cas thought he needed to see first. There’s worn-in couches and a battered coffee table in front of a huge TV, bar cabinet off to the side. Doesn’t look like much at first, but just behind his eyelids he can see--

         --excitedly telling Cas about the Dollars Trilogy, he has to see it, how can he have not seen it. Juggling popcorn and soda as he makes Cas sit, get ready for the best movie marathon of your life, Cas, hitting play and scoffing at Cas’ confused little frown over why they’re called spaghetti westerns because oh his mind is gonna be blown--          --Sam’s picked something with subtitles and has looked entranced this whole time, Jack’s fallen asleep slumped against Dean’s side which Dean is pretty proud of because, hah, good kid, knowing which movies are too boring to stay awake for, he’s only staying awake to watch the contentment on Sam and Cas’ faces and taking comfort in the sight of them safe and happy and secure, listening to Cas point out contextual errors in translation--          --he’s desperately trying to be cool and casual after waking up with his cheek smushed against Cas’ shoulder, cracking a joke about drool spots and rain-proof trenchcoats--

         “Jesus fuck,” Dean grinds out, but it’s only half-grumpy and only because of the pain throbbing behind his eyes. It’s grumbled out around a smile that he can’t stop, because okay, maybe the memories aren’t so bad, if he gets this. “I’m getting memories of a fuckton of movie nights, and man, you have weird taste in movies. Sam’s worse, though. Fuckin’ subtitles. If I wanted to read, I’d--”

         It’s like an earthquake rumbling in the distance, the roar of an oncoming train. Something bigger is coming, and it comes with a stab of agony, like being pistol-whipped across the back of the head--

         --he’s staring at Sam’s cartoon face because what the actual fuck, he’s flirting with a cartoon character he always kinda had a crush on and fighting with the other one he had a crush on, he’s fighting a cartoon ghost which turns out to be a kid, just a kid--          --a kid whose eyes he just put a bullet between, and there’s Cas, pleading with him to stop, and Dean can’t -- there’s a burning in his arm and in his chest and his fists are bloody with how hard he’s pounding them into Cas’ face, all he can think about is the rip and the tear and the kill, rage beating behind his eyes and visions of sliding his blade right between Cas’ ribs so he can watch that grace-light burn out through his skull, and fuck, he wants it, wants to see how beautiful an ending it would be, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t because there’s still some tiny part of him that’s screaming at what he’s doing -- he’s got the blade held high above a prone and beaten Cas who didn’t even fight back, and at some point it stopped being kill kill kill and started being please, god, stay away from me, I’m poison, I’m good for nothing, all I do is hurt the people I love, just run and don’t look back, god, Cas, why didn’t you fight back, why didn’t you kill me--

         The crash of glass brings him back, his drink slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers. He looks, but there’s nothing on his forearm, doesn’t even know what he’d expect to find, but digs his fingernails into that patch of skin like it might help prompt something anyway, holds his arm defensively against his chest. “Sorry,” Dean says, his own voice sounding like it’s coming from far away. “Shit. I’ll, uh-- don’t move. I’ll clean that up.”

[ofimpala]

fcllencngel​:

It’s going to be an odd feeling, showing Dean around the bunker as though it’s his first time seeing it, but Castiel’s happy to take on the responsibility. It’ll be nice to spend some time with Dean, and hopefully it’ll jog his memory a little, trigger more to return to him. 

He knows where to start. It’s safe to assume Dean already spent some time looking around his bedroom, but Castiel’s almost certain he hasn’t seen his other favourite room, yet. The recreation room, or, as Dean calls it, the Dean-Cave. They’ve enjoyed many movie nights in there, played a few video games, amongst many other ways they’ve found to just relax. Castiel quite likes it in there himself. Not so much for the things, but instead because this is where he tends to find Dean the happiest most frequently. It’s always nice to see him like that, telling jokes Castiel doesn’t understand but knows must be funny from the way Dean laughs. 

Dean doesn’t remember it right now. Nor does he have any memory of ever have anything like that, and Castiel thinks it’ll be a nice surprise for him. He’s sure he needs it right now. 

“I can do that,” he answers. “I can teach you more about your phone later.” He gets up and politely pushes his chair back under the table, before waiting for Dean to join him. “There’s something I’d like you to see first.“ The full tour can wait until they’re feeling more relaxed, Castiel decides. “Follow me.”

.

         There’s other contacts in his phone, too, far more than he’d expected. Paging through some of his recent texts tells him that some of them must be hunters. Jody, Donna, Claire, Garth, sporadic messages with information on hunts. Further down, there’s other names but no texts for a few years. Charlie, Kevin. Other names like Crowley or Rowena, more calls than texts. None of them are familiar. Fuck, he knows a lot of people.

         Castiel’s offer grabs his attention, but when Dean glances up at him, his vision slides sideways. Suit and trenchcoat replaced with slacks and a dorky blue vest and a nametag, something infinitely more human and vulnerable, lonely, in the set of his eyes. And, jesus, the fucking guilt Dean feels, it’s absolute and crushing, squeezing tight around his ribcage and clashing violently with resignation.

         He blinks, and it’s gone.

         “Yeah,” Dean replies, slow and belated, voice gone hoarse. The fuck was that. A memory, sure, he gets that, but what. It’s like seeing one piece of a puzzle, just random blobs of colour on a tiny cut-out piece, utterly meaningless without the front of box to look at. He rubs a hand over his mouth, and follows up with, “Yeah, sure. Something I need to see?” Dean forces a laugh, plasters on his I’m Dean Fucking Winchesters And I’m A-Okay smile. “Sounds ominous.”

[ofimpala]

fcllencngel​:

Castiel watches Dean, curious, as some kind of recognition seems to flicker somewhere behind the human’s eyes. He takes it as a good sign because he hopes it is one, but he gets his hopes up just a little too high. The recollection must be small, whatever it is, because Dean still doesn’t seem to remember much about Castiel. But it’s something, he thinks, and he clings onto the hope of it, burying the worry beneath it. If Dean’s already making some progress, no matter how small the step, things could most certainly be worse. This may resolve itself. With time. 

He wants to ask about the memory, or maybe even memories, but he thinks Dean will tell him when he’s ready. There’s no mistaking that he’s overwhelmed already, and Castiel doubts discussing everything in detail is what Dean wants, or what he needs. Otherwise, he would’ve taken one of the chances he’d already been given. Right? 

“I never suspected that I would be giving tech lessons. Not to you,” Castiel retorts, a tiny smile tugging at one of the corners of his lips. It’s nice having Dean nearby. A comfort of sorts. One he doesn’t quite know how to describe. “I am very old. This was actually taught to me by you and Sam. Mostly you. I’m quite fond of emoticons. I think they’re cute. Do you remember what they are?”

He catches sight of Dean’s lockscreen and his smile grows. It’s nice to know that Dean keeps a piece of him with him, even something as small as a photograph. He wonders if the picture makes Dean as happy as it makes him when he sees it. Or rather, if it did make him happy. When he could remember it. “No, I don’t. Not very frequently. I quite like my clothing.”

.

         Dean manages to find his way into his text messages, hoping they’ll provide some clues, both on why this memory loss has happened and also about-- well, everything else. Sure, he could just ask Sam or Castiel. He could ask them to give him an entire run-down of the past eleven years, and he probably will have to do that at some point, at least the bullet point version. For now, he wants to try to jog some memories by himself.

         He taps on Sam’s name in his contacts. The last few days, they’ve just apparently been sending each other jerk and bitch over and over, escalating into JERK and BITCH and then JERK 🤢 and BITCH 💩 🤡, which is where it stops. Maybe the clown defeated Sam. Investigating his texts with Cas reveals that the guy uses an absolute fuckton of... emoticons? “I think I’m getting the picture,” he snorts. Dude seems to like bees. Dean seemed to like sending him shit like long messages about why John Paul Jones’ keyboard became so central in Led Zeppelin’s later music.

         None of this is helpful.

         Dean blows out a frustrated sigh, tips some more whiskey down the hatch, and says, “Seriously? You wear one outfit most days? Dude. You’ve been living with us for how long, and we haven’t gotten you some flannel? I’m guessing you hunt with us. That’s like the uniform.”

         Sure, talking about Castiel’s wardrobe isn’t exactly high on the list of important shit right now, but it’s a distraction from hell and bizarre new situations and the decade plus worth of bad shit he can feel rattling around in his skull. "I should probably, I don’t know, explore?” he follows up, grudgingly. “See if any shit in here makes me remember anything. You wanna give me the tour?”

[ofimpala]

fcllencngel​:

That’s exactly the answer Castiel was hoping against. It’s different for him now than it was back then. Eleven years ago, he hadn’t experienced human emotions, didn’t really understand how they felt, how much that kind of trauma could stick with you. Things have changed since then. He’s seen what it did to Dean, to Sam, and he’s even experienced it for himself. This kind of trauma is something he wishes Dean would never have to experience again. Place that on top of the memory loss, and he’s sure that it’s a struggle.

“That information could be helpful, thank you,” he says, voice quiet and gentle. “I can’t imagine the amount of strength it’s taking to keep yourself together.” It’s another implied I’m here if you’d like to discuss it, though he doubts that it’s an offer Dean will take. He very rarely does. 

Then a small, sad, fond, barely there smile finds its way onto his lips. He remembers struggling just as much with technology. Human devices are complex, and it took him a long time to figure it all out. He’s still not the best with them now, but he at least knows how to work Dean’s phone enough to help him. It’ll be odd teaching him when he and Sam were the ones who taught him in the first place. 

“Swipe up on the screen,” he informs him. He wants to move closer, to make it a little clearer by just showing him what to do, but he doesn’t want to make Dean uncomfortable by invading his personal space. That had mattered to him a lot back then, and he’s sure it will now. “It will either unlock the phone with facial recognition, or request a password. I’m not sure what your password is, hopefully it’s something you’re able to guess. Perhaps something in reference cowboys or Led Zeppelin?”

.

         The compliment makes Dean grimace, a quick little yeah whatever scoff in the back of his throat, unease prickling up his spine. Of course he’s dealing with it. What the fuck else is he supposed to do? Cry? Get all weepy and vulnerable? One minute he’s carving out the ribcage of a serial cheater, Alistair crooning in his ear, look at that, you’re doing such a good job, Deano -- and then bam, weird bunker, eleven years, angel, pseudo kid. And yeah, it’s fucking confusing, but talking about it ain’t gonna help anything, especially with Castiel looking at him, all gentle and concerned, like he’s some fucking puppy that’s finally braved standing up against the scary vacuum cleaner. Dean’s about two seconds away from telling him to fuck off, but he blinks, and--

         --Sam’s teasing about him about being old, why doesn’t Dean just use Spotify, it takes like two minutes to make a playlist, and Dean’s grouching at him to shut up, sitting over an ancient stereo, Kashmir’s playing on one cassette while the second blank one is recording and he’s carefully marking down run-times on the back of a receipt, if he’s gonna introduce Cas to Led Zeppelin he’s gonna do it right goddamn it--

         --my name is Dean Winchester, Sam is my brother, Mary Winchester is my mom, and Cas-- Cas is my best friend--

         --and it leaves Dean squinting across the table at Castiel -- Cas -- relief settling in somewhere around the renewed pounding in the back of his skull, because it’s only two tiny memories from a huge pool, but it’s something.

         Best friend. He doesn’t think he’s ever had one of those.

         Well. If he trusts the guy enough to live with him and call him that, he can probably relax. Right? So Dean picks himself up, walks the five feet to the other end of the table, and slouches into the chair next to Castiel, close enough that Cas can see his phone screen to help him out. He tries a few passwords, and finally gets in with the last four digits of the license plate he had on the Impala when Sam was in Stanford. There’s... icons? Shit labeled chrome and contacts and angry birds and tinder. “Never figured I’d be getting tech lessons from an angel,” he huffs, and it’s not as pissed off sounding as it could be. “Shouldn’t you be, like... a million years old? When did you learn this stuff?” He pauses, glances over at Castiel, thinks back to his lockscreen photo, and adds, “And do you ever wear anything other than a suit and a trenchcoat? Jeez.”

[ofimpala]

fcllencngel​:

The calmness of Dean’s reaction is more than a surprise, but it doesn’t show in Castiel’s features. He’s thankful for it. As much as he’s aware that Dean deserves to know everything that happened, he hadn’t been looking forward to trying to calm him down. That’s difficult to achieve on a normal day, and he doesn’t think it’s possible when Dean doesn’t know why he could trust him.

What’s less comforting is that Dean’s most recent memory is of Hell. It’s, unfortunately, what Castiel’s been expecting as his last memory, but he’d hoped for better. Now, all he can hope is that Dean’s healing since then hasn’t been reversed. He knows that trauma never really went away, but he thinks it’s at least better now than it was when it was fresh. Then again, it’s hard to know for sure. Dean’s not the most vocal about his thoughts and feelings. 

“It has been over a decade since I rescued you from Hell,” he says, voice soft. His eyes flicker back towards Dean, gauging his response as best he can. “How recent do those memories feel? I’m sure it’s unpleasant to think about, but it may assist in solving what’s happening to you.”

As for Jack, Castiel still doesn’t hold back. “He showed me paradise from his mother’s womb. A paradise that he is going to bring, and I trust him to do just that.” If he has faith in anything anymore, he has faith in their son. He doesn’t know how Jack’s going to get there, but he knows he’s going to bring good into a world that so desperately needs it. “He’s like a son to us. To all of us. And yes, you do still hunt. Jack and I assist you when we can, and I can share whatever information about us that you’d like to know.” It hurts to think that Dean’s going to have to get to know him again. So much of who he is has been formed and discovered around Sam and Dean. So he tries to change the subject. “Um. This building contains a plethora of information on monsters, magic, and hunting. It has become your– our home, but the information contained here has helped with your job more than you can imagine.”

.

         Dean is listening as he’s pouring, but Castiel is saying shit like I rescued you from Hell (that might explain how the last thing he remembers in Hell was blinding-bright, cleansing but agonizing) and he’s like a son to us and it’s just really not getting any easier to digest. Probably doesn’t help that every creak and air conditioning rattle is making Dean tense, that his gaze keeps going to the door to reassure himself there’s an exit. He thinks about lying, saying he doesn’t remember Hell, but-- shit, if he knows himself, he probably already tried that, and the truth got out one way or another.

         “It feels like yesterday, okay?” he grouches, setting his glass down too hard. “And I’m pretty sure you’re not lying, but I don’t have some... eleven year blank space, there’s just nothing.” Except for the weird without-context emotion, but pfft, like he’s going to talk about that.

         Okay, fuck this. He’s going to do something he’s very rarely done in his life, but right now he’s sick of the confusion and the anger: he’s gonna think positive. Can’t hurt to try, right?

         He’s still alive at forty, that’s something. Something unbelievable, sure, but it’s... good? Sam’s still alive too, definitely good. They have a weird sort of house that’s actually kind of cool. He’s probably got like eleven seasons of Dr Sexy to catch up on. He’s living with an angel that’s on their side and is also-- okay, look, Dean’s not blind. Dude’s hot. Bonus.

         On a whim, he starts patting himself down, looking for his phone. Bobby ought to be able to help. But what he finds it kinda confusing, and it totally derails every bit of attention he’d been paying to kids and hell and eleven years. Dean tugs it out of his pocket. It’s slim and black, and-- oh yeah, a smartphone, he remembers these things from just before he landed a starring role as a hellhound’s chewtoy, but they’d been expensive so he’d stuck to burner phones. The screen lights up when he tilts it; the lockscreen’s confusing, a picture of him and Castiel, himself in a cowboy hat (nice) with a massive grin, his arm around Castiel’s shoulders, who’s also wearing a cowboy hat (nice). It says swipe to unlock; Dean waves his hand over it. Nothing happens.

         “What the--” he mutters, staring at it like he’s just been presented with complex calculus. Dean pokes at it. Nothing happens. “Where’s the buttons.” He casts a baffled look at Castiel. “How do I make this shit work? The future’s hard.”

[ofimpala]

fcllencngel​:

Castiel doesn’t buy it. It’s hard to know for sure how Dean’s mind is reacting to the curse, how it feels physically, but he’s sure it isn’t pleasant. Curses never are. He knows from experience. Dean’s likely doing what he always does; pretending he’s as fine as he can be. Cas knows better than to push too hard for the truth, though, so he doesn’t try to. “My apologies, often I’m able to reverse the effects of curses like these. But this is different,” is all he says instead. An almost I know you’re struggling, and I’m here for you in a way that he hopes isn’t too far for a man who doesn’t know who he is. Then he moves on, eyes following Dean’s hand. It’s easier than seeing that look.

“Jack is three years old,” Castiel says plainly. He sees no reason to keep the information from Dean. This is his family, even if he doesn’t remember right now, and he hopes further information might spark something. If not, at least it provides him with a little further context for his current surroundings. “Biologically, he’s Lucifer’s son. A Nephilim; half angel, half human. But he– Dean,“ he begins, because he knows that Dean’s likely to be… unhappy to hear they’d all but adopted the son of Satan, to say the least, “Jack is good. He wants to be good. He’s more like us than his father.” And he realises then that sentence might not be as much of a comfort as he’d hoped. Dean has no memory of Castiel at all, doesn’t know what ‘more like us’ might mean. 

He sighs.

“What’s the last thing that you remember?”

.

         “Lucifer’s son,” Dean repeats slowly, the casual blankness of the profoundly shocked.

         He just-- what the entire fuck. Dean’s tempted, for a second, to jam a hand into his mouth to check for fangs or pour salt in his eye to check if he’s a demon, because what else explains him living with an angel and the kid of the goddamned Devil? And the real bitch of it is, whatever happened in those missing years, Dean’s not afraid or wary or feeling homicidal about this: what comes up when he hears the name Jack is something similar to the folder of emotions labeled Sam.

         Steadfast protectiveness. Caution, worry, not of him, but for him. Maybe not the same deep-seated responsibility Dean feels for his brother, not something that got beaten into him over a lifetime, but a willingly assumed mantle.

         The only response Dean can come up with a barked laugh, and he tips the rest of his drink back in one go. At least his liver’s holding up -- shit, he’s three glasses deep and he’s barely feeling a buzz. He’s taken note of the way Castiel’s clearly trying to reassure him, obviously anticipating a shit-fit of epic proportions about Jack’s nature, which is kinda funny. Guy obviously knows him pretty well. Hell, maybe Dean did throw a fit at some point.

         “Hell,” he answers, and breezes right over that to get to, “And what exactly happened, that lead to us housing the son of Satan?” He’s dripping with incredulity, even as he picks himself up out his chair to find the fancy little cart thing in the corner for more booze. “Do I even still hunt? Or have me and Sam just... I don’t fucking know, opened up Winchester’s Home For Wayward Angelic And Half-Angelic Entities?”

[ofimpala]

fcllencngel​:

None of this is easy for Castiel. The way Dean looks at him, like he’s never seen him before, as though he has no idea who he is – because right now he doesn’t – and it’s hard to think that all of those years are seemingly gone from his mind. Temporarily, he hopes. Nevermind that anger. He’s all too familiar with it, knows that it means that Dean is struggling. It’s how he always deals with his pain. Bury it beneath anger, alcohol, and food. Quite often, that anger is aimed towards Castiel. 

Quite often, Castiel thinks he deserves it. 

This isn’t one of those times, though. He’s not even really sure that it is aimed at him this time. It’s hard to tell. 

“On the contrary, too corrupt,” he answers, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table, a large space between them. He wants to sit closer, but he doesn’t think that wise. Not only is he currently a stranger to Dean, he’s a monster stranger, and that makes it far worse. It’s best for them both if he keeps his distance. “And I’m actually rather fond of this place. I wouldn’t consider living here ‘slumming it up’, and it’s… not a trailer. Nor do I have a red neck.” 

He pauses, eyes focused on the human as though examining him for any further harm. For all any of them know, this curse could be just about anything. His grace had been useless when trying to get rid of it. Whatever kind of magic this was, it was strong. And guarded. “Is your head causing you any pain or feeling strange? I know this must be… very confusing.”

.

         Ten seconds ago, all Dean had known about this guy was: angel.

         Now, he knows a couple more things. Angel, sure, got that bit. Maybe. Still hasn’t seen proof of it. But also: careful, apparently none-too-fond of Heaven, and also really overly literal. And when Castiel solemnly points out that he does not, in fact, have a red neck, Dean doesn’t know what to do with the fond exasperation he feels in response. He doesn’t know anything about this douchebag, and yet here he is, emotions without the context of memory. It’s freaking confusing as hell and he hates it already.

         What makes it worse is the way Castiel’s looking at him. There’s no overwrought Hollywood emotion, no wobbling lip or teary eyes. But still, there’s quiet devastation in his expression, and Dean doesn’t know what to do with that either.

         “My head’s fine,” he grumbles, half muttered into his whiskey, disguising the lie. There’s an ache around his temples like a heaving ocean pounding at the walls of a dam, but he’s had worse after a three day bender, so it’s low on the importance scale. Dean’s half tempted to try to pick apart the baffling combination of shit he’s feeling in Castiel’s presence, but hell, he’s never been good at that to begin with, let alone while missing years of memory. There’s too much.

         Sam? Sam’s simple. Even with missing years, Dean still feels the same about him. Still looks at a grown man and sees a boy he has to protect at all costs.

         This guy? There’s... he doesn’t fucking know. A lot. All of it strong.

         Also: he’s not human. Sure, Dean’s spared a couple of monsters before, if he saw they were doing their goddamn hardest not to hurt people, always with the caveat that he’d be back with a machete if they fell off the wagon. But living with one?

         “So what’s up with the Three Men and a Baby situation we’ve got going on?” Dean asks, staring down at a scratch in the table or the way he’s making his drink tip back and forth, because it’s easier than looking at anything else right now. “How old even is that kid? Eighteen?”

[ofimpala]

@ fcllencngel

         Look, Dean’s been through some weird shit. He’s seen things that most people never come close to seeing. Vampires and shtrigas and creepy killer clowns. Demons and hellhounds and tricksters. You name it, he’s probably not only seen it, he’s fought it, talked shit at it, killed it. Point is, being told that he’s lost eleven years of memory shouldn’t be that weird.

         Except it is. Because he’s gone from kitschy hotels and a life on the road and hell to... this. A bunker, Sam called it, built by some alphabet dudes or some shit. It’s all dark wood and shelves upon shelves of books, Cold War era machinery -- and his own freaking room. Dean hasn’t had his own room since he was four, he’s spent his whole life thinking of the backseat of the Impala as the safest bed he’s ever slept in, and now this. Double bed, weapons slung on the wall, a few too many empty bottles on the shelf above the bed. There’s more, far more to look through, but he-- feels like he’s snooping. Can’t do it, not yet.

         The only reason he’s buying the memory loss story is because of Sam. Because Sam looks older, somehow even bigger than the lanky mop-haired idiot Dean remembers. And because Dean’s looked in a mirror, and, yeah. He’s older. Eleven years has given his face harder angles, sterner jawline, an uncompromising slant to his mouth.

         And then there’s the two other dudes in the bunker.

         That’s Castiel, he’s an angel, Sam had said, ignoring Dean’s incredulous scoff. Yeah, he really is an angel, just trust me. He pulled you out of hell, and most of the angels are kind of dicks, but Cas has been fighting on our side for a long time. And that’s Jack. He’s... uh, it’s complicated. And then he’d left the bunker in a hurry muttering something about getting more beer, but Dean’s pretty sure Sam just couldn’t figure out how to explain shit. Which, great. Awesome.

         So that’s left him sitting at the long table in what seems to be the main room, nursing an (admittedly okay) whiskey and glaring at everything in eyeline.

         And here comes Castiel. The angel. Hah. “Bachelor pads have nothing on this place, huh?” he says, somewhere between sarcastic and royally pissed off. He’s confused, he’s lost, and in Dean-language that just comes out as angry. “What, Heaven too good for you? You decided to slum it up with the humans and live the redneck trailer trash angel life?”

[ofimpala]

Demon!Dean | Red Lights

[ofimpala]

Dean Winchester Alignment Chart (insp)