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Art by: Nerime - Art Master Post | Mix
The universe is not made
of atoms.
It’s made
of tiny stories.
--The Tiny Book of Tiny Stories
I.
“Stars.”
“Starrrs?” Dean scrunches his face, sand crumbling through the spaces between his fingers. Their sand castle is loose and dry. A tower is currently tipping sideways. His new friend is short and blonde, and he has the same dots on his cheeks and nose that Dean has on his. Bryer shoves his yellow, plastic rake into his pail.
“The bright thingies in the sky,” he quips. “You know, at night.”
Dean takes another moment and shrugs, returning to his architectural feat. He pushes at the slipping sands and pats them down, like the master builder he is. “I don’t know the thing you’re talking about.” But he does know.
“I’ve seen them!” Bryer says proudly, launching himself up onto his feet in excitement. “They’re the best!” He’s waving his arms in the air, dotting the empty canvas before him with his pointer finger, as if he’s drawing invisible constellations in the Saturday morning sky.
I bet you haven’t heard of asteroids.
Dean bites his lip and decides against it. Dad says he can’t stand out, ever. It’s safer that way. He’s just going to call up Uncle Bobby, and he’s gonna ask him more about the stars. Dean won’t be able to brag about his newfound knowledge, but he’ll always know more about the stars than Bryer ever will. It will be awesome.
Dean doesn’t find Bryer at the playground the next day. According to his dad, the Fullerton family had to go someplace else because Bryer’s dad has a thing called a ‘job promotion’ (Dean doesn’t know what it is, but it sounds fancy). Bryer liked to brag and sometimes he’s nosy, but they’re best friends. Dean feels like crying, but he holds it in and builds another sand castle instead. Bryer may be gone, but the stars aren't.
Bryer Fullerton was the third, or fourth.
He doesn’t seem like a complete brat.
Castiel twinkles at Balthazar, as the corporeal particles of Bryer Fullerton glimmers back into his celestial bodies, crumbling and fading into stardust. It floats away, the sparkling remnants of a disguise forged from his own elements, weak little beacons of light amidst the empty abyss of space.
Dean has a good heart.
There is a star and a child.
There is also an angel and his hunter.
It is all a very complicated story.
But we'll do the best we can.
II.
When Castiel first sees Dean, it's through a foggy sheet of swirling gas and condensing star dust.
A part of him, a younger, barely-there comet, is grazing the earth, just a little bit; not too far to float away from the planet's gravity, but not too close to singe himself against its atmosphere.
Dean is just a small boy; Castiel knows of his name just by the sheer number of times it's called out by his happy father and happy mother and sometimes, when his knowledge of baby talk is not lost in translation, his happy baby brother. Even with the incalculable space and matter and distance that spread along their countless planes of in-betweens, Castiel sees Dean, and his green eyes, and his lightly speckled cheeks, and how his lips quirk happily countless times in a day, because as of this moment, happiness is still an arms' length away.
One night, Dean's father takes him out to see the stars. Castiel feels himself grow frigid, every inch and particle of all the celestial bodies that make up his entirety buzzing intently, as if out of all his brothers and sisters floating amongst him, they'll notice him and only him. It's a wish against impossibility, but wishes are supposed to be something against the sort, isn't it? He should know. Just yesterday a little girl wished on him for a Zac Efron (he is celestial, not magical).
"Dean, that's Sirius, right there, the bright one." John Winchester's voice echoes into his periphery. "Do you see it?"
Dean's smile is bright and beautiful, even from light years away. "It’s awesam!"
“Awesome,” John corrects.
Dean scrunches his face in concentration. “Awe--awesome.”
John grins, ruffling his hair.
Disappointment spreads through Castiel. Sirius, as the humans have chosen to call it, is a small inkling of Anaiel. He could almost feel her softly blaze with sympathy for him. It's alright, he tells her, but somehow it feels as if he's trying to assure himself more. I'm alright.
He's just a human child, Castiel.
He flourishes in wordless agreement, his stars flaring weakly.
Anaiel falls into a serene noiselessness as she folds back into temporary unconsciousness, their version of a nap, if one would compare. Silently, secretly, Castiel lets the core of himself burn just a little brighter, imagining Dean’s glassy eyes looking away from Anna, even for just the smallest of all seconds. All wishful thinking, Castiel tells himself in disappointment. He lulls himself into a similar slumber, temporarily leaving himself a mere empty, wide expanse of burning fire.
(Dean pulls at the hand that grips his, holding his father back from his trudge to the house. His head turns to the sky once again, catching a momentary, electrifying blue glow that burns strong, and then fades away. “What is it, Dean?” John asks. He grins, pointing. “My favorite.”)
III.
It's quite funny to almost all of Castiel's sisters and brothers how humans nomenclate each and every burning heavenly body they find in their night sky.
It amuses them how these small pieces of breathing carbon struggle so ferociously to understand every component of what Daniel, Remiel, Kushiel--every single one of their family--are made of. How they were, how they are, and how they will cease to be. They chortle at their cores and appendages being classified into measly constellations, taunt as the unimportant pieces of themselves are glorified into shooting stars that grant wishes and asteroids that annihilate entire species. Grandeur, unimaginably intricate creatures made of celestial intent, locked and chained into the confines of stars and comets and asteroids and space. It is all very ridiculous to Castiel's family.
Castiel thinks his siblings could never be more wrong. Humanity is a beautiful thing--this abounding thirst for knowledge is a beautiful thing, because they will always know more and more and more than they previously do, continuously changing and evolving into more astoundingly beautiful versions of themselves. Castiel and the rest of them are eternally constricted, mere permanent versions of their beings, the desire to know more bearing nothing but the fruitless efforts of pushing against the walls of their already completed subsistence.
All-knowing creatures have no room to grow.
And Castiel thinks, bitterly, that is what's truly funny.
IV.
They are collectively shifting past the general vicinity of what humans call the asteroid belt when Anna softly singes against Castiel, a celestial counterpart of a nudge. He jolts in surprise, burning rocks of himself tumbling and swerving in odd directions.
Your human is looking at the sky.
If he had a human body and a human face and human expressions, this is where Castiel would press his lips together tightly, the muscles of his back tense and taut with pressure. Anna - his sister of bright, burning red - waits for him expectantly to maneuver his sight through the bodies that make up their family, past the foggy sheets of atmosphere, swerving from swirling, stormy condensations of hurricanes and cyclones. A list of arduous tasks just for sake of seeing one, tiny speck of a boy.
Castiel does it, anyway.
Dean is different.
For this one tiny speck, Castiel will make all the exceptions.
V.
How old am I?
You don't have an age.
Why?
Because you have no use for it. Not when you're to eternally exist.
I would have liked one very much.
What?
An age.
Would you really? You want to chronicle your endless life's longevity; all that has changed and aged and failed?
Yes. Because then I can chronicle all that has succeeded.
(He hears a chuckle.)
Castiel, sometimes, I think you're more human than some of those I've destined to be so.
VI.
Sam squirms within his arms, small, squeaking noises spilling into Dean's ears and softly clenched fingers pawing at his cheeks.
"Sammy, shh!"
Dean knows Sam is far too young to understand what a shush even is, but it's worth a try. He sneaks them out the back door, softly stepping on the particularly creaky steps down, and trudging stealthily into their small back yard. They're Batman and Robin, secretly going to places without their mom and dad's permission. Sammy giggles and Dean sighs.
Tonight the sky is a dark, barely-there-blue, the stars glinting impassionately, like they've lost some sort of interest in being seen. Dean bites his lip down, head tilted back as it moves from left to right, scanning the dome that seemingly encases all.
"Where is it?" Dean whines, brows furrowed. "I can't find it."
Sam gurgles, hands clapping together at the heel of his palms. He's been doing that a lot. He likes showing off.
An electric blue glows like a beacon from afar. "There!" Dean almost shrieks in excitement. He moves himself to the side, angling Sam to his forefront and adjusting his hold against his back. "Hey, hey, Sammy, there it is, look!" Dean unclasps one hand and bops a finger against Sam's chubby chin, making him tilt his head back.
"It's my favorite star!"
Dean laughs in contentment, pressing the side of his face against Sam's cheek. Sam giggles too, clapping his hands again.
"We'll look at it again tomorrow night," Dean whispers, grinning. "Just don't tell Dad."
Sam spills another giggle, as if he understands.
Batman and Robin set their next vigilante mission. Maybe next time, Dean's star would come crashing into earth, and maybe it turns out to be Superman. Then they can battle evil together. A team of three, the perfect number for a crime fighting team of heroes.
Dean takes them back into the house before anyone in the house could even stir.
VII.
Dean runs, Sam in his arms, grip tight, steps rough. He takes them as far away as he can, to the other side of the road and over the fence of their neighbor's house and with all his might, he knocks with the flat of his bare foot.
The next time Dean brings Sam out of the house, it is to save him from the fire.
Mr. Dawson opens the door with a quick woosh, and Dean has to cough out the ash in his lungs before he can say "help, please." His eyes water and Sammy's beginning to grow heavy against the cradle of his arms. Mrs. Dawson already has 911 on the other line. Mr. Dawson stoops down and tightly gathers them into his arms before letting go, quickly ushering them in, mud-caked, barefooted, bitter glory and all.
Mrs. Dawson leads Dean to the couch, setting him down and giving him a tight embrace too, just before moving into the kitchen. She fixes him some hot chocolate and drapes him with a fleecy blanket, the warmth from the newly laundered fabric seeping into his clammy skin. She offers to take Sam, but Dean clinches like a mouse trap slamming shut, arms clenching his brother tighter, fighting against the tired roar of his small, spindly muscles. His back arches, and his lips are touching the top of Sam's head. Mrs. Dawson understands and sits down on the far end of the couch instead. The police sirens are flashing red and blue, the fire trucks are blaring loud, and the commotion makes Sam cry. Dean spends their entire time of waiting trying to calm his brother down, singing lullabies he remembers off the top of his head as he wipes smudges of dirt from his own cheeks.
Dean straightens up and makes himself tall to his very limits, and he realizes that if he puffs his chest out, he can peek past the window sill and right past the Dawsons’ white picket fence. He can see Mr. Dawson hunched like there’s something heavy on his shoulders. He can also see his dad's back from where he is sitting, and there's a harsh kind of rigidity in the way his shoulders shake. The only time his dad's shoulders shake like that is when he's laughing. Dean knows his dad isn't laughing.
The police soon enter the Dawson’s home and talk to Dean, checking if he and Sammy are okay, asking questions about what happened and if his dad possibly started the fire. Dean viciously shakes his head 'no,' cheeks drained and pallid. Why would they ask such a thing? Why would they think dad did all this?
When Dean's dad walks into the Dawsons' place to fetch them, he doesn't move to hug him or Sam. Instead, he gently motions for Dean to come along, a soft yet unconvincing smile pressed against cracked lips. "Come on," he says so softly Dean almost doesn't hear it at first try. "Come on now."
They thank the Dawsons and they step off their porch and walk off the green grass of their yard. He watches his dad slide bags of whatever has survived into the trunk of the car, mostly boxes of strewn files and trashbags half filled with only armfuls of clothes. A silver charm bracelet with little molded figures of stars and crosses, one Dean has never seen before, goes into his dad’s front pocket, the one on the left of his chest. Dean and Sam slip into the back seat. Their dad slips into the front.
Starting today, those are the only things that will have certainty and direction. Dad in the driver’s seat; Sam and Dean in the passenger’s seat. Everything else is a man with an old, inaccurate road map, with nowhere in particular to go.
(Dean never tells a single soul about how the only thing that he sees everywhere is a flash of fire and his mother’s face superimposed in its rabid heat.)
(Castiel lets himself burn bigger and stronger a hundred fold, as if to tell Dean I'm sorry, I'm so sorry that you have to break so young--because things like him do not shed tears, and this is the best he can do.)
VIII.
(Dean, from then on, doesn’t look at the sky anymore. Castiel doesn't care. He ferociously blazes on.
Stop this.
Castiel doesn’t listen, letting his bodies burn out into nothingness, one by one.
Cas.
Leave me be--
Listen to me.
There’s a way to get down there.
Castiel stops.)
IX.
“Bye, Miss Scott!” a blurry, interspersed chorus of small voices rings, small hands waving a parting greeting in the air.
Linda Scott waves goodbye to her kindergarteners as they march out the door, chatting noisily and gesticulating wildly as they make their way to the greeting hall where their parents await their arrival. A boy stumbles on his own shoelace and gives Linda a partial heart attack, another promptly begins slapping someone else’s butt. She makes a mental note to give James’ parents a few nudges toward velcro strapped shoes (and also to tell Mason that slapping people’s butts isn’t such a polite thing to do).
An hour later, Maureen pops her head through the door. “Hey, I think one of your boys is still waiting at the greeting hall.”
Linda unconsciously furrows her brow, pushing herself off her seat. “I’ll check up on him, thanks.”
She catches the small backpack of her new student even from far away, and he’s sitting by the steps that jut out into the driveway. He’s playing with a couple of dark green, plastic soldiers, the shooting sound he’s making oddly accurate for a four year old. He gives her a small, split-second look when she gathers the underside of her skirt and sits by the empty space beside him.
“Hello, Dean.”
“Hi, Miss Scott,” he mumbles as he moves his toy soldiers from one hand to the other. Dean’s so much more nimble with his hands than most of her students are. His fine motor movements must be unbelievably advanced.
“Is your Dad going to be picking you up?”
“Yes. He’s just a little late.”
Linda’s eyes soften. “You know,” she says brightly, taking a finger and pointing it towards one of Dean’s soldiers, “I liked toy soldiers too, when I was young.” She reaches for the silver chain around her neck and pulls out a pair of dog tags. Dean’s eyes flicker in interest.
“My dad was a soldier,” she continues on as she slips the necklace off. She spreads the tags within her palm and offers Dean a closer look. He leans forward, eyes wide. “He was very brave.”
Dean bites into his lip. “Mine too.”
“And my mom was even braver.”
Dean sniffs and nods in agreement. Mine too.
Linda gently takes Dean’s hands, cups them together, and tips the tags into his awaiting palms.
“Is it okay if I wait here with you?”
Dean nods okay.
(Castiel is brutally wrenched back into existence, the remnants of Maureen Rickman crumbling from him in small fragments of scintillating celestial bodies. He struggles to regain his bearings, alarmingly buzzing in indefinable energy. He focuses on every part of himself, diagramming every single constituent--finds that one star is missing.)
(Where did it go?)
(The price for crossing planes is expensive. You’re bargaining with the laws of creation here.)
(Castiel turns to Gabriel. Why am I back so early?)
(You’ll get better at it.)
(But it will always cost you a part of yourself.)
(And it will always last one day.)
X.
Why do you fill the human plane with so much misery?
The question leaves Castiel too fast for him to stop himself. He thinks He does not hear it, but the movement of His entirety and the sear of bright light against His flaming bits and pieces proves him wrong. Castiel falls silent, but does not falter; takes a moment, and, in a half second emulation of Dean's usual, teenage jargon, tells himself 'damn this to hell' and asks again.
Why must there be so much suffering down there? If he has already induced offense in Him, then what’s the point of doing it half way? Why can't they live like us?
He laughs softly, and it surprises Castiel.
Why are you laughing? Castiel almost demands. I'm not joking.
You sound like Dean Winchester, He fills in, amused beyond everything that He is. Dean. His destiny is intricate. I've written much for him.
Don't break him anymore, Castiel fiercely begs.
He flares brighter--more luminescent than Castiel, Anaiel, Michael, Gabriel, and all of their sisters and brothers' radiances combined. It is not a blinding light; but the sheer breadth of it commands reverence from everything it graces upon. The audacity he has gleaned from Dean withers slightly.
Castiel brings himself to stutter: Why can't they live like us?
Because humanity will live better, He simply says, and the mere essence of Him telling, of imparting His contrivances to something so small and insignificant as Castiel is a miracle in itself. They will live with purpose outside the mere basis of existing. They already are. They have dreams, hope, love. Family. They will have more.
But they need to be tested. Willed. Strengthened and empowered and broken, but learned. They need to know many things. They need to survive--scorched from the fire, brought up from the ashes, better than they have been before.
The human plane is simply a class humanity needs to pass. Castiel could hear the smile in the disembodied voice. And Dean Winchester is doing well.
It doesn't matter, Castiel grits. Don't break him anymore. Please.
I'm sorry, Castiel. The smile disappears, and there's only somber sort of silence in the way his words soften. He is meant for much more.
Castiel feels like he is being pushed back, falling in a distance beyond his estimations--and he surfaces into consciousness. Anna flares expectantly. Castiel returns her interest with hollow emptiness.
Anna's sympathy embraces Castiel in the form of star dust.
I'm sorry, little brother.
XI.
(Hello, Dean.
Hello.
Of course, there will never be an answer, because he’s a star in the sky, and Dean is a boy grounded onto land.
Castiel takes a comet, one of his more aged ones, and turns it within its own axis. He observes it closely.)
XII.
Hi.
Toy soldiers topple onto the floor.
Boy picks it up.
Who is this boy?
Here you go.
That was nice.
Thanks.
What’s your name?
Dad says to be careful. I have to be careful.
I’m Halley, the boy says, a sign of good faith.
Like the comet?
He’s named after a comet.
Wow.
Halley smiles. (He knows something I don’t.)
Yeah. The comet.
Toy soldiers placed on my desk. Returned.
Comet boy smiles.
It's a good smile.
I’m Dean.
Nice to meet you, Dean.
XIII.
Dean is on his stomach, unwillingly breathing in the dust that has settled within the fibers of the horribly stained carpet. He sees a few strewn bottles, a soda can, crumpled pages of a newspaper. He pushes himself up and hurries into the bathroom, going through every corner once again just to make sure. His nearly seventeen year-old heart pumps like the Impala's engine as it burns a trail down a highway. It sends blood rushing into his eyes and he feels pressure against them. Find him. Where is that son of a bitch, dammit--
"Sam, I swear to god I will kick your ass to the next state if you don't show yourself to me this damn second!"
Dean looks around, head swinging from left to right. He grits his teeth. That line never really worked anyway.
Dad will kill him. But I just went out for a soda and--dammit. Dean jams his eyes shut, squeezing them closed in frustration. Yeah. He'll kill me. If he doesn't, Dean knows impeccably well that he'll probably take the first steps himself if anything happened to his brother. Whether he means that figuratively or literally depends on how much self acceptance he has left if that occurrence does come to pass.
Dean throws the motel door open and checks the nearby store again, stopping by the old man behind the register for any sightings of a scrawny, thirteen year-old with a mop of brown hair and, potentially, a fully-packed bag slung against his shoulder.
“Back parking lot, looks like he’s ready to flee the country, five seconds from crying,” he mumbles from behind his newspaper. Dean gives the counter a few quick taps. “Thanks.” He dashes off, leaving the motel manager talking to himself about how the constellations are supposed to be thrice as bright tonight.
He feels himself titter back, a steady grip on the strap of his backpack weighing him down and pinning the crown of his head under a leather wrapped arm. Sam scrunches his nose, pulling a disgusted face at the smell of Dean's jacket. The thing is so old it needs a good, thorough salt and burn.
"Running away again, Sammy?" Dean sneers, rubbing a knuckle against his scalp and he yelps, digging a fist against any body part he could find. "How exactly are you gonna manage with six bucks to your name?"
"Hey, I'm not you," Sam shoots back, still struggling to get away. "I have more money saved up than that, jerk."
"Aww, that's adorable, bitch."
Sam growls, going for Dean's junk with a balled fist and it immediately makes the older Winchester jump back, give or take a kilometer. "Jerk!"
"Bitch!" Dean accuses back, eyes wide at the attempt at demasculinization. (My own flesh and blood--)
Sam huffs, pushing away hair that has fallen into his eyes.
"I just want to have a house," he mutters. "I want friends, and pep rallies, and just one car ride that doesn't end with a severed head stashed in our trunk."
"We had a severed arm that one time."
Sam doesn't even move to wrinkle his nose in disgust towards the lame joke. Okay, wrong timing.
Dean softens. "Sammy, it's not all bad."
"But you're good at all this," Sam answers back, determined to drive his point across. "I'm not. I'm never going to be as good as you, or dad, because I--"
Sam looks at him guiltily, and it almost breaks Dean's heart. "--I don't think I want to."
Dean takes the ‘almost’ back, because he can feel pieces rattling in his chest. He ignores it. In a moment of frustration he tilts his head and looks up, briefly, and his gaze fixates. Something he hasn't done for a very long time. A small star, glows, as if in reminder.
Dean reaches out and bumps a finger against Sam’s chin, making his conflicted gaze spill into the night sky.
"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam mumbles, his question barely sounding like one.
"When you were a baby, you were so damn chubby I could curl you into a ball--” Dean starts, bringing his hands together in gesticulation, and Sam groans.
“Dean!”
Dean laughs a little, shoving his hands back into the confines of his pockets. “I showed you the stars."
"Out in the backyard. Sneaked you out just past midnight."
There’s a glaze of silent knowing in Sam’s eyes.
"The first time I carried you out, it was to see my favorite star." Dean is staring at the glowing specks superimposed against the black sheet of the sky. "The last time I did, it was to save you from that fire.”
“Dad grabbed you as quick as he could, handed you to me; told me to run,” Dean says, and Sam could only picture that night in his mind in the most vague of ways, sketching faces and expressions based off faded pictures he’s kept in his back pocket.
Sam looks at Dean, eyes soft, shoulders aching with the weight of all the things owed and all the things expected of him.
"Dad can't build you a house. I can't drive you to book club, or chemistry competitions, or pep rallies. We can't give you a normal life--I’m sorry as hell that we can’t."
“But we'll take care of you, do you hear me?” Dean presses firmly. “I’ll take care of you.”
Dean runs his fingers against the base of his chin, momentarily lifting his shoulders before letting them slump back, relenting. "Once you're grown, do what you want. But for now, this is it, Sammy."
Sam looks up at the stars, questioning--a spitting picture of Dean whenever there things he can't decipher on his own, and the answers just seem to be easily encased in those distant, fiery specks.
"Hey," Dean says softly. "You may not have the house you want, but you got me."
Dean smirks. "And I promise I won't burn down on you."
There's a short, silent moment, broken by a small, singular chuckle.
Dean shoves Sam by the shoulder, still smirking.
"Bitch."
Sam shoves Dean right back, still laughing under his breath.
"Jerk."
(Dean looks up again, a final glance before following his brother back to the motel room, and finds a familiarly brilliant blue flush brightly from the darkness of the sky. He almost greets back, almost smiling in return. “It’s been a long time, man.”)
(The vestiges of Paul Simmons, the one-day motel manager, disintegrates brightly from Castiel.)
When you love somebody,
Your eyelashes go up and down
And little stars come out of you.
--Karen, Age 7.
Sam ends up leaving for a place called Stanford.
Dean finds all his stars clinging helplessly onto his little brother's back.
XIV.
He’s halfway through the door.
(I can’t do this anymore, Dean, I’m sorry! Enough. No, I need you to understand why--I know, okay? I already know, I’ve known since you were twelve and I fucking understand.)
(Go. I’ll make him think straight, okay, I’ll handle it, GO--)
John storms out into a solitary hunt the day after.
(Dad--Why didn’t you stop him?! You know it doesn’t matter where he goes, he’s going in there alone, and he’s going in there blind! He can handle himself, dad, just--please--College won’t save him, Dean--only we can save him, and you--you can’t even--)
No, don’t say it, please.
(I told you to look after your brother, boy.)
Dean is left alone in their rented motel room.
(I’m sorry, sir.)
He tosses to his side, the mattress of tonight's motel room even worse than the last.
Castiel strains to listen, watches on, and realizes the components of what makes Dean. Dean is the anchor of his brother. Dean is the beacon of his father. Dean is the force that holds the two defiant poles of his family together. Dean is the gravity that keeps everybody from losing their footing. Dean is a barricade. Dean is a guiding star, brighter than any of Castiel’s little, insignificant pieces. (But Dean is never bright enough for his own self.)
Castiel glows at him, light years away, and Dean sees him, a smudged, faded image through his window frosted with thin condensation. He smiles a small, sad smile.
"I guess it's just you and me now, man."
I’ll be here.
(A little boy, and his favorite star.)
Dean furrows his brows in harmless curiosity, blinking.
“Why are you so bright tonight?”
Castiel almost smiles.
I could ask you the same thing.
XV.
The boy wanted to become an astronaut
So he could wish upon the stars
But he was afraid of heights.
--The Tiny Book of Tiny Stories
So the stars
(For it loves too much
For its own good,)
Became a boy.
--n.t.
Their physics is amazing.
Their physics is amazing, Gabriel repeats. That's your excuse.
Castiel doesn't fully understand what his brother is so suspicious about, because physics is amazing. Most of humanity doesn't seem to take it at a value of great importance, and Castiel doesn't understand, because the story itself is quite hilarious. It's not everyday that you get a man who finally throws the gauntlet at the one of the strongest principle of thought in the archaic world. When Thales of pre-socratic Greece decided he was not going to take any more religious, supernatural crap from priests, Castiel was watching intently--his attention rapt and immovable, pretty much like Dean when it comes to his Dr. Sexy, MD marathons.
And then Heraclitus came along with his absolutism of change and--his siblings just don't understand how wondrous this point in humanity's uphill climb is, because this idea was the precursor to the birth of time itself.
Time.
Suddenly everything had a marked beginning, a flowing continuity, a definitive end. Suddenly humanity had birthdays and social etiquette and so-and-so years old and a history made so much more precise. And then humanity spun laws of quantum mechanics, relativity, electromagnetism. Humanity looked up at their skies with more than glassy, reverent eyes, a question unbridled in their sweeping gazes as they took on the stars as something more than insignias of their worshipped gods. Everything has a natural, explainable cause.
Castiel wants to explain everything in terms of the mechanisms of physics--because then everything would have a definite explanation. Nothing is left unexplored or second guessed; the uncertainty, if not made obsolete, is diminished to something palatable to the tongue of the beautifully curious. He wants to talk to his siblings about their dying stars, how their dwindling hydrogen nuclei are not enough to sustain thermonuclear fusion. They wouldn’t believe him, of course, because they are all-knowing creatures--all of them. They will never accept humanity’s ventures as anything more than pseudoscience and cheap follies.
“Dean Winchester?”
Dean looks up, and already he’d rather be anywhere but here. “Right here, sweet cheeks.”
“Come in.”
(Seven years ago, he gave up a comet to be Dean’s classmate.)
Dean Winchester didn’t come into the room as much as he sauntered vaguely through the door, one foot still outside as he glanced up the walls in judgmental assessment of everything he saw. Castiel didn’t know whether to roll his eyes or chuckle under his breath. It was both irritating and quite arguably endearing at the same time.
“You’re my physics tutor?” he asked gruffly, hands stuffed inside his pockets. “You look like you’re in the wrong grade.”
Castiel took his books, a staggering, hardbound pile of them, and dumped them on a table. He ignored the telltale creak the desk made. “I’m actually brilliant, you know.”
“Brilliant,” Dean echoed as he finally slipped into an empty seat. “Who the hell talks like that?”
Castiel pulled out the examination that prompted this tutorial in the first place. “People who don’t answer their midterms with scribbles of monsters.”
Dean smiled proudly, if not condescendingly, and leaned back against his chair. “Doesn’t matter. Won’t be here for long.”
“For long, yes,” Castiel agreed. “But for now, you’re going to be here, with me, as I assess your proficiency.”
Dean rolled his eyes and huffed, before finally reaching out an upturned palm, waiting for Castiel to hand him a mock exam to fill out. He let his hand slump back onto his desk when the other didn’t do anything of the sort. He pressed his lips together impatiently. “Are we gonna do this or not?”
Castiel tilted his head to the side. “You think this is a written test.”
“What else can it be?”
Castiel took out something that resembled a semi-automatic pistol. “I heard your family likes to hunt.”
A splash of red burst against the center of the target.
“Yes!”
Dean pumped his fist into the air as he tossed Castiel the paintball gun. “Beat that, Mister E equals MC Squared.”
“I’m almost impressed both by your aim and the fact that you actually got that formula right.”
Castiel spent this singular day with Dean, shooting pellets into a makeshift target they taped up on the board. Hunt animals, ch--Yeah. We’re pros. Dean hadn’t even bothered hiding his precision as a marksman, and it’s a surprise, because if there’s a Winchester way of doing things, it’s to lie (to civilians--to family. Unfortunately). With every bullseye he made, Castiel couldn't help but feel exceptional. He was being allowed to watch a fraction of Dean’s genuine self.
Castiel, despite being all-knowing, did not have Dean’s expertise. His grip on the handle was too loose for one-hundred-percent accuracy, his posture too slack to ever efficiently minimize kickback. At one point he accidentally set the gun off with the barrel pointed to the floor; paint splattering across his pants. He groaned and winced and gritted his teeth. Physics was a lot easier in the form of words and numbers.
Dean simply laughed at him. “Man, what do they teach you in this place? You can’t even deal with recoil.”
Castiel frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Jesus, the recoil. Bullet goes forward, gun pushes you back. Come on, even I know this isn’t rocket science.”
“I know what recoil is,” Castiel muttered. “What I’m questioning is your blatant disregard for learning.”
“Every action, an opposite reaction,” Dean said smugly, grinning through his words. “I don’t need to keep my nose buried in a book twenty four-seven to learn things.”
“Is that a jab at my way of learning?” Castiel raised a brow. “Winchester?”
“Ooh, Winchester,” Dean smirked. “Mister E equals MC squared suddenly grows a pair.”
“I’m a theoretical learner.” Castiel retorted. “Not everybody can learn physics by shooting a bullseye nine out of ten times.”
“You see, that’s where you are wrong,” Dean shrugged, hands working to disassemble the complex constituents of the paintball gun, fingers clasping and unclasping against parts, quick and agile. “Can’t teach a guy who doesn’t want to learn.”
“Why don’t you want to?” Castiel asked.
Dean peered at the intricacies of the magazine’s surface. “Because I don’t need to.”
“No,” Castiel said. “You think you don’t deserve to.”
Dean’s hands stopped moving, and then started again, like nothing happened. “What the hell are talking about, man?” he said with a dismissively hollow laugh.
“You deserve good things, Dean.”
“Where do you even get these things, huh?” Dean demanded, anger rearing and twisting its way through his words. “Who gave you the damn right?”
“Nobody.”
“Then shut the hell up about it,” Dean growled, slamming the paintball gun hard onto the desk. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I don’t need to.” Castiel said, so sincerely it made Dean's gaze search for evidence of it in his eyes--the most intricate human, Dean Winchester, with the righteous soul and a good heart, and Castiel simply looked back. “Because I don’t deserve to.”
It was almost a shove on the shoulder, a retaliation of the most soothing, gentlest sort, stopping Dean in his own track of anger. His fingers unconsciously brushed against the surface of the nearest table - a search for balance. His eyes glazed over with frustration, flickering restlessly, betraying the realizations being made within the confines of his mind.
“See?” Castiel said. “There is no greater deterrent than thinking you are undeserving.”
Castiel settled into a seat and motioned towards the empty one next to him.
Dean, with lips still pressed and a furrow in his brow, moved towards the chair, stumbling a little in the process. He caught and dumped himself onto the seat, almost flushing in embarrassment.
Castiel gave him a small look before casually muttering. “There’s a mathematical equation for that.”
Dean had to try really hard not to burst out laughing.
Tutor’s Log
Topics Covered
- History of Physics (Condensed)
- Pioneer Physicists and their Notable Contributions
- Basic Terminologies
- Theoretical Physics (Introduction)
1. Newton’s Three Laws of Motion
Next Appointment: August 12 (Thursday)
Tutor’s Comments: Dean Winchester shows great potential. Agile, brilliant, possesses experiential intelligence. He has agreed to continue the tutorial sessions until his family is scheduled to move out of town.
Castiel felt the soft pull on the corners of his lips as he capped his pen. Dean noticed this and reached out, pushing him by the shoulder. “What the hell are you smiling for?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Castiel muttered, mostly to himself. “You’re amazing, Dean Winchester.”
Dean blinked, finding himself moments later battling a rush of blood to his face. “What can I say,” he laughed, an accidental quake in his voice betraying his nervousness. “Physics can’t hold me down.” Get it? Because gravity--
Castiel laughed, loudly, eyes crinkling. “Was that a physics joke, Winchester? That was a very sad attempt.”
“Please, that was comedy gold.”
Castiel didn’t bother with the books, didn’t bother with the paintball gun, or the paper target they used and abused. Instead he gathered only himself up, only the tutor’s log cradled within an arm, and headed for the door. It’s time to go, he tells himself firmly, you can’t stay. Remember you can’t stay.
“Where are you going?” Dean called out. He hit a desk as he scrambled forward.
“Home.” Castiel answered. “We’re done for the day.”
“Maybe we could--” Dean stumbled over his words. “We should hang out sometimes. Tomorrow, maybe. We’re in town for a week or so.”
You can’t stay.
“It’s just that, you told me I deserve to learn,” Dean rushed to add, faltering slightly as he reached a pause in his words. “Maybe you deserve to know me.”
Castiel chuckled under his breath.
Dean always had a way with words.
“Okay.”
Relief visibly flushed throughout Dean’s face. He smiled. “Good. Good, I’ll see you here tomorrow then.”
Goodbye, Dean.
(The next day, Dean waited. He held the forgotten paintball gun within his hands, reciting Newton’s three laws of motions in his head over and over again. He waited for hours on end.)
(Nobody came for him.)
(Castiel had yet to learn that rejection damaged humans a lot less than false hopes.)
Their physics is amazing. That’s your excuse.
Castiel realizes that yes, it is.
Because the question Gabriel posed was ‘Why do you love humanity so much?’
And he’s afraid to admit that the answer is quite easily summed up in one little (amazing) human.
(“Castiel? That just sounds weird. I’ll call you Cas.”)
XVI.
Star gazing is like time travel.
--Anonymous
“Here you go, enjoy your trip.”
The lady smiles at him cheerily from behind the glass, her voice streaming through the small circular speaker. Sam quickly shifts the weight of his backpack to one shoulder and reaches out underneath the glass to take his tickets. “Thanks,” he says with a polite smile before leaving the booth.
New York.
Actual New York.
Sam remembers the day he first stepped into the Grand Central Terminal. His shoes were smaller, his hair shorter. There was a constant arm around his shoulder. The sleeve was leather, plaid peeking out of the hem. Fancy, he heard Dean mutter, giving him a few pats before pulling away to talk to their father. Weird deaths localized along the Harlem line of New York’s commuter rail. Wendigo problem of four, dispersed along the route--using the underground railway as a makeshift hunting ground. No time to look around. There never was, Sam thinks.
Jess is out of town with her family for spring break, and so are a handful of his friends, and Sam had several options: go back home for a good two weeks to a brother who maybe hates his guts for going to college - a father who surely hates his guts even more for the same exact reason - or travel alone. It didn’t take much deliberation.
So it was his first time looking through Grand Central Terminal through the perspective of a tourist, eyes strained for architectural wonders rather than potential monsters. There’s an old tune playing in the sound system (The Temptations? Maybe). He hasn’t noticed it before, but there’s a constant hum of chatty voices and shoes clacking against the floor everywhere he goes. People are everywhere. (Ironically, Sam is still so very alone).
He is walking through the wide expanse of marbled flooring in search for a place to sit a while when he spots an old man standing just a few feet away from the ticket booths, right at the heart of the moving crowd. He is dressed in a faded dress shirt, suspenders, and a bow tie, slacks pleated but old-looking. He has a small photo in his hands, worn out and sepia toned due to many years of existence. He looks back and forth from the picture to something above his head, a silently disappointed look in face.
“Do you need any help, sir?” Sam decides to ask once he’s close enough, and the man looks back at him, pleasantly surprised.
“It’s alright son, it’s nothing.” He his lips pull into a cheery grin, and Sam feels a little happy. “This place sure is different from back in the day.”
The man offers Sam the photo. He doesn’t take it, but lets his eyes skim along the grand beams of sunlight penetrating the glass windows and streaming diagonally onto the floor. It’s a heavenly view, as if any moment a figure with flourished wings will descend down the path of warm light, bearing revelation. Sam sees a faint scribble of 1921 at the corner.
“The light doesn’t stream through the windows anymore. The buildings around the station are too tall,” Sam explains. “I’m sorry.”
The old man looks, jokingly nudging an elbow into Sam’s side. “It’s not your fault, why are you apologizing?”
Sam chuckles. “I’m Sam,” he says, extending a hand.
The man laughs a hearty laugh. “Marty,” he fills in, but doesn’t move to meet Sam’s handshake. “Marty DuPont.”
Sam uncomfortably presses his lips together, awkwardly letting his hand settle at his side.
“So, Sam,” Marty says, adjusting his bow tie. “I presume you’ve got some time to spare before your train leaves?”
Marty starts to walk and Sam takes five seconds to decide whether following him is a smart choice. Stranger, seemingly alone, with a perfectly usable ruse. Could be dangerous. Could be a potential threat.
“A lot of time, actually.”
You’re a tourist now, he tells himself.
They look up at the ceiling of the main concourse, the entirety of the dome painted a soft greenish blue, representative figures of constellations connecting groups of brightly speckled stars painted gold across the backdrop. Sunlight from a few windows sheds white swirls of light against the wide expanse of a painting, and they look like depictions of galaxies--a happy coincidence. The painting on the ceiling being backwards however, not so much. The view of the night sky as seen on the station’s ceiling is that of a divine perspective; it is the sky as how god would see it as he pushed and pulled the universe into creation. Cornelius Vanderbilt, the American industrialist and philanthropist who directed the terminal’s construction, claimed that this was how it was purposefully envisioned, for humans to see what it was like to be of greater blood. Marty claims it’s ridiculous, gaze still skimming the lines of Cancer, Gemini, and Taurus. A fancy excuse, he tells Sam. Sam shrugs, giving Marty a slight look at the corner of his eye. Well, sir, Vanderbilt was a fancy guy.
So, DuPont. That old French-American family, right? Sam asks before stabbing a fork into his greens and chomping onto them. They’re at a quaint little cafe tucked within one of the many terminal walkways. How’d you know that? Marty asks curiously (he isn’t hungry). Sam doesn’t tell him that a descendant of his tried to rip Dean’s head off back in Delaware. Marty asks what a young man like Sam is doing alone on a trip (My friends are busy), what he’s studying at Stanford (Law), if he has a ‘lady’ (Her name is Jess), and if it feels good lying to an old man (No, really, I’m not making her up). Marty laughs. How 'bout you, sir, Sam asks carefully, what keeps you here? Everything simultaneously changes in the way Marty smiles--softer, smaller, more somber. My wife. Sam lays his utensil onto his plate. I’m sorry. Marty only chuckles, shaking his head. Something tells me you’ve spent a long time taking blames you don’t even deserve.
When Marty comes back to their table after a wash room run, he has a victorious twinkle in his eyes. Guess where we’re going? Marty is excited, a festive glimmer in his eyes, but Sam returns his enthusiasm with a curious glance and a mouthful of his leftover greens. Up the Tiffany Clock Tower, boy! Sam compensates by nodding semi-vigorously.
It’s a vertical climb up the ladder, with Marty a few pegs above Sam. They reach the top step where the tunnel opens up, silent amazement making his jaw grow slack as he drinks in the architecture of everything he sees. The dimly lit room is overtaken by a golden structure settled within its heart, cogwheels of different sizes, one fitted against the other in a continuous zigzag of moving, ticking parts. A dull wash of sunlight filters through the stained glass of the towering clock face. The hands seemingly stand still, casting soft shadows against the wooden floorboards, until it creeps a miniscule distance to indicate a minute’s worth of seconds had ticked by. You actually got us up here, Sam breathes out in amazement as he taps a finger against the surface of the Tiffany glass. I pulled some strings, Marty says through a smile. Sam fiddles with a hatch, and it opens up a panel of stained glass, swinging the entire piece open to reveal a view of cars lined up along Park Avenue. The predominance of familiar yellow taxis is even more apparent at a bird’s eye view. Amazing, Sam smiles, I could understand why people would want to stay here forever.
People want to stay because there are things that pull them back to this place, Marty says.
Sometimes people just have to let go, Sam answers.
(“DEAN!”)
(“NOT MY BROTHER YOU SON OF A BITCH!”)
And sometimes, Marty says, looking at Sam like he’s saying so much more, they just need to hold on.
There’s twenty minutes left on the clock until Sam’s train leaves, but Marty insists that he cannot pass up the last item off their list.
Marty has his palms placed against each other in an attempt to plead. “Indulge an old man.”
Sam relents with a smile, shaking his head. “Fine. Quickly.”
It’s a hurried walk through thickening crowds and busy tunnels, a couple of lefts, handful of rights. Marty explains that they’re off to see the Whispering Gallery, a spot in the terminal where the combination of sophisticated architecture and flawless acoustics allows one to carry a conversation while standing twenty feet away. “She loved it,” Marty says reminiscently. He remembers proposing to his wife this way.
They arrive at a four walkway intersection, the ceiling most notable with its dome of interchanging, tiled tessellations, tapering off into four corners and meeting with columns that serve as the structure’s foundations.
Sam steers himself to a corner and waits as Marty walks towards one that is diagonally opposite to his. According to Marty, the sound is to bounce against the walls, travel along the arched ceiling like a rollercoaster passing a giant loop, before finally reaching the receiving end. He shuffles his feet, his hands tucked patiently in his pockets when he finally hears something loud and clear.
“You should get a new haircut, boy.”
“And you a new bow tie,” Sam grins. “This is amazing.”
“I told you it’s worth it.” Sam can hear the victory in his voice.
“Yes, you did.”
“Sam.”
Sam presses his lips together. “Sir?”
“When this conversation is over, I will be gone, am I correct?”
“Sir, let’s just talk.”
“Sam.”
“Marty, please.”
“Sam.” Sam can’t tell whether Marty is disappointed. Sam doesn’t want him to be.
“You are not really here on vacation.”
“Look--”
He hears a soft chuckle.
“Open your right hand,” he says softly, like he understands.
Sam presses his lips together, half-heartedly forming a fist within his pocket and slipping it out. He unravels his fingers, revealing a sepia-toned photo very similar to the one Marty has the first time Sam saw him. His piece is folded into a small square.
“That photo was taken during the first day this terminal was built.”
Sam nods. “I know. You took it.”
“I should thank you for keeping it for me.” There’s a small moment of silence before Marty speaks again. “You are here for one thing. And you must do it.”
Sam shakes his head, despite knowing the man can’t see him. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve done your research, Sam.” Marty says, “People like you--I know you do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So,” There’s a hint of a tease in his voice, “What did you think of my life?”
Sam angles his gaze up. “You had a good one, sir.”
“And you believe I’ll have a good afterlife as well?”
“That’s something only you can ever know.”
Silence fills the in-betweens and Sam waits.
“Do you think--” There is hesitation--and then Marty speaks again. “Do you think I’ll find Sophia up there?” he asks so softly; so much that it almost sounds like a plea in Sam’s ears.
Sam presses his lips, eyes soft. “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure you won’t find her here.”
“Then I implore you,” Marty asks.
“Burn the photograph.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam breathes out. “Just so you know,”
“The ceiling painting really isn’t that bad.”
Marty--Cornelius--laughs openly.
“And likewise--just so you know.”
Sam’s thumb pauses above his lighter’s wheel.
He could almost hear his smile.
“You don’t deserve the sadness of being alone, my boy.”
(Once every two months, Sam abandons the present he has stitched one by one for himself, and returns to the past he’s known his entire life. He hunts, far away, in places he could never be seen by the people of his present. Maybe to help people. Maybe to honor the family he’s left. But most of the time he imagines his solitary hunt with classic rock blaring in the background, a box of old cassette tapes rattling underneath shotgun, a frequently off tune voice singing along.)
XVII.
When Sam leaves the train station and instead boards his bus back to California (a long, dreary trip, but one he must endure), he fiddles with his phone, thumb hovering restlessly above the call button. The contact is sparsely described on his list, only the number and the name: D. He breathes out, seemingly endless months’ worth of insecurity and fear tumbling out of his lips, concentrated so intactly within these few seconds.
He closes his eyes firmly, and when he finally opens them again, his screen his already flashing a message.
Calling..
Calling..
Answered.
.. Sam?
Sam places his phone against his ears.
“Hey, Dean.”
XVIII.
“It’s been a long time.”
XIX.
After all that talking, he still won’t go back. Your boy is stubborn.
For Sam to go back to Dean wasn’t the point. Castiel watches Sam Winchester from a couple of planes away. He just seemed so alone, he says.He needed someone.
He turns to his brother. Thank you for doing this for me, Balthazar.
Balthazar twinkles brightly, the wispy remnants of Cornelius Vanderbilt crumbling back into his illuminated parts.
You’re my brother. Of course I would.
Castiel’s celestial bodies hum in apology. I would rather give up my own stars and go down there myself. If only I was feeling a little bit better than I am now--I feel like I’ve wronged you.
He obviously means a lot to you. Both of those Winchester boys. Little stubborn things.
Castiel watches as one of his stars rabidly goes supernova, the illumination so bright as it briefly outshines entire galaxies. (It’s happening a lot more frequently now. Castiel chooses to ignore it.)
Humanity is broken, Balthazar. Their imperfections are numerous, their purpose unknown; their choices questionable. Their existence is marred with hairline cracks, but for something so little compared to the universe they move in--they try.
So, so hard.
Sam and Dean--they try the hardest.
Castiel watches on.
I see in them the purest, most righteous imperfection humanity has to offer.
I love the handful of earth you are.
Because of its meadows, vast as a planet,
I have no other star. You are my replica
of the multiplying universe.
--Pablo Neruda
XX.
“Never would have took you for a multicultural sort of guy.”
A small boy approaches another small boy within the heart of Tokyo, Japan, small bodies battling against the push and pull of the wind across the city. From where they are sitting over the edge of a rooftop, the force is much stronger, their precarious position over crowds of pedestrians allowing them a bird’s eye view of everything they could see.
“I learned a new Japanese word today,” the boy already seated says without turning to his companion. “Kintsukuroi. To repair with gold. When pottery breaks, at times they are repaired with a silver or golden lacquer.”
“It signifies that the broken are beautiful,” he smiles affectionately. “Aren’t they amazing? Their words and ideas. Everything.”
The boy settles into a seat next to the other. “Why are you here, Cas?”
He turns. “What do you mean?”
“He’s on the other side of the world.”
“Humanity isn’t just him, Gabriel,” Castiel answers through young lips and a thin voice, eyes far flung and angled up to other high rising buildings. “I watch humanity. All of it.”
“Yes,” Gabriel says as-a-matter-of-factly. “Until Dean Winchester was born.”
The stop light blares red, the cars stop, and the sidewalks pour out crowds and crowds of almost endless pedestrians. The white, painted bars marking three sets of crossings disappear beneath steps of shoes and sandals. It has always been mystifying, watching people fill empty spaces in ways creatures like Castiel never could. Nobody can fill the void of space.
"Your bodies are exploding much more frequently."
"It's nothing."
"It's not going to work on me. I taught you all this."
"These are all my choices--"
"Just because you can do things in your own terms," Gabriel says so firmly it crumbles letters and words from the tip of Castiel's defiant tongue. "Doesn't mean you do."
Castiel looks down onto his palms, brows furrowed. "You did."
Gabriel laughs, the sound spiked with something bitter. "And look what it got me."
Castiel doesn’t look up. “Gabriel. It got you happiness.”
"You loved her. That girl who lived within the third plane."
Nostalgia fills Gabriel's young eyes, both arching with a smile of a reminiscing man.
"Taught me all I know about crossing planes and universes and everything else in between," Gabriel says, smiling slightly. "I never did get her flare for the theatrics. Raging fires, battlefields--the whole shebang. But what can I do, right? The lady wanted it."
Castiel remembers encompassing flames, darkness and violence in the form of the universe’s redemption--and the one who lies at her feet, the embodiment of all purified souls, who pacifies her anger. He remembers listening to words of worship chanted under reverent breaths--Shiva and Kali, husband and wife.
“And what a disgrace that was to our brothers and sisters,” Gabriel laughs, the same bitter laugh, as if seeing through the complexities of Castiel’s thoughts. “Creatures like us, playing house with creatures of the third. Punished me the first chance they got.”
Castiel remembers. Celestial bodies burned and charred. Gabriel reduced to half of his expansive breadth. He remembers. He was the one who nursed him back to health.
“And her?” Castiel asks.
Gabriel doesn’t say anything for a long time before he answers. “A broken promise.”
He then turns to Castiel. "Have you ever wondered why I taught you how to descend in the first place?"
Castiel simply shakes his head softly, gaze questioning.
“The way you look at Dean Winchester,” Gabriel says, “Was the way I looked at her.”
A moment of wordlessness passes, the sound of roaring engines and the rise of softly spoken conversations reminding them of where they are. The pedestrian lights flash a walking figure, and soon enough the walkways fill again.
"Did you ever regret it?" Castiel asks silently, "When Michael and the others found out?"
Gabriel keeps his eyes on two teenagers sharing a laugh while crossing. "No."
His brother turns to him, and a question in his gaze.
"Will you?"
Castiel remembers brilliant eyes, speckled cheeks, a resolve that burns stronger than any fire wielded by Kali herself. A soul that scintillates brighter than anything he's ever seen cross the darkness of his home. A heart barely held together by lines of golden lacquer.
Castiel watches as the cars rev up again, filling the roads while people stand by the sidelines.
"Never."
XXI.
The brightest star cluster in our skies
Is the one
Most rapidly receding.
--Luca Nino Antonucci
“I’m fine.”
“Castiel--”
“Anna, I said I’m fine.” His voice grows rough, and immediately he feels regret. A soft sigh slips from his lips as he closes his eyes momentarily. This body is heavy and painful and tiring. “Please. Don’t worry about me.”
Anna is a woman with dark hair and brown eyes; the beginnings of aging superimposing itself around the corners of her eyes and mouth, lines running like soft tracks along her skin. She sits by him, on the chair nestled next to the bleak looking side table. “How many?”
“This man, is he the twentieth?” she asks silently. “Thirtieth? Fortieth, maybe?”
Castiel digs his head against his pillow, eyes stubbornly concentrating on the grainy texture of the ceiling.
Anna tilts her head to the side in an attempt to catch his gaze. “How many stars have you lost?”
“How about you?” Castiel asks, still rigidly keeping his eyes away.
Anna leans back, gentle fingers intertwining and settling against her lap. “Just one. This is my first.”
“Why did you descend?”
Anna looks at Castiel like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “For you.”
Castiel closes his eyes, desperately distraught, lips pressed tight against each other. “I can’t abandon him, Anna.” he almost whispers, the strain his voice painful to listen to. “Dean has a good heart.”
“If he truly has a good heart, it will remain good no matter how many times it breaks,” Anna tells him, eyes soft. “I can’t let you kill yourself for this human.”
Castiel urges through breathlessness: “I’m still okay.”
“A man with terminal lung cancer.” Anna says, untangling her hands to gesture towards his body draped weakly over the hospital bed. “Of all the people you can be, you chose to be dying. Except you didn’t choose this. This is all you could muster to form with your dwindling celestial bodies, because just as Harold Fitzgerald is dying, so are you.”
“But you could stop this, Castiel,” Anna firmly says, reaching for his hand, and grasping it solidly. “Please.”
“I’m begging you, brother.”
(“Come on, little brother.”)
“Come back home.”
(“Let’s go back home.”)
(“Anna, we’re lost,” A cry. “We’re lost!”“Hush now.” A soothing voice. “We lost everybody--” Creation--the universe folding and glowing and expanding. “I’ll take care of you.” A small bundle of young, flourishing stars. ‘This is Castiel.’ “Don’t cry now.” “But we’re lost, Anna.” ‘This is your little brother.’)
Creatures like them do not know how to cry.
(Take care of him.)
But Anna comes close. His sister of bright, burning red.
(“As long as we have each other, we never are.”)
“Come back to me, little brother.”
Castiel blinks back tears, letting them pool and blur his vision instead. He pushes back against the pressure mounting upon his throat and gulps it all down.
“Okay.” he manages to say, hoarse. He struggles against the ache, saying even firmer, as if to convince nobody but himself, “Okay.”
“Let me just say goodbye.”
Anna nods slightly. “I’ll give you you privacy.”
It takes Dean half an hour more. The knock Castiel has been expecting echoes from the far left of his hospital room, the sound muffled. He looks up, weakly pushing himself into a seated position, sad eyes at the spot where a familiar face will be walking up to. He finally calls out a come in, the words barely audible in his own ears.
Dean opens the door. He’s in his FBI suit.
“Mr. Fitzgerald?”
Castiel nods, letting the words escape him because he’s better off using the effort to breathe.
Dean looks at him with momentary concern before he decides he is an FBI agent first. “My name is Agent--” Ian Anderson.
“--Ian Anderson, FBI.” He slips a hand into his jacket pocket and flips his badge for Castiel to see. “I’m here to ask you a few questions about the death of your brother, Don.”
Dean continues to ask his questions, and part of Castiel answers him mechanically. A part of him watches with gentle intent, watching the specifics of Ian Anderson unfurl before his discerning eyes. Unconsciously he sweeps away what are masterfully built characterizations, but picks out the little beads of Dean that manage to skittle past the disguise. Dean stands a lone man, hunting monsters in an occupation he has no mandatory business to pursue. Why do you do it? Why are you so steadfast? He has been watching over Dean for the longest of time, yet, he still escapes him. What gives this burden its worth? Castiel doesn’t notice the small sigh that escaped his lips.
Dean looks up from the file he has in his hands. “We’re gonna be done soon, don’t you worry,” he assures, shining him a quick momentary smile, all very methodologically done.
Castiel takes a second to breathe in properly--the room is quite stuffy and the emphysema is terrible--and hoarsely asks. “Do you have any more questions, Agent Anderson?”
Dean pauses for a while, mulling the thought. “No, I think I got all that I need.”
Breathe--“Can I ask you a question then?”
Dean looks taken aback. “If I can answer it, sure.”
Castiel looks at him, angling his head, the ruffling of his hair against the pillow magnified into his own hearing. “What do you say to someone you will never see again?”
Dean’s eyes softens, like he knows what Castiel is talking about--he doesn’t, not at all--as if this is all about the terminal cancer. Castiel doesn’t care about the terminal cancer. It holds of no importance to him, it’s a metaphor of what he’s about to do and nothing else, please don’t look at the terminal cancer, look at me--
“Say goodbye,” he tells him, and he means it.
Somehow it doesn’t sound so mechanical. Castiel moves to the last order of business.
“Do you have a brother?”
Dean stops momentarily. “Yes.”
“Go to him,” Castiel tells him. Dean automatically attaches 'take it from somebody who just lost his' to his statement, because that’s how his words make sense. Because why would a stranger know how much he wants to knock on the door of Sam’s dormitory? There is no reason for a stranger to calculate and estimate how cripplingly alone he is.
“Hang in there, Harold.” Dean says softly, before nodding in goodbye and turning away.
Dean could almost feel the man’s smile.
“Goodbye, Dean.”
His one step forward crumbles within itself as he quickly turns around--eyes wide, jaw clenched in with tension and it’s almost like the continuum of time grinds down into a languid crawl. Harold Fitzgerald’s eyes have fluttered closed and code blue is screaming into Dean’s ears like a wendigo burning fiery red. An unpatterned beat thumps against his shoulders as doctors and nurses burst their way into the room, bumping into his form tethered onto the tiles of the floor--time snaps back, and he is pushed out of the way and into the hall.
(Call it.)
He breathes in, breathes out; Ian Anderson cracks and crumbles against Dean’s skin.
(Time of death: 0900.)
Dean finds no records of Harold Fitzgerald dated before today.
He leans back, perturbed, as his fingers graze along the slight stubble of his chin. His chest swells with the mounting pressure of responsibilities stacking itself up like a precariously built totem pole. He feels a crushing weight against his chest; things in his mind that crisscross past their territorial boundaries; victimology, lore, Bobby’s research, emergency phone numbers, distant memories, cases, his own personal manhunt, and there’s too much--
Dean closes his eyes, clutches his head.
It’s simply--too--much.
Go to him.
The next day, he has Sam standing in front of him, his girlfriend tucked within one arm.
“Dad’s on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t been home for a few days.”
But what matters most are the words uttered soon after.
“I can’t do this alone.”
(Up in the heavens, past atmospheres, through another existence entirely--a star finally cries.)
XXII.
Castiel wasn’t always human when he descended.
It was on his sixteenth (Marion Lopez, a five year old girl, rescued by the Winchesters from a pack of werewolves) that he realized being corporeal came with a price. For one, more celestial bodies on the sacrificial ground. But mostly, it was the restrictions. Proper degrees of proximity. Acceptable periods of looking. Social etiquette. Most of the time, he could push himself to commit to his character; he kept his distance, showed terror, feigned unfamiliarity when Dean knocked on his door, a guise at hand. But sometimes Dean’s smile was too arresting, sometimes the appeal of his skin surging too strong. Sometimes everything is quelled by a crumpled fist, a grit of the teeth. When it wasn’t, Castiel sacrifices a star to be something more free.
Castiel wasn’t always human when he descended.
Sometimes he’s the gentle wind of an Alabama town, crossing lines of proximity as he splays himself comfortingly against the slope of Dean’s back in times where he hides beneath his hands, struggling to control emotions gone awry. Sometimes he’s the warmth of the sun on a bright Thursday, leaving temperate kisses along Dean’s face, because damn the restrictions and damn it to hell. Sometimes he’s the little blades of grass that bow at Dean’s feet, for this was a man who believed he was worth nothing, while a creature in the sky believed he’s worth every single sacrificial star it’s ever lost.
I wasn’t always human when I descended.
And that’s supposed to make everything better?
Castiel keeps his bitter silence. There’s only much he can utter in the face of his eldest brothers. Michael, Raphael, Lucifer, and Gabriel are the oldest of old, the most expansive stretch of planetary bodies and celestial breadth. Most of what humanity sees through telescopes and observatories are little inklings of Raphael. Half of all the craters marring earth’s lunar surface (Humboldt, Aristarchus, Moretus, Stofler) are made by pieces of Gabriel. What mankind regards as the apocalyptic clashing of ancient galaxies are Michael and Lucifer arguing who daddy loves best. To argue against them is not wise, and Castiel knows.
It’s been years since his last descent. Castiel has never been quite the same ever since.
Stop this, Raphael says calmly, and though there’s nothing but vagueness in his words, Castiel knows what they pertain to.
What else do you want from me? I’ve done what you all wanted me to do. I’m here.
Do you think this is proper? Raphael demands. Ignoring your siblings, foregoing responsibilities? Do you think we will allow this way of living?
Castiel’s response is a quiet mutter.
I can only exist up here, brother, you know that. I can never live.
This is a disgrace, Raphael snarls. YOU are a disgrace--
How is it a disgrace to care for our father’s creations? Castiel asks, celestial bodies thrumming with vexation. If you stop being engrossed in our species’ supremacy, you will see that each of their short-lived existences have been better than all of our infinities combined--they’re the best of all things formed within our father’s hands; they are better and will be even more so--
Be quiet, Castiel, Michael says silently, and Castiel feels his anger ebb, giving way to tendrils of fear.
Michael, Gabriel says, voice firm.
You know well to stay out of this, Raphael snaps, and Gabriel has no choice but to seethingly hold his tongue.
Lucifer starts with great admonition: Killing yourself off for this insignificant little thing--
Don’t you dare. The words come out in a growl and it surprises even Castiel. Dean is not insignificant, he is not useless, I will not--
It feels like that one time he descended as Abbot Cosby, a huntress Sam and Dean encountered two years ago at Milwaukee, Wisconsin. They all hunted together in pursuit of a vampire separated from its nest. It charged at Castiel, shoulder digging deep into his torso and it was the first time he had felt the unmitigated feeling of being knocked out of breath--and it is how this feels. He feels a dull, arresting ache eat at his center, curdling his far reaching parts with paralytic fear or pain, he doesn’t know which. And then Michael is in possession of it, Castiel’s electric blue, pulsating core, the one nestled intimately within him; Dean’s favorite star.
You will not take corporeal form again.
Anna is there, right by him, her voice sorry and soothing; Castiel turns to Gabriel, helpless and hopeless, but all he hears is something that sounds vaguely like I’m sorry, Cas.
Castiel loses his grace.
(Down below, Dean takes a crowbar and destroys the impala, his breaths raging hotly from his lips as it mixes with uncontrolled growls.)
(Many things are lost today.)
XXIII.
It’s dark now
and I am very tired.
I love you, always.
Time is nothing.
--Audrey Niffenegger
Sometimes, when his mind is too tired, or when nightmares take pity on his brokenness, Dean dreams.
Sometimes, he dreams of visages of perfection; perfect wife, perfect child, perfect house, perfect life. His dad is taking his mom to a trip around Europe next month. Sam just graduated from law school, a mere thirty minute drive away from where Dean received his own degree from. They’re packing up for a family fishing trip to Lake Tesburg tomorrow. There’s a small, velvet box hidden underneath Sam’s pillow.
Most of the time, it’s Dean’s mother. Just her. Without the fire, the smoke, the embers spraying upon the collapse of their house’s foundations.
Just her.
This time though, Dean moves through the sandy dunes of a beach, the night sky cloaked in dark colors, tufts of barely visible clouds, and small dots of light. He drags his feet through dry sand, the patterns of his shoes imposing themselves upon the shore with every step. He looks at the sky to ascertain the time, eyes cringing a little at the frosty wind that ruffles his hair and beats against the leather of his jacket. When he looks back to his path, stars are everywhere. He stares, confused, at the trail of bright, twinkling things scattered along the little ridges formed in the sand. He walks slowly.
(“This is it?” “Yeah, Palomar Observatory.” “Dude, it’s like a big-ass R2D2.”)
There’s a big star, one that if held against his palm, would sit perfectly snug against the cup of his hand.
There’s a small star, a pinprick of light, almost buried beneath the weight of the sand.
(“For the record, I still think we’re wasting our time.” “Dean, the demons are following patterns that coincide with constellations. Don’t you think, maybe, just maybe, we should get a little more insight on this?” Sam is angry; Dean can easily tell.)
Among a sea of glowing white, a singular blue stands out. Dean squints, moving to the left in search of where it is, and feels his feet fall into hurried steps.
(Dean’s gaze softens. “Dude, chill, come on.” “No, Dean!” he hears a snarl rip through the air, and it almost physically rips him as well. “Dammit. No,” he shakes his head, like he's determined and broken and scared all at the same time. “Not when there’s only a few months left.”)
Dean brings himself down to one knee, laughing slightly at the calming cerulean snuggled between two little ridges of sand. It's so affectionately familiar. It's his favorite star, cradled in scalloped lines of sand. It makes him so—happy.
(They ascend up a short flight of stairs, coming face to face with a glass door lined with cream colored Venetian blinds. Dean breathes out the conversation that has just passed.)
(Dean reaches out for the doorbell.)
Dean reaches out for the star.
(“Good evening sir, I’m Agent Malone, this is Agent Ferguson. We’re from the FBI, and we’d like to ask you some questions.” Dean waits for an answer, but then he finds familiarity in the face before him; it’s older now, lines and slight stubble defining his face, but still strongly reminiscent. Recognizable blue eyes peek through the drawn blinds of the door.)
(The door swings open. “Hello, Dean.” Dean swears he sees the makings of a nostalgic smile.)
(Dean feels his jaw grow slack. His voice sounds rough and jagged, but it proves weak against the unconscious smile that lifts the corners of his lips. “Hey, Cas.”)
A little boy, and his favorite star.
And it’s been so, so long.
XXIV.
He never broke my heart.
He only turned it to a compass
That always points me back to him.
--Clementine von Radics
“This is Sam,” Dean says, voice throaty. “My brother.”
Castiel nods once, smiling slightly. “Hello, Sam.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Sam says politely, so much more different than when he wore his hair in an unruly mop, hoodies underneath jackets; weight still within the deep seclusion of his eyes. This one is of a different sort, though, something so potent that it has clung to his musculature, setting upon the curves of his shoulder. Atlas and his burden.
“Uh, Sam,” Dean coughs under his breath, eyes restlessly moving towards his brother. “Could you get the files we have in the car?”
“Sure,” Sam says almost automatically. It was a stellar performance. It’s a pity Castiel can easily spot an excuse on a Winchester, no matter how perfect the execution.
They both wait until Sam is too far to be seen from where they stood. Dean has opened his mouth, hand already poised to rake unbelievingly through his hair, when Castiel steps closer, disheveled hair, chapped lips, blue eyes so much more open to closer inspection at such distance.
“It’s been a very long time,” Cas says, and Dean hears longing in his voice.
“Yeah,” Dean almost croaks, his voice being extremely difficult.
He coughs. “So,” he continues, brighter and stronger. “Astronomer, huh?” Dean releases a single chuckle. “Figures.”
“And you, an FBI agent.” Castiel smiles. “A decent one, I hope. With extensive knowledge on the physics of recoil, preferably.”
Dean grins, already recounting the laws in his head. “Don’t worry, I remember.”
Everything settles into an unusually comfortable silence. Dean greedily takes his time, noting lines and contours and shapes against Castiel’s skin that he could trace back to his younger self. He could still easily envision him in a high school classroom, with a stack of books, and a makeshift target clasped in one hand.
It’s a good kind of silence, Dean decides.
Castiel breaks it easily.
“So,” he says, smiling pleasantly, “how can I help you?”
Dean hears the glass door open and close--a sign that Sam has assessed the situation to have veered away from the personal.
“You can start, I guess,” Dean takes the folders from Sam’s outstretched hands and placing the photos onto the nearest table,
“By telling us all about the stars.”
XXV.
“So,” Sam says as he props his laptop open, “Cas.”
Dean tries hard not to roll his eyes. That’s Sam’s thing. “He’s an old acquaintance.”
“Give me a number man, I need some context.” Sam actually laughs a little, and the sound is refreshing to the ears.
“Around nine years ago,” Dean decides to say as he stashes his duffel underneath his bed. He plops down the bed and tests whether their run-down motel of the week has beds fit for sleeping.
He doesn’t acknowledge the fact that Sam is stubbornly staring him down, expectant.
Dean decides there’s no augmentation that could be done to salvage his mattress situation, so he leans back against the headboard in defeat. He feels his hands itch with awkwardness, as if his limbs are trying to find something to do. He snatches the gun tucked underneath his waistband and starts disassembling it.
“You guys had a thing.”
The magazine slips despondently from Dean hands, and it catches him in a mid-stutter. “What--no.”
Sam looks positively victorious. “You totally did.”
Dean sputters, and he actually wants to hit himself. “We were classmates for one day--”
“And what is the average lifespan of your hook ups?”
Dean doesn’t say anything much afterwards, but continues to assemble and disassemble. It takes him a good ten minutes after to open his mouth, and an unmistakable quiver is the foundation of his words.
Dean jams the barrel into the slide. “You do know Cas is a dude.”
Sam just shrugs.
“I know.”
Dean presses his lips and nods once, an understanding made.
Sam says, smiling a little:
“Tell me all about it.”
XXVI.
Dean, let’s talk
Be there in 5
Sam gets up in the middle of the night, a sudden wave of insomnia hitting him like a turbulent sea smashing against the shore.
The bed to his left is empty, and the Impala is gone.
XXVII.
Dean steps into the office, and he laughs under his breath.
“Seriously?”
Cas says nothing and smiles instead. There’s a piece of paper taped up on the wall. He moves, tossing a paint gun towards Dean’s direction.
“Okay,” Dean says, eyes filled with reminiscence. “Let’s see how much better you’ve gotten.”
XXVIII.
Dean thinks the sound echoed throughout the entire observatory.
He looks at Cas suspiciously, not at all trusting the smile and the splatter of bright red on the center of the target. He gets handed the paint ball gun, as if saying 'your turn.'
“Are you sure you’re an astronomer?”
Cas shines him an accomplished little smile. “Are you sure you’re FBI?”
It makes Dean stop, but all he sees in Cas’ face is a gently dispensed, inquiring look. “Federal agents do not normally ask about the stars.”
“As a federal agent,” Dean says, smiling cheekily as he takes the paint ball gun and readies for his own shot, “I don’t need to answer that question.”
Bang. Perfect bullseye.
Cas smiles warmly. “Dean, you’re amazing. Still.”
Dean stills for a second, twirling the gun in his hands, expertly handling it with ease and precision. He walks towards the seat opposite Cas.
“Hey,” he says, doubt and firmness a melange in his voice. “Can I ask something?”
Cas looks like he knows what exactly the question is. “Of course.”
There are so many questions to ask, waves and waves of things he wants clarified, but he pushes them all back, and brings forth the one question he has kept alive in the back of his mind for nine years now.
Dean places the paint ball gun onto the surface of Cas’ desk. “The next day, you didn’t come back."
Cas’ eyes softens. “Yes, I remember.”
Dean tries to laugh a little. “I’d love a recap on why.”
Cas’ lips are a thin line, strong and contemplative. “I just couldn’t. I’m sorry, Dean.”
Dean looks like he had been hit by something massive, and again, he tries to anchor himself back onto the ground. “Okay,” he says, or blurts, blinking. “Sure, got it. Noted.”
Cas looks like he’s trying to hold something down. “Can I ask for something,” he says, pressure in his hands where his fingers are twisting against each other, things in his eyes Dean cannot properly read. “Please?”
Dean feels a soft yet arresting grip on the back of his neck, and he doesn’t get the chance to think what do you mean.
Dean reaches out to meet the press of Cas’ mouth against his own, and he doesn’t get the chance to answer anything you want.
Dean breathes into the space of Cas’ proximity as they gather themselves against the edge of the desk, and he doesn’t get the chance to say nine fucking years.
Dean grasps at darkly tinged hair, lips trailing a hot path down Cas’ neck, and he doesn’t get the chance to murmur a few months to go.
Cas’ pulls away, but grasps Dean close, as if he’s stardust that would pass through his very fingers if he doesn’t grab hold. Dean feels longing the equivalent of years in the way Cas cradles his head, yearning the equivalent of decades in the way Cas threads his fingers through his hair, and need the equivalent of eons in the way Cas breathes out his name.
Dean feels like drowning, like he’s been plunged under the sea with the water’s pressure beating against his chest. He sees starfish on the shore and stars in the sky.
“Dean, I don’t have long,” Cas speaks in whispers.
Dean smiles bitterly, head burrowed into the crook of Cas’ neck. “Neither do I.”
“Listen to me,” Castiel says under his breath, lips against pressed longingly against Dean’s ear.
"Her name is Lilith."
XXIX.
Written into every atom
And every molecule of our bodies
is the entire history of the universe
from the Big Bang
to this present day.
--Brian Cox
Dean falters out of Castiel’s arms.
“Cas,” he says silently (his eyes accuse of betrayal, of disbelief, of hurt). “Cas, who are you?”
“Killing her isn’t the point. Bargain her life for yours. Dean, do you understand?” Castiel reaches a hand out--
A choking pressure holds itself against Castiel’s chest, just as an explosive ache bursts along his back. Dean slams him to the wall and pins him down menacingly, one hand right on Castiel's chest.
“Who are you?” Dean demands silently, disbelievingly. “Tell me."
“No,” Castiel almost pleads, balling a fist against the front of Dean’s shirt. “This doesn’t matter right now Dean, I don’t have time--you don’t have time--” He tries to press his palms against Dean's face. He jerks away, as if burnt.
“I don’t give a damn." Dean says, but his eyes faintly wanders around like he's seen nothing but betrayal, “How do you know these things? How do you know so much about me?”
Castiel shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter--”
Then Dean cries out angry and hurt and--"Tell me!”
“You would not have believed!”
Dean is taken aback, his rage shriveling into a smaller fire for a brief moment. There’s a hard set in his jaw, a commandeering yet searching gaze in his eyes. He keeps his silence, and Castiel, for the first time in his infinite existence, descends onto earth with no guise at hand. Only him, the lines of vexation upon his face, and a couple of dying stars within his chest.
He has five minutes.
“If I tell you I am the stars in the sky,” he says, “would you believe me?”
“If I tell you your people’s physics has been flawed for the last hundred years and that we’ve been existing above your heads. Shooting stars are tears of my sisters, lunar craters the doings of my brothers. Meteor showers celebrations done in the name of our father, auroras the dance of celestial lovers. If I tell you all these things, would you even take five seconds of your already dwindling time to believe in--” Castiel grapples with the air that escapes his lungs-- “Something like me?”
Castiel watches painfully as confusion swirls within Dean’s eyes. He feels tingling along the tips of his fingers; he presses his lips together, closing his eyes for a few moments. No, Castiel says, hold on for five minutes,
Five minutes.
Dean breathes through his nose hotly. “What are you even talking about?”
Cas moves towards him, but Dean steps away, as if cutting himself against a sharp blade. “Don’t you step any closer,” his voice quivers. Castiel feels his remaining stars whither away.
“Dean,” Castiel says, struggling with the fragility of his voice,
“If I tell you stars can be made into men,”
Maureen Rickman, first.
“If I tell you stars withered within themselves so I could be made into man,”
Carlton Zubrik, second.
“If I tell you I’ve seen you through the eyes of many men,”
Maria Swanson, third.
“If I tell you I’ve built sand castles with you at McGregor Park,”
Bryan Fullerton, fourth. (The heavy crease on Dean’s brow lifts, the motion slow just as the realization dawns fast.)
“If I tell you I’ve helped you find your brother when he went missing in Portland Motel,”
Paul Simmons, fifteenth.
“If I tell you you’ve saved my life through seventeen people,”
Jeremias Gilberto, to Marion Lopez.
“And I've saved your life in five,”
Carl Lancet, to Paul Bernard.
“Would you believe me?”
Castiel looks at Dean--really looks, as if through human eyes he could piece together the days left on Dean’s soul.
“If I tell you I’m your favorite star; that blue glow you pointed to that one night you and your father looked at the sky. In your backyard. The day before the fire.”
“Would you believe me?”
Castiel can only watch as Dean struggles to make sense of everything that has been said. The hand holding the gun withers to his side. Air vigorously passes through Dean’s nose as his eyes moves restlessly, fingers caressing his forehead in confused thought.
“Is that why...” Dean stutters, breath hitching in his throat. “Is that why you never stayed?”
Within Dean’s mind questions long burning, once hushed into small flames through passing time, are being answered as fast as it could blaze. Castiel can only look back, guilt holding his tongue down.
“You never came back for me,” Dean says, and Castiel knows where his mind has zeroed on--that day in the halls, paintball gun in hand, Newton’s three laws a mantra in his head. “All those people--if they were you, all of them--that means you always left--”
“You always left,” Dean says, disbelief wedged intimately within every word. He feels feels his chest constrict in panic, the air crushed out of his lungs--he stumbles. Cas catches him, gathers him in his arms.
Castiel braces himself for Dean's accusation, readies himself for the blow.
“Cas, did I--” Dean hitches a breath the best he can. “Did I do something wrong?”
And Castiel receives one that escapes all definition of pain.
"No," he musters, "No."
“Nothing is your fault, don't ever think it is your fault,” Castiel mutters through his lips, but pleads and begs and apologizes through his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Dean.”
“I’m so sorry,”
“I’m so sorry,”
Cas’ palm presses against the skin of Dean’s face; skin marred with perplexities and mistakes done with good intentions. Skin strong enough to withstand wildfire and celestial grace.
Cas’ can feel Dean melt into the touch unconsciously, the heaving of his chest slowing incrementally. He breathes with Dean, in and out, in and out, slow and languid, guiding the movement of Dean’s chest as it continues to struggle against his body. Dean tiredly closes his eyes, and from behind the darkness every other sense is magnified. He focuses on the touch and feels as if he knows it, little inklings of familiarity pulling out pieces of different memories from within his mind--the smile of a friend they’ve made at Pasadena. The voice of a child they rescued from a shapeshifter. The horribly shot splatter of paint a foot away from the target taped upon a chalkboard.
“I waited--" Dean takes another breath, and Cas takes it with him. "--for you the entire day,” Dean mutters, exhaustion in his voice. "You dick."
Finally, and Cas laughs through held back tears.
"Memorized Newton’s laws for nothing.."
“I’m sorry.” Cas says again, but he smiles. “It’s been so, so long, Dean Winchester,” he whispers.
“How long?”
His voice sounds sad, Dean hazily thinks. “I’ve lost count. Time is different up there.”
Dean's breathing calms. “That's called stalking, you know,” Dean murmurs, “what you're doing.”
“That is what you're taking away from this?” Cas laughs a little. “Stars died for you and you accuse them of stalking?”
A laugh rumbles from deep within Dean's chest, and Cas feels it against his skin.
“Stay. For once.”
Castiel soldiers on, “I can't.”
“Tell me why, at least.”
A tingling sensation grazes against Dean’s face where Castiel’s fingers are touching his skin.
“What’s happening?” Dean asks, a frown marring his forehead.
“Keep your eyes closed,” Castiel soothingly murmurs. “You’re okay.”
“And you?”
“You’re okay, Dean.”
“I’m talking about you. Tell me if you’re okay.”
“Dean, tell me Newton’s laws of motion.”
“Cas, I swear to god--”
“Just recite the laws, Dean, cover your eyes, now--”
“Castiel.” An explosion roars into his ears--
“Now, Dean!”
“An object at rest or in motion,” Dean scrunches his eyes tightly, one hand planted firmly over them, “Will stay--at--dammit--at rest or in motion unless a force acts upon it,”
The tingling sensation pressed along his skin heightens, and even from beneath his closed and covered eyes he can see a blinding glow sear through the darkness. Something ferocious beats against where his chest is pressed against Cas’. Everything seems like it’s quivering in its place, a quickly growing quake erupting from beneath their feet; a steady, billowing thrum palpable in the air.
“The greater the mass...” Dean feels Castiel’s touch crumble, disappearing from his senses, slowly but surely. “...the greater force is required to bring about acceleration.”
For every action...He can barely hear him now, Castiel’s voice echoing in weak projections rather than a solid whisper in his ears, going with him through the motions.
“For every action,” Dean repeats, voice quivering uncontrollably,
There is an equal and opposite reaction.
Everything stops, suddenly, and silence bleeds out like an open wound.
Dean blinks, and it's bright again.
Sunlight streams from the windows.
“There is an equal and opposite reaction.”
You're amazing, Dean Winchester.
Dean looks around; Professor Benson, the astronomer in charge of Paloma Observatory, smiles politely at him from where he is seated behind his office table. Dean is seated across him, files in hand. Sam is by his left, looking at him expectantly.
“You still know your physics, Agent Malone.” Professor Benson says, “I’m impressed.”
“What can I say,” Dean laughs, “Physics can’t hold me down.”
He flips through the folders, pulls out a photo, smiles like the professional he is.
“Now, we just have a few questions.”
XXX.
Remember
me.
--n.t.
Castiel hears birds. Birds chirping.
And he smells flowers.
He feels a gentle wind and a soft warmth.
“Good morning, Castiel.”
Castiel rises from his bed, pushing away sheets of white, hears the groan of his mattress upon the shift of weight.
He sees a verdant stretch of a grassy field flourish before him. His bed is on top of a small hill with a brilliant elm, standing firmly like an aged guardian. Its foliage is magnificent. Sunlight streams through the little spaces formed by its interspersed leaves.
His father sits by him on a flower patterned armchair, a book in hand.
“Where are we?” he asks as the other peers through his glasses, squinting at a particular page.
“The third plane,” his father answers. “Where time is infinitely slower. It’s the perfect place to heal.”
“I don’t understand,” Castiel mutters, a crease upon his brow. “I’m supposed to be gone.”
“I saved you,” his father says simply.
“Why would you?”
He pinches a page and flips past it. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you wouldn’t give Dean the same chance,” Castiel says, the words bitter on his tongue. “I had to--”
“Dean Winchester was not saved,” his father says, finally looking up from his reading.
Castiel’s jaw grows slack (he feels like he's tipping over—why does everything seem like it's spinning). “No,” he stutters, pushing away the blanket swathing his legs. He attempts to stand, but he reels, feeling the earth almost move beneath his feet. He stumbles back, blinking. His legs dangle from the edge of the bed. He feels blades of grass tickle the soles of his feet.
“No,” he says again when he has regained some of his bearings. “I descended—I went down there, despite a lost core, ready to die so Dean Winchester could live. I told him what to do, he cannot be dead. I do not believe you.”
“You can’t change what is already written.”
“But you could have written differently.” Words pass through clenched teeth.
“Not...” his father’s voice hardens “...with a destiny as intricate as Dean’s.”
Hot air passes through Castiel’s nose as he reigns in the mad thundering of his corporeal heart. “And Sam?”
His father shakes his head. “No.”
Castiel’s fingers find their way against each other, twisting and clenching, betraying the thin layer of anxiety that resides beneath the anger.
“Does he remember me?” he asks silently.
His father’s gaze softens in sympathy.
“Only as a star in the sky.”
Nothing more.
This is the third plane,
Where time is infinitely slower.
Here is where Kali eternally waits for her husband, hanging precariously onto a promise made through clenched teeth, with faith slowly cracking and crumbling at the pith.
And here is where Castiel is wounded in unspeakable extents, deep cuts that transcend beyond dying stars and stolen cores; ones that prove you never really heal wounds--at least not wounds as deep as these.
(Past planets and comets and atmospheres and the light of a flickering lamp post, Sam Winchester stands at a crossroad.)
XXXI.
When Dean finally wills himself to open his eyes, he finds himself lying on a bed in a motel room.
His body stiffens in uncontrollable fright, muscles quivering beneath his skin. His heart thunders madly against his chest; breathing picking up speed like a car burning a trail along an open road. He fears the sudden lack of hooks pierced into his shoulder blades. He finds nothing but the cuffs of his jeans around his ankles, no chains, no manacles. He has a watch on a hand he had long lost to Alistair’s knife; all five fingers present on the remaining other. He shakily runs a hand along his chest down to his stomach--solid, painless--something he has not felt since the first day he’d been hauled down, deep into the recesses of hell. He can still feel the makings of Alistair’s fists, bruises stamped along his face and broken patches of skin lined with coagulating blood. But it’s nothing. All this is nothing.
Did I get out? He wonders weakly to himself, and someone answers: No. You’re dreaming.
Dean tries to blink away the ache in his brow.
The man looks at him, gently hopeful, with his blue eyes and chapped lips. Do you know me?
Dean blinks again, a couple of times, blearily, as if even in dreams he is being coaxed to sleep. No.
The man's gaze falls to the ground, to the ugly motel wallpaper—anywhere but Dean's eyes, where it used to be. Dean feels guilt. He didn't mean to be rude.
He mutters sincerely, sleepily: What’s your name?
The man tries to smile, but it's difficult for him, Dean notices.
Cas, he finally answers.
Cas. Dean repeats.
Cas (--Cas, Cas, Cas) reaches out with strong fingers, carefully, softly, gently hovering above aching lines of blood and unfortunate patterns of purple, yellow, and blue. The touch is familiar, but Dean is so tired--so broken, so sleepy. What did they do to you? He hears the words leave the tip of the man’s tongue, an almost-cry.
Can I ask for something? Dean asks weakly across their proximity, thoughts addled in a mind battling exhaustion. Please.
Cas smiles in familiarity. Yes. He answers like he knows what, and Dean realizes he does.
Unscathed fingers reach out to hold onto the collar of the man’s shirt, and they stay there--a request for balance--before Dean gingerly presses Cas’ (Cas, Cas--) lips against his own. His movements are slow, languid, gentle, respectful, because this is nothing akin to a wet dream or some kind of answer to a sexual desire.
This is anchorage.
His senses heighten, sweeping fog from his mind, and the perfect fit of mouth against mouth turns into a steadying grapnel. He holds himself, stable and strong as his head clears--he’s still human, he’s still good, he can still say no. I won’t. Shove it where the sun don’t shine. No.
Cas (Cas) moves beneath his hold, and for a moment Dean fears he’s given him offense, but he feels fingers flutter against the base of his neck. Reciprocity floods through him like water being let out of a dam, and Dean could tiredly cry, even within the layers of his dreams. He’s missed the human touch in a way a stranded man longs for home. Though hell’s finest service is unending slices and excruciating pain, Alistair’s best torture is not any of the wounds brought about by his knife collection. It was parching Dean of his humanity; of conditioning his brain into equating touches to nothing but hurtful intention. So Dean sinks deeper into the kiss, like a traveler thirsting for water. This water is clear, soothing, healing, familiar (Cas,)—tongue scorching fire against tongue until he has his fill. He presses his lips against the fragile skin of Dean’s cheeks, trailing a soothing path up his tired eyes, up to his temples. Dean’s head settles onto Cas’ shoulder afterwards, breathless and half-hearted, both hands curling into his shirt as if to cling for dear life.
(Cas, Cas.)
If I wake up, he’ll start again. Dean’s voice cracks, doesn’t know whether that was a statement or a question. Maybe he’s still hoping he’d get a different answer. I dream of different things in hell. Not this.
Do I know you?
(Cas,)
Lips press against Dean’s ears. Yes, and that is all he says.
Before he comes back, you should go.
The strongest, most beautiful soul.
I promise I’ll come back for you. I’ll bring you back to Sam.
I’ll take you home.
Dean presses his mouth into a defiant line, despising the way his bottom lip trembles. How do I know you’ll come back?
He feels the smile against his skin.
I always choose you, Dean.
I just always do.
When Dean wakes up, he’s not going to remember anything. He will be a man made whole again, and Alistair’s wicked grin will dawn over him like an oncoming hurricane. Dean’s breathing will pick up, moving his exposed chest up, down, up, down.
“What is it today, kiddo?” he smirks as he asks, words drawn onto into a long, venomous drawl. The tip of his knife runs teasing circles around his chest, mapping the spot where his heart is settled within a cage of protective bone.
Dean realizes he’s already awake.
He bares a mutinous, confident snarl.
“Shove it where the sun don’t shine.”
Alistair chuckles, rolling one shoulder.
“Well then,” he says. “Let’s get to work.”
There is a scream.
(Cas could hear it. Even as he departs from within Dean’s mind. Even as he stands before his father, celestial bodies that have only began growing and thriving again burning with defiance.)
(You said you cannot rewrite a story already written.)
(Yes.)
(Then write a new one.)
(His father looks at him.)
(Write mine.)
This is what love does:
It makes you want to rewrite the world.
It makes you want to choose the characters,
Build the scenery,
Guide the plot.
And when it’s just the two of you,
Alone in a room,
You can pretend that this is how it is,
This is how it will be.
--David Levithan
XXXII.
How old am I?
He alights, like a wave of pulsating energy rippling the air.
You are billions of years old.
The entire structure of the run-down, rickety storage house quivers to its very foundations. He raises his hands in wonder, amazed at the simultaneous familiarity and strangeness of his body, and the panels of galvanized iron sheets which formed the roof bangs noisily in response.
Where did I come from?
He walks towards the towering wooden door and it moves in accordance to his will.
You came from the heavens, but one that is not of stars and celestial bodies.
As soon as he enters, everything is an explosion. The light bulbs hanging above their heads burst into shards of glass, sparks falling like rain from burning wires. Dean and Bobby both open fire, the sound of escaping pressurized gas reverberating from across open space. The bullets hit him on the chest, ripping through the fabric of his clothes and permeating into human flesh. He can feel the smallest constituents of his body still at the force--and then it stitches back together, the pain flushed by grace even before the first trickle of blood escapes broken skin.
Who am I?
“Who are you?” Dean growls.
“Castiel.”
Castiel.
“Yeah, I figured that much. I mean,”
What am I?
“What are you?”
(Your playmate.)
(Your best friend.)
(Your favorite star.)
“I’m an angel of the lord.”
(And this time,
I’ll stay.)
“And I’d choose you;
In a hundred lifetimes,
In a hundred worlds,
In any version of reality,
I’d find you
And I’d choose you.”
--Kiersten White
There is a star and a child.
There is also an angel and his hunter.
And it is all an infinite number
Of very complicated stories.
Fin.