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“ That's how you'll end up, Mr. Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky."
-Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany's
The silence in the Bunker makes him nervous, though he slowly grows to appreciate it. It was just Sam and him, maybe for too long. Having so many people here is - for one thing - tiresome.
The last person called it a night nearly an hour ago. It's just Dean and what's left of his beer now, sitting in the War room. Not that he would complain - the bottle is still cold against his fingers. The best company one could wish for.
His mind offers a name instead, so he glances at the clock on the opposite wall. Two minutes past midnight, officially September 18. Dean raises his bottle in a silent toast towards the clock and sips tiredly again. “Here’s for another year, buddy, “ he mutters.
With his newfound wings, Castiel barely even shows up these days. It’s not like Dean wants to keep him around all the time. Even if he wants, he’s fairly certain that no one could do that anymore. Probably it’s better this way.
The soft shuffle of the said wings, though barely audible, sounds like a thunder for the Righteous man. The rush of air that washes over his face, the heavy scent of ozone, humming static and flickering lights - he's like tempestuous weather, Dean has the chance to think, just before the angel shows up with his usual gruff greeting.
"Hey." Dean gives him a smile, slightly forced. "Sit," he adds. "Drink."
Castiel eyes the beer bottle on the other side of the table for a long moment, as if it's position is somehow unsettling. Eventually, though, he takes the seat across, at Dean's right and tastes the liquid with a frown. "I don't really... " he tries.
"I know. " Dean cuts him off, annoyance bleeding in his voice, "Just pretend for once, okay?"
On his side, Dean isn’t even sure why he acts angry. Or why he insists on bending the angel to his will. He finds himself licking his lips at the thought. Okay, bad choice of words. Probably the worst possible.
“Of course.” Castiel’s shoulders relax on the seat and he takes another drink then wipes his mouth after, with the back of his hand. The smug fucker.
Even performing this simple, so human movement, Cas is - still - magnificent. Dean can’t tear his eyes off him, like a moth caught in a flame. He knows it hurts, but he welcomes the pain nonetheless.
“You are not here for the beer then,” the man states grimly. “I doubt that it’s also because of my winning personality, so…”
“Time, you know, “ Castiel begins slowly, “it’s a matter of perception.”
Dean doesn’t even try to pretend that he understands what the angel is talking about. He just waits for clarification to follow.
After a brief moment of something Dean recognizes as hesitation, the angel continues. “The way I see it, it’s not necessarily irreversible succession from the past through the present to the future. Considering the infinite variations of possible futures…”
“English, Cas.” the man scoffs. “I am not nearly as drunk as I should be for this conversation.”
“What I am trying to explain is that time passes differently, depending on the point of view,” Castiel adds quickly.
“I see.“ Dean rubs his eyes, watching accusingly at his nearly empty bottle, “You came in the middle of the night to tell me that ten years are just a speck on the altar of your millennia-old existence.” Involuntarily, he frowns. “You shouldn’t bother. I figured that much.”
Castiel gives him a low, unsatisfied grunt. “You misunderstood me. Maybe because you didn’t listen.”
“Right.” Dean grits his teeth, “Enlighten me, then. Why today, of all days? You show up once a month, at best.”
Castiel’s long fingers curl around the base of the bottle, but he does not attempt to drink of it again. “Were you made aware of the horrors my counterpart caused to those people’s friends and family members, Dean?” He asks.
Dean nods. “Yeah.” He wants to say that this is a lame excuse, but it really isn’t.
“I didn’t want to cause any more disturbances.” The angel continues, “Your hands are full either way. So, if you were me and you had the chance to be somewhere else, would you stay?”
“Probably not,” Dean admits, reluctantly. “But still, there are people here that ... “ he trails off, his words fall lost over the edge of the bottle.
“Then you had one of your questions answered.” Castiel nods, “And I’ll give my best to answer the other one too. Though I don’t think it would be as simple.”
“Why are you here, Cas?” Dean sighs.
“I wanted to give you something.” Castiel offers. His full attention seems to be caught in the label of the beer bottle in front of him. For one thing, it’s strangely satisfying to watch him squirm.
Dean shrugs. “Well, it sounds pretty simple to me.”
The angel bites lightly at his bottom lip, before answering. Since when he does that? “It really isn’t.”
Dean shakes his head with a frown. “And I really don’t like surprises, Cas.”
“Still… “ Castiel watches him for a long moment as if he is trying to solve some kind of a difficult puzzle. “Give me your hand, “ he adds, then lowers his gaze. “Please.”
The most interesting thing is that Dean doesn’t even consider objectifying. He watches his hand - why it’s the left one he gives, he can’t explain but it’s how it should be - lay on Castiel’s, palm up and on a verge of shaking. It’s surreal. Cas’ skin is warm, it feels so comfortably human that Dean catches himself wondering if the rest of him would feel the same.
Nope. Shut it up.
“With Michael ruling up in Heaven,” the angel cautions, “it’s just a matter of time until he comes back, looking for his perfect vessel.”
“Me.” Dean agrees then grits his teeth, “Let him come. I’m ready.”
“Ready.” The angel echoes. “Right.” His fingers curl up into a fist, with Dean’s own trapped inside. “Isro De Bransg.” Castiel’s mouth curls in a similar way around the words as his fingers cradle Dean’s - warm, affectionate. Dean can recognize the language. It always falls so naturally on Cas’ tongue.
Castiel lets go of him suddenly, leaving Dean’s skin still tingling with his touch. There is a ring on Dean’s finger. It catches his eye before he can feel it on his skin. Dark graphite lines, entwined inside a golden frame.
“That’s… Well, thanks, but... “ The man stammers, “We didn’t just get married or something, right?”
The edges of Cas’ mouth twitch as he shakes his head. “No. It’s a protection spell. It takes a physical object to work properly.”
“Protection, huh?” The man hums, examining the ring more closely, then he gives the angel a sideways glance, lips already forming a smirk. “I’m not ditching the angel blade, you know...”
Castiel mirrors his smile. Isn’t it the most amazing thing? “It’s a useful gift.” He averts his gaze, before continuing, “But I can’t say that the gesture lacks affection.”
“ Yeah, uh… “ Dean rubs the back of his neck, trying to think of a proper answer for Cas’ admission. “That’s what gifts are, by definition.”
The angel’s eyes are back on him, cobalt blue bright with understanding. “Is it the same as giving someone a tape with your favorite songs?”
“Yes.” There is a sigh hidden in Dean’s words. “You were right, not simple at all.”
The angel nods. “Good night, Dean.”
“It was nice seeing you, Cas.” I wish you could stay. Or at least come back more often, is what he doesn’t have the heart to say right now.
Anyway, Castiel is gone before he can consider actually saying it.