Chapter Text
Castiel’s sitting on a bench at a bus stop in Washington and his grief is as fresh as the first day.
He’s used to sitting here, since falling, used to feeling the dull ache that accompanies every visit, every time that he has to think of him. He’s used to this place, because the day that Dean had died, one moment, he had been descending the stairs of the bunker, offering his comfort to Sam, and in the next, the Woman of Letters had pressed her hand to the banishing sigil and had sent him here, stripped of his grace and left utterly human.
He had not known what spell she had used.
He had only known that that day, Dean Winchester had died.
Now four hundred days later, Castiel is still human.
And Dean is still dead.
Sam walks into his workplace fifty-one days later, and when Castiel sees him, it seems that he can’t hold himself up. He falls from the ladder from where he has been stocking gardening supplies and he’s white-faced, bleeding from a scrape on his hand and, “You’re alive,” he says.
They’re staring at each other in the greenhouse, Castiel’s mouth moving but he can’t get another word out and it doesn’t matter because Sam smiles sadly and there’s something in his face that tenses, something that makes him look drained.
“I’m alive,” Sam says and for a moment, he pauses, pauses just long enough that Castiel’s heart starts to hammer in his chest and what he says next makes Castiel let out a small, pained sound.
“And so is Dean.”
Sam takes him to a nearby motel after Castiel’s shift at the nursery is over. He tells Castiel that the Woman of Letters has become an ally and that she told him that the spell that she had used on Castiel had caused him to lose his grace. He tells Castiel that he has spent the last three hundred days trying to track him down.
Did you know, Castiel wants to say, that I have had no means of finding you since falling?
Did you know, Castiel wants to say, that I have spent the last eternity thinking that surely you must be dead, that I failed fulfilling Dean’s last request to care for your well-being?
But Castiel does not say these things.
He does not even mention that he is not sure how he has managed to find the will to live on for so long.
He does not mention that he thought that he would die this Thursday at his own hand.
Instead, he says, “Where is Dean?”
They’re in the Impala, Sam and he. The trip will be agonizing because it’s going to take thirty-two hours and that’s how long he has to wait to see him—to see Dean.
He offers to drive through the night while Sam sleeps.
“It’s still going to take a day, Cas,” Sam says and then Sam’s mumbling, mumbling words that Castiel barely catches—except that he does catch them and they’re not good words—they’re whispers of you shouldn’t be so eager to see him, Cas.
“Is he—is he not well, Sam?”
Sam squares his jaw, rakes his fingers through his hair and gives him a tight, tight smile, the sort of smile that Castiel knows that Sam makes when he wants to be reassuring, even when the world is on fire.
“Cas, Dean is—”
Sam stops. Sam bites his lip and moves his mouth until he sighs with frustration.
And then Sam is too quiet.
And then Sam takes too long to answer.
“What’s wrong?” Castiel says.
They’re at the bunker.
They’re parked in the garage but Sam’s not getting out and when Castiel goes to open the door, Sam says, “Wait.”
They sit in silence for a long time.
“What is it?” Castiel says and Sam’s hesitating again, pursing his lips and finally, Sam says, “Dean’s not the same anymore.”
(Dean’s different).
“What’s wrong?” Castiel says.
But Sam still doesn’t tell him.
The bunker is deathly silent.
“Where is he?” Castiel says.
(In his room).
“I need to check something,” Sam says and he goes to Dean’s room but he leaves Castiel standing at the other end of the hallway because Castiel is not allowed to be near Dean and, “It’s just for a moment, Cas.”
When Sam disappears into Dean’s room, Castiel breaks the rules and follows, anyway.
He can’t wait another moment.
He hears Dean’s voice and it winds him.
He hears Dean’s voice, rough, alert, hoarse like he’s sick or like he’s been crying for a long time, but his voice is also so rusty, as if it hasn’t been used until today.
But maybe it just seems that way because Castiel has not seen him for four hundred and fifty-three days.
Maybe Castiel’s forgotten what he sounds like.
“—prize because I haven’t slit my wrists,” Dean’s saying and then Sam says, “Keep it down. He’s at the end of the hall.”
(But Castiel is eavesdropping by the door).
“Why’d you bring him?” Dean’s saying and he sounds furious and Castiel must not be hearing things right because he knows that Dean would never say things like that.
Sam’s voice is strained when he answers, maybe a little bit disapproving, but mostly it sounds as if he is trying to coax thoughts out of Dean, persuade him to think otherwise.
“I told you, Dean. He fell. He was homeless. Alone. He thought that we were both…gone. We’re his only family.”
“Am I dead to you?” Dean says.
Sam falters then, and there is an oppressive silence that chases Dean’s words. But then Sam’s voice goes soft and he says, “He was missing you, Dean.”
Castiel hears Dean choke on air.
“I miss him more,” Dean says.
For a long time, there’s nothing, just small sounds—sniffling, as if Dean’s sick and has a runny nose (so Castiel starts to worry already)—but Sam says, “You have to see him,” and then there is shuffling and rustling so Castiel hurries to the end of the hall where he is supposed to be.
It takes five more minutes for Sam to emerge from the room.
“He was asleep,” Sam says and he’s smiling, his tight, tight smile, and, “He’s just pulling on some pants—god, Cas, he’s missed you, man—he really has,” and Castiel doesn’t know why Sam keeps lying and why Sam has to lie at all because this is not Dean. This is not Dean.
But then Dean’s bedroom door creaks open.
And then Dean looks his way.
Castiel’s breath hitches in his throat.