Archive of Our Own

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Now I used to hear a thunder

There was lightning in my veins

Sometimes I can feel it

Like it's coming back again

Some nights it's so heavy

And the weight is pressing down

And I lie awake in arguments

With shadows and with doubts

Cas knows it probably makes no difference in how fast he’s able to get to Dean, but he still chooses to sit in the dark bunker guestroom. As close to Dean without invading his space, without him knowing Cas is here, as he can get. He sits, worrying.
He thought Dean’s soul was finally recovering from bearing the mark of Cain, finally getting back to its usual luster. It had certainly been shining when they’d had the case in Dodge City. But it had dimmed again after Michael had possessed him and it hadn’t quite healed after Jack had killed the world-jumping archangel.
Dean keeps insisting that he’s fine, but Cas knows he’s not.
He can see that he’s not.
He’s watched Dean’s soul for so long he knows the nuance of it, even though Dean has learned how to control it and keep it locked deep and safe inside himself as the years have battered and bruised him.
So, he sits in the dark and the silence and passes the lonely hours thinking back over the years.
He can still remember that first time he’d encountered Dean’s soul, aside from his frenzied rescue from Hell and their meeting in the barn where he’d been distracted by his orders and the wardings scrawled across the entire space. Dean had been so very young and, while he may have already been jaded, his soul had been so open and unguarded.
---

In the early days of their acquaintance, Castiel assumed the claim he’d made in Hell, the profound bond that had formed, was the reason he was so aware of Dean. From other planes of existence, and without even trying, Castiel could determine his exact location, and if he focused the smallest bit, what his state of being was.
The connection between his being and this single soul is so strong that Castiel begins to sense his prayers, able to hear them above all the other chorus of prayers flooding Heaven. It’s something only archangels and God can do without great effort, especially when the prayers aren’t directed at any particular being.Which Dean’s aren’t. When he prays, he sends pleas into the universe at large, wordless begging that is less coherent thought and more pure emotion.
Castiel tries to ignore it, tries to focus on Heaven’s needs, on what the archangels require of him, but the constant pull of Dean’s soul and his prayers call to him in an alarming way.
The allure is so intriguing and strong that Castiel feels compelled to visit Dean after he and Sam have dealt with the witnesses.With startlingly little effort, he is able to tune into Dean’s location and he waits until the man is asleep before flying to the small house in Sioux Falls. Castiel tells himself that he’ll just check on the man, observe him undetected for the few minutes he’s convinced it will take to assess Dean’s soul, the few minutes he hopes are all that will be necessary to remove the distraction Dean Winchester is proving to be.
He appears across the room from where Dean lays sleeping on a couch, knowing the distance should be far enough that the man won’t be alerted to his presence.
However, the moment his being coalesces, Dean’s soul arcs toward him. The edges of it brushing against him and he shudders at the contact. Feeling momentary weakness in his vessel he braces himself against the counter behind him.
He’s just able to collect himself when Dean wakes. The man lifts his head, eyes immediately searching Castiel out before checking on his brother then swinging back to him.
Dean gets up and begins walking toward him, soul shining and mesmerizing.
Castiel isn’t able to and, if he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t want to ignore the awe he feels at its beauty.
When a soul is fused with a body, it typically resides as a centralized ball of light, occasionally reaching
out when emotions are heightened or in connection to other souls, though the occurrence was extremely rare.
Dean’s soul, of course, defies these norms. His soul is unrestrained, viscous and lively; a liquid entity that flows and fills his being with the most magnificent hues of green and gold.
Reducing the visual representation of Dean’s soul to those two descriptors is surely a sin, Castiel thinks, but there is simply no way to describe how the colors are not merely colors but feelings and flavors that assault his angelic senses.
As Dean gets closer, his green deepens from a calm, crystalline jade into a dull, earthy moss; his sweet, honey-gold flecks darkening to amber; the sharp tinge of apprehension thick and insistent in Cas' vessel’s nose and on its tongue. And, while his body is filled to the brim with his soul, tendrils dance their way out of his form. Some, predictably, reach out to brush against his brother’s normal and contained brick colored soul, providing constant comfort and reassurance. But, to his surprise, some arc their way toward his grace.
Castiel has never experienced a soul this way, so openly and curiously grazing against him. Though Dean’s physical form walks toward him cautiously, his soul lightens with each step closer the man takes, nearly blinding by the time Dean gets within a few feet. It’s so overwhelming that Castiel begins to worry what might happen if Dean gets any closer.
“Excellent job with the witnesses,” he blurts out the first words he can think of to stop the man’s approach.
“You were hip to all this?” Dean barks back, voice barely containing the frustration he clearly feels.
Yet, though anger flares in the green, the tendrils of Dean’s soul cling to Castiel, winding their way around his feet, rubbing against his grace in a way that reminds him of cats. Castiel blinks, finding that comparison extremely unsettling, the idea that Dean’s soul might be trying to do the equivalent of rubbing its scent off on him, to claim him in some way.

Though, perhaps its only in retaliation for the claim that I had to make on it while raising him.

“I was, uh, made aware,” Castiel admits, struggling to focus his attention back on Dean and not on the movement of his soul.
“Well, thanks a lot. For the angelic assistance,” Dean hisses, the tendrils of his soul tightening their hold and sending bitterness and sparks of hot anger through the points of connection. “You know I almost got my heart ripped out of my chest.”
Castiel knows, somehow, whether it’s because he has observed Dean’s soul continually checking in on Samuel Winchester or being able to taste and sense it in where the edges of his grace and the soul have begun to blur, that the man was more worried about the harm that could have come to his brother than he was really upset about his own close call.
“But you didn’t.” Castiel huffs, frustrated by just how distracted he’s allowing himself to become, how hard it is not to stare at the swirling wonder before him.
“I thought angels were supposed to be guardians,” Dean accuses, “Fluffy wings, halos- You know, Michael Landon. Not dicks.”
At this, Dean’s soul starts to pull away. Not fully but enough that now just the edges of Dean are teasing the edges of himself. Castiel should be relieved, but instead there is a strange sense of … loss.
I do not have time for this, he thinks.
“Read the Bible. Angels are warriors of God. I’m a soldier,” Castiel grits out, funneling all the confusing emotions Dean’s soul was making him feel into frustration.
“Yeah? Then, why didn’t you fight?” Dean shoots back.
“I’m not here to perch on your shoulder,” Castiel retorts, ignoring how a small part of his grace, likely the part that still maintains the barest hint of contact with Dean’s soul, thought the idea sounded enjoyable. “We had larger concerns.”
“Concerns?” Dean snarls, “There were people getting torn to shreds down here! And by the way, while all this is going on, where the hell is your boss, huh, if there is a God?”
“There’s a God,” Castiel insists, his grace flaring a bit in indignation that Dean, who he’d just been ordered to rescue, could still doubt the existence of his father.
“I’m not convinced. ‘Cause if there’s a God, what the hell is he waiting for, huh? Genocide? Monsters roaming the earth? The freakin’ apocalypse? At what point does he lift a damn finger and help the poor bastards that are stuck down here?”
Dean’s soul fully disengages this time, drawing back into his form, crackling with pent up fury before dulling in resignation. The acrid taste of burnt sugar mixes nauseatingly with damp and rotting earth.
Castiel hates it. The shift makes something inside of him feel tight and confined, makes him feel heavy and hot.
It makes him feel too much.
He has to look away, not that it helps to avert his vessel’s eyes as his angelic form can see and sense Dean’s soul with alarming clarity.
“The Lord works-” Castiel starts, hoping to stop the soul’s souring retreat.
“If you say ‘mysterious ways,’ so help me, I will kick your ass,” Dean interrupts gruffly, but his soul slows its shrinking in on itself.
A tentative wisp of his soul begins to snake out again, cautiously brushing against Castiel’s grace and he has to tear his gaze away again, but this time it’s to hide a smile he can’t quite keep off his face.
Once he thinks he has his vessel’s countenance mostly back in his control, he dares to meet Dean’s eyes.
“So, Bobby was right … about the witnesses. This is some kind of a … sign of the apocalypse.”
Dean moves closer and Cas finds himself glancing away, staring at the space where Dean had previously been instead of the blazing space he now occupies just inches away from his left side.
“That’s why we’re here,” Castiel finds himself lying. Shifting on his feet and meeting Dean’s gaze to sell the falsehood. “Big things afoot.”
He’s not making much sense, but the wisp of Dean’s soul has begun curling around his leg again and the sensation is just as jarring, just as intense, as it was the first time.
“Do I want to know what kind of things?”
“I sincerely doubt it, but you need to know,”
Cas forces himself to be still, to stare into Dean’s eyes and not at his soul which has started to lighten at the point it meets his grace, a lovely green very near the shade of the Tuesday afternoon heaven he favors.
“The rising of the witnesses is one of the 66 seals.”
“Okay. I’m guessing that’s not a show at Seaworld.”
Castiel can breathe again as Dean’s soul pulls away again, though, like the last time, there is a twinge of loss he doesn’t quite understand.
“Those seals are being broken by Lilith,” he reveals.
“She did the spell. She rose the witnesses.”
Castiel feels an overwhelming urge to touch Dean but quickly tamps it down.
Or so he thinks.
Against his will, Castiel’s grace reaches across the gap between them, needing some outlet for the surprising pride and affection he feels at Dean’s intelligence.
“Mm-hmm,” Cas can’t verbalize for a moment as Dean’s soul reacts to his grace, rippling and glittering, sending the sensation of rain-kissed fields and wild honey skittering across Castiel’s being.
“And not just here. Twenty other hunters are dead,” Castiel manages to get out, unable to elaborate further.
“Of course. She picked victims that the hunter’s couldn’t save so that they would barrel right after us.”
“Lilith has a certain sense of humor.”
Castiel knows he’s dragging this conversation out; knows he should say what he needs to say and leave before Dean’s soul can affect him more than it already has. Yet, he can’t quite bring himself to pull away, can’t quite bear to disentangle the hold Dean’s soul has on him.
“Well, we put those spirits back to rest,” Dean states, like it means something.
“It doesn’t matter. The seal was broken.”
He’s almost sorry to have to tell him the truth, especially after he feels a pang of hopelessness thrum down Dean’s soul.
“Why break the seal anyway?” Dean asks incredulously.
“You think of the seals as locks on a door.”
“Okay. Last one opens and…” Dean’s soul withdraws again, as if the connection goes both ways and he can sense Castiel’s apprehension, his horror at what could come to pass.
The loss is worse this time, leaving Castiel feeling cold and bereft.
Empty.
Then he looks up into Dean’s face and is startled. A beam of light coming in through the window at his back streaks across his face, highlighting golden freckles and causing his eyes to shine brightly.
He couldn’t help but stare at him. There was a human saying that the eyes were windows to the soul. Castiel wasn’t convinced of the veracity of it, but he was sure that Dean’s eyes were pure reflections of his soul. The green changing and swirling with the same verdancy as his soul.
“Lucifer walks free,” he says earnestly, turning from the counter to face Dean head on, needing a better view.
For a moment the severity seems to hit Dean before incredulity, and maybe a hint of bravado, takes over.
“Lucifer? But I thought Lucifer was just a story they told at demon Sunday school. There’s no such thing.”“Three days ago, you thought there was no such thing as me. Why do you think we’re here walking among you now for the first time in 2,000 years?”
“To stop Lucifer,” Dean breathes, understanding dawning in his incredible, soul-colored eyes.
“That’s why we’ve arrived,” Castiel confirms, hoping to avoid talking about why he is here at this moment specifically.
“Well … bang up job so far. Stellar work with the witnesses. That’s nice,” Dean grumbles, turning away from Castiel to lean against the counter, soul sparking and flaring again.
“We tried,” Castiel feels the need to defend himself, deludes himself into thinking its about honor and his mission and not about trying to tempt Dean’s soul to reach toward him again. “And there are other battles, other seals. Some we’ll win, some we’ll lose. This one we lost.”
Dean scoffs and Castiel feels his grace bristle, feels Dean’s soul prickling, the taste of ozone filling the small space between them.
“Our numbers are not unlimited,” Castiel informs dryly, unconsciously following Dean’s retreat. Drawing closer to him, to his soul. “Six of my brothers died in the field this week. You think the armies of Heaven should just follow you around? There’s a bigger picture here.”
Neither of them breaks eye contact and Castiel tries not to react to how much brighter Dean’s soul has flared at his proximity, even if it doesn’t reach out again. It’s intoxicating and that worries Castiel. He decides it’s time to put some space between them. He’s not sure he has the willpower to physically withdraw, not with Dean’s soul glowing and swirling in ways that make him want to simply sit and watch for hours, so he opts for saying something he’s sure will offend and force the man to do what he can’t and walk away.
“You should show me some respect. I dragged you out of hell. I can throw you back in.”
Dean does not react the way he anticipates. His physical body looks away, but his soul, his soul begins to hum, warmth and sunshine manifest.
He’s sure that Dean has no idea what his soul is doing, he can’t know how … affectionate it is, how it reaches out to him despite his doubt, despite his disbelief in God, despite Castiel’s empty threats.
It’s too much, too overwhelming and forceful. Too alluring. Castiel can’t comprehend the idea that Dean’s soul would react to his display of dominance with such … exuberance.He flees. He can’t even call it a strategic retreat; he flies away before Dean’s very eyes. Because if he stays, he’s not sure what he will do and he has no desire to test his, clearly weak, self-restraint.
He resolves to keep his distance from the Winchesters after that, only interacting when it is required of him.
And it works. For a short time. Until Dean soul cries out to him while he is dreaming, his essence screaming out for rescue. Castiel can do nothing about the nightmare Dean’s mind is trapped in; he can’t erase the memories of Hell, at least not without Dean knowing. So, he reaches out with his grace in the hope that Dean’s soul will respond. And it does. Dean wakes and Castiel forgets himself, asking what Dean was dreaming about. The man grumbles some sarcastic remark and Castiel remembers what he should be doing. With little warning or explanation, he sends Dean into the past before his brightness can hypnotize Castiel again.
Each time he encounters Dean, each time his soul reaches out, Castiel feels himself pulling farther away from Heaven and closer to the warmth of that exquisite and rebellious soul. It excites him as much as it scares him.
He supposes he should be thankful that he was the first angel the brothers encountered. They explain away his odd behavior as a lack of humanity instead of what it is: a transfixion with Dean’s soul.
And even after they meet his brothers and sisters, the Winchesters don’t hesitate to chalk his particular obsession with observing Dean as a quirk of his character, inadvertently enabling him to continue his somewhat voyeuristic habit.
---
The faint scent and taste of charred earth and vinegar pull Cas out of his reminiscing.
His heart clenches. The smell means that Dean’s nightmares have gotten worse, again. Bad enough for his soul to burst out of its containment, screaming and searching for rescue.
Cas gets up and pads silently into the hall, crossing the few feet to Dean’s door. He hesitates with his hand on the knob.
What he’s planning on doing isn’t technically wrong.
But I know it’s not right either, he sighs, fighting the same fight with himself that he always does. Dean was violated by Michael, then imprisoned in his own mind, and then forced to cage him without rest, on top of all the other trauma he’s endured. Even if it’s to ease some of his suffering, it feels wrong to enter his mind without his knowledge.
He couldn't know for sure, but he suspected that Dean's mind remembered him from when he'd travelled to the made up Rocky's Bar where Michael had trapped Dean.
A portion of the guilt was assuaged by the knowledge that some part of Dean continued to give Cas consent to enter his mind, some portion of his soul welcomed the intrusion and reached for Cas both in the troubled man’s waking and sleeping moments.
As if summoned by the thought, a green tendril, so dark it’s nearly black, reaches through the door, weakly seeking Cas out. Pain sears through his insides when it can’t quite muster the strength to reach him even over such a short distance.
He opens the door, forcing himself to move closer and ignore the nausea that rises at seeing Dean’s soul so dull and despondent. It’s unbearable, knowing how much turmoil and pain hides beneath the surface of Dean’s brave, false smile. How his soul searches for relief from the crushing weight of all Dean has endured, all the pain he shoulders and takes into himself.
If I can ease that burden a fraction at all, it’s worth it. Even though Dean will probably be angry when, if, he finds out.

With that, Cas arranges himself on the bed next to Dean’s fetal form, steeling himself against the coldness of the tendrils that wrap themselves around him.
“I know, I’m trying to help,” he whispers soothingly to them as they cling to the meager warmth of the weakened grace that fuels him now.
He desperately wants to see Dean’s soul return to its former glory. But the more days go by, the more intense situations they find themselves in, the more he fears he never will.
That he won’t be around to see that day. Or rather, that it might be the last thing he sees. Because he knows it’s a dangerous, losing game he’s playing. The more he interferes and mends Dean’s soul, the more he sees flashes of brightness, the faint glitter of gold, the hint of dew-covered fields, the spark of life and love that still flickers deep within him. The more certain he is that seeing Dean happy, knowing he’s the reason for that happiness, could be the very thing that fulfills the terms of his deal with the Empty.
It doesn’t matter if I die, Dean and Sam will care for Jack, will raise him to be as kind and good as they are. I can’t sit back and do nothing. There’s a spark, a hope, so I have to try. Dean taught me that.
He takes a breath and closes his eyes, hoping tonight’s horror is not of Hell or Sam dying or having to watch himself commit horrible acts while Michael controls Dean's body.
His physical hand reaches out and he gently laces his fingers with Dean’s. The contact is not strictly necessary, but it helps to keep Cas grounded as his grace drags his consciousness into the darkness of Dean’s mind.
He winces when he opens his eyes to find himself in a maze of doors.
The first time he’d done this had been an accident. Something felt wrong with Dean’s soul, so he’d flown to his room and found him thrashing in his sheets. He had only meant to wake him, but the second he reached out with his grace the desperate tendrils had clawed at him, pulling him into Dean’s mind and dumping him into the infinite hallway. It had taken Cas such a long time to find a door that unlocked, but it had not brought the relief he thought it would. The door had opened up and he’d been forced to watch Dean panicking inside of the Ma'lak box at the bottom of the ocean. Could only stare as Dean’s phone started losing power, had to bear witness to him claw his fingers bloody as the light died and he was left alone in the darkness to die.
He'd felt powerless and sick when he was flung from Dean’s mind as the nightmare ended, barely able to disappear before Dean woke. As awful as the experience had been, he’d still come the next time he felt Dean’s soul screaming for him.
He watched the Ma’lak box nightmare thirty-three times before he found a way to change it. He still wasn’t sure how it worked or what all the rules were, but some ripple in the reality of Dean's mind had allowed him to call Dean before his phone died and he was able to convince the man to tell him where he was, was able to pull him out of the box and assure him they’d find another way to keep everyone safe from Michael.
That once frequent nightmare rarely came after Cas altered it, which the angel might have considered comforting if it hadn’t been immediately replaced by another.
The more nightmares he changed though, the more glimpses of Dean’s old brightness he saw, and it made the seemingly endless and painful task bearable.
So, he paces the winding hallway, waiting for a sound or smell or sensation to lead him to the right door.
He frowns, an uneasy tightness building inside him when nothing stands out after several minutes of wandering the never-ending corridor.
This has never happened before. There is always something to show me which door to go through, always something to lead me to Dean’s nightmares.
He turns around and flinches when he finds a dark form standing close to him. Cas’ heart pounds with fear for a brief second, thinking that somehow the Empty has followed him into Dean’s mind. But upon second glance, Cas sees that the entity isn't comprised of black goo, but dark green liquid.
“Dean?” Cas asks, though the more he looks and feels the presence, the more sure he is that this manifestation is Dean’s soul.
The being’s amorphous head nods before grabbing his hand. Urgency and fear like Cas has never sensed from Dean’s soul before transfers across their connection.
Cas can feel the small core of his grace flare and flicker in response and suddenly they’re running through the labyrinth, the fingers of Dean’s soul laced with his.
Dean’s soul leads him farther than he’s ever been, deeper than he’s dared to wander. The darkness weighs heavier the longer they run and the atmosphere when Dean’s soul finally stops is crushing.
They stand in front of a door but it's different from the others. There are cobwebs and dust all over it and it seems thicker, as if this part of Dean has been sealed off for years.
Cas' breath catches as mold fills his lungs and nostrils and the damp earth of Dean’s soul places his hand on the knob.
Once Cas grasps the knob in his hand, Dean’s soul backs off as far away as it can get and dread begins to fill him with ice.
The knob turns under his hand but when he pushes the door doesn’t budge. Cas tries again and again, but no amount of force causes it to budge. The door isn’t locked, but it won’t open either.
“I’m sorry. I can’t open it,” Cas tells the soul.The soul lets out a whimper, darkening impossibly further and Cas nearly buckles under the pain that radiates from where it curls in on itself in despair.
Cas doesn’t know what to do. Leaving Dean’s mind won’t help, he knows that the nightmare will come back. Maybe not tomorrow or this week, but it will. He’s never met this resistance though.

Dean’s soul led me here. It wants me to help him, yet … yet it's as if his mind doesn’t want me to see whatever is behind this door. There has to be a way. Dean’s soul must be able to override the defenses of his mind, or why would it have led me here?

“Help me,” Cas begs, though he’s not sure he really wants to see what Dean’s mind refuses to show him. He crouches next to the quivering soul, placing his hand on the form’s shoulder, where the brand of his claim used to be on Dean’s body.
The blue light of his grace trickles through his arm and fingertips to drop into the dark, swirling mass. The droplets of light disappear in the inky darkness and Cas worries that the soul might be too distressed and too far gone and he might be too weak to reach it.
He’s about to sink into despair himself when pinpricks of light flare, sparking like lightning beneath the green storm clouds of Dean’s soul.
The barest hint of rain hits Cas’ lungs before it’s buried beneath rot and decay again and he doesn’t try to stop the tears that fall.Because he knows that Dean’s soul wants to change, wants to be whole again as much as Cas wants it.
They stand and return to the door. Cas reaches out his hand for the door and Dean’s soul covers it and together they turn the handle with one hand and push with the other.
With a groan and a creak, the door finally gives, slowly swinging open. Cas pauses on the threshold as Dean’s soul pulls away, pressing back against the other side of the hallway, shaking its head in silent plea.
“You’ve been brave enough. I can go on from here.”
Cas steps through the door and falls.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

So gimme all your troubles

Gimme all the spiders in your brains

Let me see the parts with the real deep scars

Though I cannot wash your sins away

Cas hits the ground hard and there is a moment of silence before the world explodes.
“Dean, don’t you dare walk away from me! You get your ass back here. Right now, or so help me God,” a voice screams across a damp parking lot from the open door of a motel room.
Cas looks up to see the figure of a young boy pause, fists clenched.

He watches Dean blink back tears and school his face into a mask of indignance and apathy before he turns around and marches back toward the voice, toward his father.
Cas makes himself follow, even now searching for an opportunity, a weak spot in the nightmare to step into and change.
“You had one job. One. Burn the bones, get rid of the ghosts. You wanna tell me why Sammy and I come back three days later and it’s still not done?"
“Dad, I’m sorry. I- I’ll do better,” Dean’s voice is strong, but Cas’ senses pick up the hesitation and the rapidness of his pulse, “I’ll fix it I sw-”
John doesn’t give Dean the chance to finish, grabbing his arm in a bruising grip and yanking him close as soon as he’s within reach.
“You’re damn right you will, boy. When the fuck will you get it into your head that failure is not an option! You think I don’t know why those ghosts are still haunting this town? You think I don't know what you get up to when I have to leave for a hunt? This was a test, Dean. I wanted to see if you could be objective and do the job. And you failed me. You failed Sam,” John screams into Dean’s face, spit splattering on his cheeks. And Dean just takes it, hanging limply from John’s grasp. “You failed everyone in this town. You may think they're just some harmless queer ghosts, but they will turn Dean. They will get angry and violent. They will hurt someone. And it will be all your fault.”
Dean finally reacts, a single tear escaping from the corner of his eye. John notices as well and flings him to the ground.
“You care too much, Dean,” John sneers in disgust.
“Dad, please. I don’t think we have to burn them. I talked to them and they want to move on, they don’t want to be here. They are being held here because their murderer never got punished. And I called Bobby, and he said that-”
“You did what?” John hisses, hand shooting out to grab Dean’s hair and yank him painfully to his knees. Dean’s hands fly to his father’s, crying out in pain. “Dean, they’re monsters, not your friends. They’re not alive, they don’t have feelings. You burn them and move on! Is that clear?”
Dean apparently doesn’t respond fast enough because John shakes him roughly.
“I said. Is. That. Clear?”
Cas’ grace flares, his hand flexing and gripping tight to the angel blade that has appeared in it. It’s torture to stay where he is but he knows he can’t charge in and stab John Winchester like he wants to. The nightmare won’t let him, so he contents himself with adjusting the blade in his hand and keeping his senses alert to any opening.
“Yes,” Dean chokes out, trying not to struggle or show how much pain he’s in.
“What was that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s what I thought you said,” John releases him and his hand goes to his waist. Dean flinches from where he hasn’t risen from the pavement and John scoffs, pulling his wallet out. He throws a few bills at his son. “Make yourself useful for once and go grab me a six-pack while I put Sam to bed.”

“I- I don’t have my fake ID on me. They won’t sell to a minor,” Dean splutters, daring to wipe the gravel from his arms and collecting the money scattered around him.

“You seem so interested in finding alternatives, you’ll figure something out. And if you can’t, Dean? Don’t bother coming back.”

The motel door slams closed and Dean and Cas both hear the chain slide into place on the other side of the door.
Dean allows himself a few shaky breaths before he pulls himself up off the ground, rubbing at the bruise already blossoming on his arm and picking chunks of gravel out of his palms.
Cas follows a few feet behind him as he begins the mile or so walk to a gas station down the road. He watches as Dean lets silent tears run down his face in the darkness, his heart breaking for him and his stomach churning with the knowledge that this is not just a nightmare or contortion of events, it's a memory.
Dean stops to check his reflection in a side panel of the glass windowfront. He wipes his eyes and pastes on a smile, smirking at himself for a moment before the expression crumbles and he leans his forehead on the cool glass.
Cas is so focused on Dean, on keeping his hand from reaching out for the young, broken man, that he almost misses the ripple in the nightmare.
He takes a chance, knowing that there is something here he can change.
He walks the few paces to the door but stops before entering, turning to call out to Dean.
“Hello, are you, are you alright?”
Dean’s head whips up and green eyes meet Cas’ and his whole being aches. The eyes aren’t those of a young boy grown up too fast. They’re his Dean’s eyes, laden with years of experience, with grief and loss. They’re wild and trapped and pleading, but only for the moment it takes Dean to shutter his face.
“Yeah, uh, just realized I left my ID back at my motel room a mile back,” Dean shrugs with chagrin, his face a mask of boyish charm. If Cas hadn’t witnessed with his own eyes what Dean had so recently endured at the hands of his father, he would think that Dean was just some overconfident youth. “You, uh, you wouldn’t want help me out and grab me a six-pack, would you? I can give you, uh-”
Dean stops to count the bills, subtly wiping damp gravel off them and straightening them as he goes.
“Twenty-seven dollars?” He offers, walking up to Cas, grabbing his hand and slapping the money into it. Cas stares down at the money in his palm with a certain amount of horror that melts into something else as Dean’s warm fingers close his around the bills. Dean seems to notice his reaction and responds by rubbing his thumb in a tentative circle against the side of Cas’ hand.

“Or, uh, if that’s not enough, I-,” Dean clears his throat and stares up at Cas through thick lashes, “I’m sure we could work something else out.”
Bile rises in Cas’ throat as Dean continues to hold his gaze, waiting expectantly. Cas pulls his hand out of Dean’s quickly, mutters something about the money being enough and flees into the store.
In a daze, he grabs a case of beer from the nearest fridge and slams it onto the counter. He gulps in shallow breaths as the cashier rings up the alcohol and asks for his ID. Cas blinks before he reaches into his trench coat pocket, surprised to find his fingers curl around a rectangular piece of plastic he’s sure wasn’t in there before. He pulls out an unfamiliar ID, glancing at it before he hands it over to the cashier with the cash Dean gave him and tries to keep himself from retching. The image on the ID is a man older than Dean’s father, balding, and wearing a smile that can only be described as predatory.

But I changed it. When I pulled my hand out of his and walked into the store, I changed the nightmare. Does that mean this man-? Did he-? Did Dean have to-?

The man behind the counter interrupts Cas’ spiraling to give him his change. Cas pockets it in a haze and exits.
Dean jumps up from where he’d been sitting outside, the genuine smile nearly blinding Cas.
“Hey, thanks!” Relief is so evident on Dean’s face when Cas transfers the six-pack into his waiting grasp that he has to shove his hands deep into his pockets to keep from pulling him into a hug.
His fingers clench around the change and a keyring. He pulls both out, offering the left over money to the boy without a word, not trusting himself to speak.
“You sure?”
“No offense, but you look like you could use it more than me,” Cas responds truthfully, the dingy light catching on a bloody rip in the knee of his jeans that he hadn’t noticed earlier.
“I appreciate the extra cash, but I don’t need the pity. I land on my feet, eventually,” Dean throws back with a smirk.
“Mm-hmm. So does that mean you don’t want a ride back to the motel?” Dean’s eyes twitch, like he’s expected this turn of events, like he knew he couldn’t trust Cas’ kindness. Cas quickly adds, “No charge, I’m headed out past that way and thought I’d offer.”
“Uh, sure.”
Cas magically knows that the ugly, rusted blue pickup truck in the corner of the lot matches the key in his hand. He slides in and turns it on, but Dean hesitates at the door, still wary.
“If you’d be more comfortable, you can ride in the back,” Cas blurts, needing to do something to wipe the fear off Dean’s young face.
The offer works and Cas is rewarded with another flash of a true smile before Dean is scrambling into the bed of the truck, still clutching the six-pack.
Cas opens the window between them and dials the radio to a rock station before pulling out and directing the vehicle down the lonely road to the motel.
Ramble On begins playing through the tinny speakers and Cas feels his heart clench for a different reason when he hears Dean’s voice join in, the sound sweet and hopeful.
He’s actually sad to pull the truck into a parking space. Dean hops down and waves. Cas is disoriented for a moment as the truck pulls away while he stays in place.

This must be the end. Dean will give the beer to John and John will let him come in.

Dean bounds over to the door that had so recently been locked in his face and knocks on it, but it doesn’t open.
“Dad? I got the beer!” Dean calls, slamming his free hand against the door again. He frowns as there’s still no response and warily his hand goes to the handle. It gives under his hand and the door opens to a dark and empty room.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
The cardboard handle of the six-pack slips through Dean’s fingers, crashing to the ground. Several bottles smash, but a few simply bounce and roll. Dean doesn’t seem to notice though, whipping around to scan the parking lot with wild eyes.
Cas copies his action, lead forming in the pit of his stomach as neither of them spots the familiar shape of the '67 Impala.
Dean takes off toward the front desk, sneakers crunching glass and pounding into the pavement in time with the thundering of his heart.
He’s already breathlessly badgering the clerk by the time Cas catches up to him.
“Fine, then can I at least use your phone? Please?” Dean begs.
The elderly woman behind the desk rolls her eyes but sets the landline up on the counter, warning Dean that he’d better be done by the time she comes back from her smoke break.
Cas watches shaky fingers press down the numbers for John’s cell phone. He sees Dean hold his breath as it begins to ring. And ring. And ring.
Until finally, when they’re both beginning to lose hope, there’s a click.
“Dad? I got the beer. Where are you?”
“We left Dean,” John’s words are clipped and clinical.

“You … left?” Dean’s fingers go white gripping the phone.
“I’ve gone too easy on you, but no more. Seems you only learn the hard way, so I’m giving you some incentive. Finish the job, Dean, and maybe I’ll be able to bear the sight of you.”
“But how are you-? What are you going to tell Sam, when he asks why I’m not there?” Dean asks flatly, clearly in shock.
“I'll explain how you and I fought and you stormed off. That you said you needed a few days to blow off steam and that you’d meet us in Salt Lake City in three days.”

Dean nods, blinking back tears.
“Dad, please,” his voice breaks, a sob slipping out, but the line goes dead.
Dean stares at the phone in his hand for several seconds, until the chime of the door indicates the return of the desk clerk. He quickly wipes his face clean of both tears and emotion. He thanks the woman and heads into the night.
Cas trails him as he backtracks to the discarded six-pack, unable to do more than observe as he scrounges for two bottles that managed to survive. Watches him sit on the curb and count out the meager amount of money in his pocket.
“Five dollars and seventeen cents,” Dean tells the night, “For three days.”
He huffs a bitter laugh before cracking open one of the salvaged beers and chugs it. Horror rises in Cas when Dean’s eyes go glassy after a few minutes, the alcohol affecting a boy of his size far too quickly, meaning that Dean must not have eaten in quite a while.
I should have bought him something, beef jerky or a granola bar or something, Cas berates himself, even though there’s no way he could have known. I should have guessed then, Dean has always had an interesting relationship with food, one that is classically indicative of someone who frequently went hungry. I should have known.

Before Cas can sink too far into self-recrimination, Dean is up on his feet opening the second beer as he heads back toward the gas station for the second time tonight.
The nightmare begins to move quickly, Cas watching in a blur as Dean splurges on the cheapest granola bar he can find before spending the rest of his money on lighter fluid and a box of matches at the gas station. Watches as he drags himself on exhausted legs toward the local cemetery and breaks into a shed to steal a shovel.
Time slows again as Dean scans the headstones, eyes locking on one with the name Ernest Williams engraved on it. He makes quick work of desecrating the grave, throwing the shovel aside to wrench open the casket and dousing the bones with half of the bottle of lighter fluid. He strikes a match but hesitates, his eyes flickering to the headstone.

Cas follows his gaze and reads the epithet beneath the name and date.
“A kind man, taken too soon. What he couldn’t have in life, may the Lord grant him in death.”
The match burns down, singeing Dean’s fingertips before he drops it onto the freshly churned dirt. He collapses to his knees and cries. His body shaking with the force of the heavy, wracking sobs.
And Cas can do nothing but watch him silently, as much a prisoner to the nightmare as Dean is at the moment.
When the tears won’t come anymore and his body is on the brink of exhaustion, Dean wipes the stinging salt water and snot from his face and grabs the shovel, determination written in his expression.
He searches headstones until he finds what he’s looking for. It takes longer for him to unearth Alberto Jiménez's remains, chest heaving and arms shaking when he finally lays the shovel down.
Pride and heartbreak war for dominance in Cas as he watches Dean gather armfuls of the man’s bones and carry them back to Ernest’s grave, placing them down gently in the other coffin. It takes Dean several trips to complete the task.
He stares down at the now intermingled skeletons. Dean doesn’t see the ghosts of two men flicker into existence behind him as he pours the remaining lighter fluid on them.
“I did what I could,” Dean chokes out, “I’m sorry.”
Cas feels a ripple as Dean strikes a match.
“Dean, turn around!” Cas calls to the boy, but Dean doesn’t react.
Cas scrambles for how he can get Dean’s attention if he’s not able to hear him. With no other ideas or options, he leans forward and blows out the flame Dean hesitates once again to throw down unto the bones below him.
Dean blinks in confusion, but the pause is enough for him to see his breath, to feel the chill in the air from the spirits behind him. He turns slowly, bracing himself for an attack but both Dean and Cas freeze in awe as the two men reach for each other, spectral tears pour down their translucent faces.
They cling to one another, hands desperately clutching any purchase they can get. One of the ghosts drags the other into a kiss before drawing back to rest their foreheads together, sighing in unison.
“All we wanted was to be together,” one of them meets Dean’s eyes and says. “Thank you.”
Their images begin to burn so bright that even Cas has to avert his eyes. When he’s able to look back, the ghosts are gone.
A hint of a smile and perhaps a sliver of longing flickers across Dean’s face before he lets out a heavy sigh and goes to work filling in the graves before returning the shovel.
He exits the cemetery, brushing off as much dirt and grime from himself as he’s able, and heads straight for one of the few buildings in town that has its lights still on.
Dean wanders into the bar, quickly spying an unoccupied and partially hidden booth in the back and making a beeline for it.
He collapses gratefully onto the hard cushions and has just rested his head against the wall, eyes losing the fight to stay open, when the bartender bangs a fist onto the table, jolting Dean upright from the brink of sleep.
“Hey! You buy something or you get out. I’m not running a shelter,” the man barks.
“I, uh, I don’t have any money on me,” Dean stammers, perhaps hoping for charity just this once.
“Hmm,” the man’s eyes rake Dean’s body up and down before settling on his lips. “I’m sure we can come to some kind of agreement.”
He starts for the bathrooms, pausing to turn back and beckon to an unmoving Dean. Dean sighs, sliding out of the booth to follow.
Cas scrutinizes the area for the telltale ripple of a changeable spot in the nightmare. But no matter how hard he looks, no matter how hard he hopes, nothing appears. His feet follow Dean while his mind screams to stay at the table.
He gets as far as the bathroom door but freezes as he hears the grunts and gagging sounds on the other side. His hands grip the door frame, splintering the wood as he works to keep his consciousness from trying to flee Dean’s mind. He’s shaking from the effort it takes to anchor himself in the nightmare when the man exits smugly, passing through Cas to return to his spot behind the bar. Cas makes himself enter the bathroom.
Dean stands at the sink, robotically tilting his head so his mouth can fill with the stream of water, rinsing it out again and again and again.
Finally, Dean leaves the bathroom and returns to the booth. He crosses his arms on the table and tucks his head down into the dark space it creates. Cas sits next to him in quiet vigil, silent rage coursing through him that the nightmare wouldn’t allow this part to change, that men seemed to take every opportunity to exploit and break Dean.
“Closing time, everyone out!” The bartender shouts not even an hour and a half later, startling Dean awake.

His eyes are hollow as he makes his way to the exit with the rest of the crowd. Cas watches helplessly as a younger man takes note of Dean and walks too close next to him as they exit.
“Hey, I don’t think I’ve seen you around before and believe me, I’d remember a pretty face like yours,” the man flirts.
Dean blinks the deadness out of his eyes and pulls on a smile, face so unlike himself that Cas has a hard time looking at him. He turns, smiling up at the man and leaning into him, “People say my face isn’t the only thing that’s pretty about me.”
“That so?”
“Mm-hmm, ‘course it’s not a free show though,” Dean arches a brow at the man.
“Of course,” the man chuckles, “And say a guy wanted to buy a ticket, what might that cost?”
“Depends on what kind of show you want. Cheap seats start at $30,” Dean nods to the alley, “or a hundred and the cost of a motel room if you'd rather a night long performance.”
“Lucky me, I just got paid,” the man grins.
Cas can’t stop himself as he falls to the ground and vomits at hearing Dean sell himself. It doesn’t matter that he is just a manifestation in Dean’s mind, the bile still burns coming up his throat, his stomach still clenches painfully.

So much, so much pain and suffering and … trauma in one night.

He knows now why Dean’s soul was so insistent that he change it, even though it cowered away. Why Dean’s mind hadn’t wanted to permit him entry at first, why the door was buried so far down and shut so tight.
Cas wants to weep for joy when the scene around him ripples. Walks up to the man, intending to rip him away from Dean, but the moment his fingers brush his form it disappears. He stands perplexed for a minute before he looks up and finds Dean staring straight at him.
Dead eyes lock on his and the boy gives him a cocky grin.
“Well? We gettin’ out of here or what?”

No! No, no, no. I can’t do this. Let me change it some other way, but I can’t, I can’t-

The world ripples again and the man reappears, smirking at Dean and leading him to his car. Cas has to choke back screams as the man’s hand wanders to Dean’s thigh during the drive, as he leers when he comes back to the car with a motel key in his hands, as he possessively grips Dean’s shoulder when he pushes him into the motel room before him.
The nightmare ripples again and Cas doesn’t hesitate to take the man’s space.
“Fifty now and fifty after we’re done okay with you?”
Cas finds he can’t speak so he just nods, pulling bills from his pocket and placing them on the nightstand.
Dean picks it up and counts it, pocketing it when he deems it the correct amount.
“Alright. What’s your pleasure? You want me to blow you before you fuck me or just straight to business?” Dean says, batting his eyelashes at Cas as if he weren’t talking about being violated.

He’s so young, yet this doesn’t feel like the first time.

“How old are you?” Cas blurts out, not really wanting to know but needing to ask.
“Does it matter?” Dean tosses back with a chuckle.
Cas feels his brows pinch.
“Look, this isn’t new to me okay,” Dean says, probably to reassures him, nervous that the man is going to ask for his money back.
Cas sighs and sits on the bed, putting his hands in his head, the whole thing getting to be too much. He needs a moment to gather his strength to go on, desperately hoping the nightmare will end soon because he’s not sure how much longer he can endure.
Dean appears on the ground between his knees, “Hey, I’m old enough to know how to make you feel good, and, well, you’re not a bad looking guy, so it’s not too much of a hardship for me, if you know what I mean.” Dean cajoles, but there’s a wildness in his eyes, a desperation. A hand goes onto Cas’ thigh and he jumps up.
“Shower!”
“What?” Dean peers up at him from where he still kneels on the ground, head tilted in confusion.
“You’re covered in dirt and, and …,” And what looks like that asshole bartender's semen, Cas can’t help but notice.
“I want you to shower first.”
“Oh, uh, okay. Sure,” Dean still looks perplexed but he gets up anyway, “Do you, uh, do you want me to undress out here, and are you, um, did you want to join me or …?”
“No! I mean, no. That’s not necessary. I’ll wait out here, while you clean yourself up.”
Dean shrugs, not willing to further question the man who’s paying him.
As soon as Dean is gone and the shower is on, Cas pulls all the money he finds out of his pockets, a little over a hundred and fifty dollars. He grabs a pen and paper and scrawls, Room’s yours for the night. Take care of yourself, kid on the hotel stationary. The last letter is barely on the page before he turns and walks out of the motel door.
Horror fills him as he ends up not in the parking lot, but back in the center of the motel room.
Before he can begin to panic, Dean walks out of the bathroom, wet and glistening with only a towel around his waist. He stares in confusion at the empty room, eyes snagging on the money and the note on the nightstand. He doesn’t go to them right away though, opting to slide the chain across the door before he gives in to his curiosity.
A watery smile creeps onto Dean’s face as he reads the note and he falls back onto the bed letting out a huge breath of relief. He jumps up again and retrieves his clothes from the bathroom. Dean pulls the money from his pocket and combines it with the bills that were left on the nightstand, his features easing the higher he has to count. He tucks the bundle into his shoe and folds the dirty clothes, stopping only to put back on the amulet that Cas knows Sam gifted him. Still wrapped in the towel, Dean crawls into the bed and turns off the light. He looks impossibly young in the dark, hand clutching the pendent around his neck.

“Don’t worry, Sammy. I’m coming. I’ll see you soon,” he promises the not-so-empty room.
A slight sense of vertigo is the only warning Cas gets as he’s ripped from Dean’s mind and deposited back into his own vessel, still sitting next to Dean’s sleeping form.
His face is itchy and he reaches the hand not tangled with Dean’s to wipe at the tears that pour down his face.
Cas’ heart breaks for Dean, for what he was sure had occurred during the parts of the nightmare he’d been able to alter and for the parts he hadn't been able to change. He grieves for the fact that it was just the nightmare he changed and that changing the memory, rewriting what had happed to Dean, what had been done
to
him, was beyond his power.
Dean’s soul begins to pull away, pacified for the moment as Dean’s face relaxes from a pained grimace into a more neutral expression, the nightmare over for the moment.
Cas can’t stand the loss and his grace flares, clutching at the retreating tendrils. The dark forms, which the angel tries to convince himself were a few shades lighter than they had been at the beginning of the ordeal, stop for a few seconds, allowing Cas to get a handle on his grace and let them retreat back into Dean.
When they do, Dean begins to stir, his hand reflexively squeezing Cas’. Cas extracts his fingers as quickly and carefully as he can and leaves the room before Dean wakes fully.
---

“Cas, if you're not too busy doing whatever it is you do in Heaven, would you and Jack care to deign us with your feathery asses? I’m making pancakes and Sam wants to ask you some stupid question about prophets.”

Jack flies as soon as Dean mentions pancakes and Cas follows. He appears in library and walks into the bunker kitchen feeling more drained than he ever has before.
As an angel, he didn’t dream himself, but periodically throughout the rest of the night and into this morning the worst parts of the nightmare would flicker at random into his mind’s eye, in startling detail thanks to his angelic memory.
Cas braces himself for the pang he always feels at the state of Dean’s soul, but he’s shocked with the sight that meets him.
Dean is at the stove, laughing, as Jack juggles a pancake between his hands, clearly having stolen the piping hot breakfast food from the top of the impressive stack Dean has piled next to him. The sound is lighter, happier, than it has been in years.
And his soul.
Dean’s soul is almost unrecognizable to what it had been the night before. It was still nowhere near what it used to be, but it swirls with more life and color than it has in a long time. Tendrils burst out at his presence, reaching out to him and, for the first time in years, able to reach his form across the room. They touch his grace, conveying gratitude and smelling of spring.
Cas sucks in a breath, not quite daring to hope that this means Dean’s soul might have finally reached a turning point, might be on it’s way to truly healing.
He’s about to greet Dean when the man’s soul does something new. Instead of simply brushing against him or tangling playfully with the edges of his grace the way it has done in the past, a part of the green of Dean’s soul breaks away and plunges into him.
Warmth explodes within the very core of Cas, pleasure and joy skittering across his celestial and human forms as the sound of bees humming, the smell of wildflowers, the softness of plush grass, the sparkle of emerald and resplendent shine of citrine buries itself inside Cas’ shining blue depths.
Cas stumbles into the counter in front of him too overwhelmed by the feeling, by the sheer ecstasy of Dean’s soul fragment making itself a home within his grace.
“You, you okay man?” Dean’s breathless voice and warm hand on his shoulder finally brings Cas back into his vessel.
“Dude, are you?” Sam directs the question toward Dean, worry creasing his brow as he points out how the hand not touching Cas is trembling.
“Don’t worry, Sam. They’re fine,” Jack pipes up from the table where he is pouring syrup over his peanut butter slathered pancakes, completely unaffected by the scene that has just occurred.
“Are you sure, Jack? That was, it wasn’t normal, even for them,” Sam huffs, clearly not comforted by Jack’s statement in the least.
Jack pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. His eyes flare golden and Cas feels him stare first at Dean’s soul, then at his small core of grace.
Jack blinks a few times and the glow fades from his eyes.
“Yup. They may not be normal, but they’re fine.”
“But-” Sam starts.
“Okay, enough freaking out about nothing! Jack said we’re fine, so we’re fine, Sam. End of story,” Dean huffs glaring at his brother who still has his mouth open as if ready to continue protesting. Sam eventually closes his mouth and takes a seat next to Jack, grumbling a bit.
“Great! Cas, you want one or two?” Dean asks Cas, as if nothing has changed between them, as if, impossibly, a piece of Dean's soul doesn't now reside within him.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

And I get up in the morning

Like a ghost chained to a haunting

And I come home in the evening

Because you’re all I ever wanted

Dean still has nightmares, despite the change in his soul. Though nothing is quite as intense as the memory of the motel
Cas continues to step in. He still debates the morality of what he’s doing each time, but he finds that helping Dean trumps all the reservations he can come up with.
Because it has been helping. The nightmares haven’t stopped but Dean’s soul has continued to improve bit by bit, regaining a little more color or luster, a little more motion with every nightmare that Cas manages take out of rotation. And, to Cas’ surprise, some nightmares even begin to change themselves.
Just three nights ago he’d stepped into a frequent nightmare Dean had, some variation of Jack turning into Lucifer and killing everyone he cared about.
Dean hadn’t been able to stop Jack from burning the souls out of Jody and Donna and now Jack had Sam by the throat and his eyes were flaring. Dean was begging, and the worst part was that he wasn’t just begging Jack, he was begging Cas too.
It didn’t happen very often that Cas was in Dean’s nightmares, but when it did it was an odd experience. He found that Dean’s mind tended to make him more imposing, more gruff, and more apathetic than Cas viewed himself to be. It stung each time he was confronted with it, but he knew that he’d done more than enough wrong by Dean for him to view him as such in nightmares.
The ripple had come but Cas had been too devastated at seeing the projection of himself holding Dean back from going toward his brother. Cas had waited, tears burning his face, to watch Jack smite Sam before turning on Dean, but it never came. Instead, an odd fuzziness had encapsulated the scene before clearing again, like the nightmare had needed honed back into the right frequency. To his surprise and awe, when clarity returned, the projected version of him let go of Dean and turned to Jack, had begged him that this wasn’t the way and Jack had listened. He’d dropped Sam and touched Donna and Jody, bringing them back to life and Cas had been thrown from the nightmare as it ceased to be one.
It didn’t happen every time, there were still nightmares where he had to hunt for ways to change them, but with more frequency the dreams had been changing themselves, sometimes even before Cas could dive inside Dean’s mind.
It’s a good thing, Cas reminds himself, Dean is healing and, whether consciously or unconsciously, he’s learning to escape the nightmares himself.

A not-so-small part of him mourns the improvement because he knows that Dean won’t need him soon, that there won’t be this small thing he can do anymore to give Dean in return for his friendship, in return for the small part of his soul that Cas can still feel inside him, blazing brilliantly rooted in his grace.
So, for a few hours each night, he continues to sit vigil in the dark room he’s come to think of as his own. He’s just about end his watch in relief this night when Cas hears and feels Dean’s soul, stronger than it’s been in weeks. He runs to Dean’s side, no hesitating at the door this time. He doesn’t even climb onto the bed or bask in bliss that connecting with Dean’s soul gives him now that he can feel the metaphysical parts of himself reaching toward Dean the same way that Dean’s have always reached for him. No tonight, with a call that strong he falls to his knees beside Dean’s bed and clutches at the hand that dangles off the edge of it, diving in so quickly he feels like he might be sick when he lands in the corridor.
He sits up and immediately feels that something is different. He doesn’t get a chance to figure out what though as the manifestation of Dean’s soul appears beside him. It doesn’t hesitate to grab his hand this time, dragging him forcefully through several branches and up curving staircases until Cas knows that not even his inhuman abilities would be able to help him find his way back. Cas is inexplicably panting when they stop, tired from being dragged so deeply into Dean’s mind. Dean’s soul doesn’t take pity on him and yanks his hand to the doorknob. Cas grips it but hesitates for the first time tonight.

The last time the presence of Dean’s soul manifested like this and led me to a door was the nightmare of John abandoning him at the motel.

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Dean’s soul comes around and presses a hand to his face and then he’s trembling out of the pure sensation of Dean and not out of fear. The soul fragment within him makes everything more vivid; Cas isn’t just seeing the fern green or getting a hint of basil, he’s sinking deep into thick, sun-warmed grass, rich herbs nearly bursts on his tongue, and healthy soil mixed with fruits and vegetables ripening is not just a smell but a feeling in his core.He finds the strength, the will, to open the door and is shocked again when Dean’s soul keeps contact, undefined fingers holding his tight as they both step through.
They land outside a motel room and Cas gulps down the instinctual bile, quickly walking through the wall and sighing in relief when he finds Dean and Sam inside the room looking several years younger, but not on the brink of childhood like he feared. They’re not alone and he hears his own voice ring out in monotone.
“This is Uriel, he’s what you might call a … specialist.”
Cas’ stomach continues to clench painfully as watches Uriel walks over toward the group.
“What kind of specialist?” Dean scoffs before horror enters his eyes, “What are you gonna do?”
“You-,” Castiel tells Dean before doubling back on his words, “Uh, both of you- you need to leave this town immediately.”
“Why?” Dean asks, but it’s more of an accusation than a question.“Because we are about to destroy it.”
Cas winces at his own callousness. He doesn’t even recognize this version of himself with how much he’s grown and changed because the friendship and love of Dean. He remembers how hard he’d been struggling to ignore Dean’s soul playing chicken with touching his grace. He had clearly overcompensated, not simply dialing down his emotions but decimating them completely to be able to perform his duty in that moment.
“So this is your plan, you’re gonna smite the whole friggin’ town?” Dean asks both him and Uriel, astonishment quickly turning to disgust.
“We’re out of time. The witch has to die, the seal must be saved.” Cas hears himself robotically repeat the line the archangels had fed him.
The sick feeling hasn’t left him, instead it continues to grow, cramping painfully as he realizes he is the focal point of this nightmare, his crusade for Heaven and blind faith in the archangels.
Dean is dreaming about the awful choice I put onto his shoulders, all in the name of Heaven.
He’d taken this man, still fresh from the horrors he’d endured and committed in Hell, and placed the lives of one thousand two hundred and fourteen innocent souls in his hands. All so that the archangels could test how Dean would react to the pressure.
He's having a nightmare about me. Me manipulating him, lying to him by omission and preying on his guilt, exploiting that wonderful part of him
that makes him care so deeply about the rest of the world.
Cas is too busy trying to fight the pain tearing up his insides to pay attention as the conversation progresses.
Dean’s soul squeezes his hand, balmy aloe soothing jagged edges that have formed and are slicing withing him and Cas finally is able to blink past the pain. He desperately looks around for a ripple; he knows exactly how he’ll change this scene, how he’ll tell Dean he’s right and that costs never outweigh the benefits when dealing with human life.
But there is nothing, no ripple, not even Dean’s brain changing the memory as far as Cas can recall.
“Why did you bring me here?” Cas asks Dean’s soul, still holding his hand. “If there is nothing I can change, then why-?”
Dean’s soul stares at him without eyes, raising its free hand to turn his face away from it and back to the scene unfolding.
“Right, cause you’re bigger picture kind of guys,” Dean scoffs.
“Lucifer cannot rise,” Castiel takes a menacing step toward Dean and Cas wants to cover his ears to hide from the words he knows he will speak next. “He does and hell rises with him. Is that something you’re willing to risk?”

Maybe this is my punishment for meddling. Dean’s mind and soul are at odds again, the mind wants to punish so the soul comforts through the punishment. Well, if this is the cost of helping Dean heal, then I’ll endure it.

Cas stands a little straighter, forcing himself to watch, to accept his punishment with grace.
Dean stares down at Castiel and Cas has to blink as he notices the man lick his lip after an aborted attempt to speak, notices the Dean’s eyes seem to drink in his countenance.

“We’ll stop this witch before she summons anyone,” Sam says, though its like he’s speaking through a door as Cas focuses on himself and Dean. “Your seal won’t be broken, and no one has to die.”
He doesn’t remember Dean staring at him so intensely, pulling his lip into his mouth and darting a glance at Sam before his eyes lock back onto Castiel, practically caressing him with his gaze.
He supposes it was because Dean’s soul had chosen that point to stop its teasing and finally touch him, causing the unblinking look on his own face as he’d had to use every bit of strength and training he could muster to battle against the rush of warmth and skeptical but curious sage that had hounded his unprepared angelic senses.
“We’re wasting time with these mud monkeys,” Uriel says aloud, his grace invisibly lashing out at Castiel’s, questioning his hesitation at shutting down the ridiculous hope of these humans.
“I’m sorry but we have our orders,” Castiel responds. Cas watches as he turns toward Uriel though his eyes stay locked onto Dean for as long as his vessel allows. His grace tends the tiniest spark of reassurance toward his distant brother, the rest of it blocking Dean’s soul behind him.
“No, you can’t do this, you’re angels, I mean aren’t you supposed to- You’re supposed to show mercy,” Sam begs them both.
“Says who?” Uriel taunts back, throwing Sam’s compassion back into his face like it’s something dirty.
“We have no choice,” Castiel speaks to the wall, turned away but not stepping away. Cas knows it is because he had not been able to pull himself far enough, hadn’t had the willpower to separate his grace from the tendril of Dean’s soul that had rested against it.
“Of course you have a choice. I mean, come on, what? You’ve never questioned a crap order, huh? What are you both, just a couple of hammers?” Dean throws out, the words desperate but not without truth.
“Look, even if you can’t understand it, have faith. The plan is just,” Castiel continues speaking to the wall, turning his head at the last phrase so that he doesn’t give away just how much he’s struggling internally, playing the part of apathetic though he feels anything but.
“How can you even say that?”
“Because it comes from Heaven, that makes it just,” Castiel replies whipping toward Sam, neither human able to see the fractional relief on his face as Dean’s soul finally recoils from him and he can move again.
“Oh, it must be nice, to be so sure of yourselves,” Dean throws the words at him, disgust clear on his face and Cas knows this is the moment that Dean’s opinion of him began to matter.
I had started falling, even then. All it took was a few interactions with Dean, with his soul, to cause me to doubt Heaven, Cas thinks, though there’s no remorse. Yes there are actions he wishes he could undo, but overall, he’s glad he met Dean, glad his soul had changed him and caused him to care about the world and freewill.
“Tell me something, Dean, when your father gave you an order, didn’t you obey?”

Cas knows the words had been hurled in defense against the doubt blossoming within him, dull barbs meant to deflect and put Dean in his place more than truly hurt. He hadn’t understood why Dean had stiffened or why his soul had darkened and curled in on itself. Now he knows, in some small part, just how sharp and how poisonous those words were. Knowing what Dean had endured for his obedience to John’s order to get beer, his order to finish the job and make his own way to meet up with them if he was successful, knowing that there were probably more memories just like the one he’d had to experience, Cas can’t help falling to his knees. There doesn’t seem to be enough air as he gasps against the pain, against having to relieve his own cruelty toward Dean with the awful burden of context.
Cas can’t take anymore, his learned humanity getting the better of him, and his grace flares as he prepares to flee Dean’s mind.
Only, he can’t.
Dean’s soul grips his hand and holds him there, firmly anchoring him in the nightmare.“I thought you liked me, why are you keeping me here? I’m not helping Dean and- Are you punishing me too?”Dean’s soul shakes its head, darkness flaring in it briefly in frustration as it points toward where Dean finishes standing off against Uriel and turns back toward Castiel.
“We can do this,” Dean assures him, twin soul reflections boring into his vessel, “We find that witch and we will stop the summoning.”
Despite the confidence in his words, Cas recalls how his soul had betrayed him, uncertain olive and anxiously flailing tendrils reaching for Castiel, yearning to be heard and understood, to be given a chance.
“Castiel!” Uriel shouts with both his vessel’s voice and his grace. Angry celestial energy sparking as he finally notices that Dean’s soul is touching Castiel’s grace. Holy outrage had battered him, the other angel unable to comprehend why Castiel would allow something so taboo and ‘sullying’ especially from a soul that had so recently been raised from Hell. “I will not let these peop-”
“Enough!” Castiel calls firmly, raising his hand to silence Uriel though his eyes never stray from Dean’s. His grace had flared back at Uriel’s reminding him just how powerful and battle tested he truly was, blazing just enough to warn off the specialist who hadn’t been called upon since his work at Sodom and Gomorrah.
“I suggest you move quickly,” Castiel tells Dean.
Dean nods, cheek twitching as Uriel and Castiel fly away.
The reality around them begins to speed up and Cas manages to rise to his feet. He turns to stare at Dean’s soul as if it can give him the answers he’s looking for. Dean’s soul moves its hands to grasp Cas’ shoulders and he smells cut stems, feels roots reaching stretching deep to produce leaves and tastes sweet sap. He knows Dean’s soul is trying to tell him something, to convey some message but he simply can’t figure out what. The nightmare is awful, yet Dean’s soul remains bright and vibrant and here with him, which it has never done before.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand!” Cas groans in frustration. Because Dean’s soul still won’t let him leave, that small piece within him keeping him here even when the manifestation moves its hands to fling them up in the air in a move that is so quintessentially Dean that Cas nearly smiles.
Images of Dean getting beaten by the witch flash past along with fighting the undead and the horror of seeing Sam use the demon blood residue inside him to banish Samhain. The nightmare finally slows as Dean sits down on a park bench, watching children play in joyful ignorance of what he’s done for them.
Cas waits to see himself appear, but he doesn’t. Dean just waits on the bench. Dean’s soul leads him over, shoving him down to sit on it before walking to the other side and into Dean.
Reality bends as it does, shifting slightly further into the realm of time travel than mere memory.
Cas is speechless on the bench as tendrils of Dean’s soul reach out toward his grace, even though Dean is looking away and hasn’t noticed his appearance. As soon as Dean’s soul makes contact, Dean sucks in a soft breath.
“Let me guess you’re here for the ‘I told you so.’”
“No.” Cas feels his mouth respond, somehow experiencing the memory though not fully being in control and more than a little distracted by the way Dean’s soul keeps swirling patterns against the edge of his grace.
“Well, good, cause I’m really not that interested,” Dean replies quickly, though Cas picks up on a breathlessness he hadn’t noted in his own recollection of the conversation.
“I am not here to judge you, Dean,” Cas assures, his voice softer in Dean’s version of this memory, more compassionate.
“Then why are you here?” Dean inhales before shooting back and looking at him, clearly affected by the way Cas’ grace has briefly escaped his control and flared at the constant caressing of his soul.
“Our orders-”“Yeah, you know, I’ve had about enough of these orders of yours-” Dean blurts, the snarky remark and toss of his head the only thing keeping him from fidgeting and squirming in his seat as some sensation he can’t place wells within him at the proximity of this specific celestial being.
I shouldn’t know that, Cas frowns, blinking in confusion as he is somehow privy to Dean’s inner workings. Is this because of his soul inside my grace?
He doesn’t have a chance to get out more than that thought though as his mouth opens to speak.
“Our orders were not to stop the summoning of Samhain they were to do whatever you told us to do.”
Cas remembers how much of a risk this had been, this first tiny act of rebellion on Dean’s behalf, making him aware of how much power and control he’d truly had over the situation.“Your orders were to follow my orders?” Dean confirms, leaning forward casually while his soul unfurls in a tiny exhibition of happy waves of light and sensation.
“It was a test, to see how you would perform under …” Cas explains absently, transfixed now the same way he had been then.
He finally tears his gaze away, confusion that this doesn’t feel much like a nightmare at the moment, but waiting for any hint of pain or ripple though he’s not sure what it is he’s supposed to change. “…battlefield conditions, you might say.”
Dean licks his lip again distractingly before he states the obvious, “It was a witch, not the Tet Offensive.”
For the first time Cas notices the crinkle around Dean’s eyes, the way he’s relaxed in this conversation and no longer defensive.Cas chuckles, still finding humor in the joke and joy at Dean’s ability to bring levity into most situations.Dean’s soul explodes with light, the tendrils which had done their best to keep to the edges of his grace shoot out at the sound to embrace him tightly, the piece of Dean inside him bursting with pride at eliciting the noise for the first time.
It stuns him into silence for a moment as Dean continues speaking.
“So I, failed your test, huh?
But you know what? If you would have waved that magic time-traveling wand of yours and we had to do it all over again, I’d make the same call,” Dean says, voice getting gruff with protectiveness.Cas is almost toppled by respect and admiration for how much Dean cares about these people who don’t know him, who will never know what he went through and shouldered to keep them safe. A melancholy pride blossoming from the fact that he would so quickly make the same sacrifice, knowing it would drive his brother to using the powers granted to him by the demon blood in his veins.
“’Cause see, I don’t know what’s gonna happen when these seals are broken, hell I don’t even know what’s gonna happen tomorrow. But what I do know is, that this, here? These kids, the swings, the trees, all of it is still here because of my brother and me.”
“You misunderstand me, Dean, I’m not like you think. I was praying that you would choose to save the town,” Cas tells him, the soul touching his grace making him particularly vulnerable and eager to please and reassure Dean’s physical form.
“You were?”
Cautious hope leaks out of Dean, both in his voice and through the burst of fresh seedlings in his soul.
“These people, they’re all my father’s creations. They’re works of art, and yet, even though you stopped Samhain, the seal was broken and we are one step closer to hell on earth for all creation. Now that’s not an expression, Dean, it’s literal. You of all people should appreciate what that means,” Cas blurts in a rush, hoping Dean doesn’t catch the implication that Cas thought of him as a work of art as well, though his pulsing soul seemed to comprehend very clearly before it retreated again, wincing at the reminder of its torment in Hell. Cas feels the loss so strongly that he immediately tries to rectify it, offering up a secret in trust to try and tempt Dean’s soul back to him.
“Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?”
“Okay,” the word falls carelessly, almost sarcastically from Dean’s lips like he doesn’t have a choice but to listen to this cosmic entity spill its secrets, but Cas understands through Dean’s own feelings just how much this small bit of doubt, of trust means to him.
“I’m not a … hammer as you say. I have questions, I … I have doubts.”
The tendrils are back and more insistent, playfully sending the most delicious sensations of soft fir needles and crisp juniper, lily pad green and refreshing mint skittering across the surface of his grace in their own form of dance.

“I don’t know what is right and what is wrong anymore …” Cas pauses because he has too, the sensations too overwhelming as he recalls that he’d been thinking of Dean’s soul when he said those words the first time. Because letting Dean’s soul touch his grace so often, so freely, was supposed to be wrong. He was made to look after and care for his father’s favored creation, but he was sure he wasn’t meant to experience it in this way, wasn’t supposed to become attached so quickly to one specific soul, one specific man. And yet, nothing had felt more right in the last century of following orders than gripping his soul tight during the rescue from Hell, from being near him and seeing and feeling all his soul offered up so freely to him. “… whether you passed or failed here. But in the coming months you will have more decisions to make. I don’t envy the weight that’s on your shoulders, Dean. I truly don’t.”
Dean stares at him then, impossibly peering into his very core, his soul looking for reassurance despite the harsh reality of the words. And Cas is unable to deny him. He lets his grace warm for Dean and gives one tentative stroke back. That one reciprocal touch sends shockwaves along Dean’s soul, causing the man himself to look away and Castiel had fled.
Cas still sits on the bench staring at Dean, though his body is gone. Dean’s soul still sparks and crackles with the aftermath of Cas’ touch. Dean turns and looks at him, looks at the mental manifestation of Cas on the bench with seeing, not dreaming, eyes.
“Cas?”
“Dean! Wake up!” Sam’s voice shatters the space, hurling Cas roughly out of Dean’s head as the man wakes abruptly at the shout.
Cas has just enough time to make himself invisible before Sam bursts into Dean’s room.
“Donna just called me. Jody went out on a vamp hunt and didn’t check in when she was supposed to. No one can get in touch with her, not even Claire or Alex. It was supposed to be a quick in-and-out somewhere in Iowa so I told her we’d head out right away.”
“Huh, yeah, um,” Dean blinks, rubbing the hand that’s not still entangled with Cas’ incorporeal one down his face, confusion evident in his eyes before he blinks it away. He reaches for his phone with the same free hand and swears, Cas peeks at the screen and sees Claire’s name with eleven missed calls and Donna’s with three.
“I’ll get dressed and give Cas a ring, maybe he can save us a trip if he answers. Just in case though, can you make sure there’s still a good supply of dead man’s blood in Baby and see if you can scrounge up a granola bar or energy drink or something so we don’t have to stop.”Sam nods, turning on his heel and rushing out to get everything they’ll need for their potential rescue mission.
Dean doesn’t move from the bed at first, staring down at his hand and flexing his fingers. Cas shivers at the sensation of Dean’s physical form tickling his unmanifested body and he reluctantly takes several steps away from Dean, though Dean’s soul protests, wrapping around his legs so tightly Cas has to lean down and manually extract himself.
Dean frowns out at the room, struggling to reconcile what his eyes see as empty space, but what his soul knows is Cas’ presence.He shakes his head and rolls onto his feet with a groan. He stands and stares down at his crotch before wiping his hands down his face again and grumbling his way to his dresser.“Of fucking course I’d have morning wood when we have a time crunch, private rooms are worth shit when there’s always an emergency. Though I guess it’s for the best since I didn’t lock my door. Anyone could have walked in on me, Sam, Jack, … Cas.”
Dean’s soul flares nearly white for such a brief second that Cas would have assumed he imagined it if Dean didn’t promptly begin falling over part way through pulling his pants up. His hands get stuck in belt loops and he’s just about to crash into the floor when Cas makes the split second decision to enter the visible plane. He barely managing to catch Dean, appearing in front of him so his head goes into Cas’ chest.
“Whoa! Where did you-? I haven’t even prayed yet,” Dean sputters, finally getting his hands detached and automatically gripping Cas’ biceps to steady himself before stepping back.
Cas blinks at the warm spots searing through the layers of his clothing, at the way Dean’s soul flares happily inside of him at the contact between their two physical bodies.
“Earth to Cas? Not that I don’t appreciate the save, but what are you doing here?” Dean asks again as he pulls a shirt over his head, unfortunately covering the expanse of skin Cas has grown fond of seeing during the moments before he delves into Dean’s brain. Dean’s words are gruff, but his soul swirls happily, tendrils coming out in greeting as if Cas hadn’t been wrapped in them moments earlier.“I was, uh, in the area and I, er, felt your prayer,” Cas lies, staying as close to the truth as he can.
“Like I said, dude, I hadn’t prayed yet, so what’s the deal? Something happen with Jack or were you already on your way to check in or what?”
“I, sometimes, because of the bond we share, your prayers don’t necessarily need to be verbal pleas or any sort of traditionally recognized communication. If the emotion is strong enough, I can
feel the prayer or at least the essence of it. You seemed … distressed, so I came.”
“Huh,” Dean replies, staring at him and Cas thinks his soul might hiccup white again but he’s distracted by a particularly handsy tendril snaking its way up his leg.
“Well, if you don’t have to fly straight back to heaven or anything, we could really use your help. Jody went on a solo hunt and hasn’t checked in-”
“Hmmm.” A hum of pleasure escapes Cas as Dean’s soul brushes close to his body’s groin, unfairly able to tease his physical and metaphysical forms due to the very human soul fragment creating a bridge between his body and grace.
“Cas, you okay?” Dean asks, his hand reaching out but hesitating to touch him, concern and perhaps a slight flicker of interest flaring in his eyes. Cas is sure he’d be able to tell if the tendril wasn’t still intent on driving him to the brink of physical and celestial euphoria.
“I, ughn, I’ll go see if I can locate her.”
Cas is invisible once more, leaving Dean blinking and confused. It takes him several minutes to untangle himself from Dean’s naughty tendril, each touch to push it away making him shudder and gasp.
He finally manages to free himself and flies as fast as he can, searching for Jody Mill’s soul. It takes him much longer than normal to focus in on it, the ghost of Dean’s soul touch distracting him from the much harder task of tuning into anyone else’s soul. Eventually though he spies the kind periwinkle hue, stationary near an abandoned campground deep within a forest just across the border of Iowa. He touches down on the earth gently, scanning with his eyes and senses to make sure there are no threats in the immediate vicinity. Once he has done that, he focuses on the grumbling sheriff who pokes at a small fire.“Damn vamp had to crush my phone, it’s gotta be at least a six-hour hike to the road,” she continues muttering and kicking the bloodied duffel bag beside her that rattles with clanging metal. “I should’ve taken a page out of Dean’s book and stashed some M&M’s in here or something.”
She stares into the fire for a moment before her anger appears to dissipate.
“God, I hope the girls aren’t too worried, although knowing Claire, she’s already called Dean by now, if not busted down his door. She is gonna chew me out for not having a backup cell.”
Cas flies away again locating what he hopes is her car before returning to her in physical form.
“Jody Mills?”
Jody jumps up, machete raised and ready to hack at him.
“The Winchester’s sent me,” Cas explains, raising his arms in surrender.
“Who exactly are you and why should I trust anything you’re saying.”
“I’m not sure how I can prove that I am a friend of Sam and Dean’s, but my name is Castiel and I am an-”
“You’re Cas? Dean’s Cas?”Cas is taken aback that this woman knows of him well enough to know the nickname Dean had given him.
“I, um. Yes?”
“I can see why Dean doesn’t shut up about you,” Jody sizes him up in the firelight with a mischievous glint entering her eye and swirling violet into her soul. “So, they sent you in as the cavalry, huh?”
“They were worried about you. I can take you to your car, though you might experience some motion sickness,” Cas warns holding out his hand.
“Anything to get me out of these woods and into a shower as fast as possible,” Jody grins and Cas finds himself smiling back.
He flies them to her vehicle. To her credit, she only wobbles a little as they re-enter the physical plane.
“Whoo, that’s one way to travel, though I can see why Dean prefers to drive.”
“Yes, he has lamented about it more than once. I believe his exact words were ‘Last time you zapped me someplace I didn’t poop for a week,” Cas shares, chuckling at he memory.“Yeah, that sounds like Dean alright,” Jody replies, though she’s studying him in a curious way that makes him feel naked.“Do you require any other assistance before I leave? I can heal your injuries if you like,” He offers, suddenly wary of her sharp intelligence.
“Nah, they’re just nicks and bruises, not work the effort when they’ll be gone by tomorrow, but, uh, you wouldn’t happen to have a phone, would you?” Jody asks, blinking away whatever thoughts she’d been considering.
Cas lets Jody use his mobile device to call Donna, letting her know that she’s alright and charging her with telling their growing family of wayward women that she’ll be home in a couple of hours.He takes his phone back and watches as she drives away, returning her wave as she fades from view.He debates flying back to the bunker but he’s too afraid he won’t be able to leave a second time if he gets any closer to Dean’s soul in the mood its in. He stands in the darkness beneath the silent trees and stars and presses the first and only contact favorited in his phone.
“Cas? Hey, why’d you fly off so quick? You know what, that’s not important right now. Did you find Jody? Is she- Is she okay?”“Yes. She was in a stretch of woods in Iowa. She is physically well, aside from some minor cuts and bruises that she didn’t want healed. She said that her phone was damaged in the fight and the darkness prevented her from making her way out. I flew her back to her car and lent her my phone to inform Donna of her condition and whereabouts. She is on her way back to Sioux Falls and should arrive there within the next two to three hours,” Cas delivers the information quickly and succinctly. “Now, I really have to get back to-
“Wait, Cas!”
Cas obeys, leaving the phone pressed to his ear.
“Thanks for, you know, coming so quickly because of the silent prayer thing or whatever it is. And for going to get Jody. She’s like a mom to us, you know. And I know Sam and I can be bad with gratitude and all, so uh, yeah. Really, thank you.”
“You are most welcome, Dean. I’m happy that I could help,” Cas tries to keep the tenderness out of his voice, but he can’t stop it any more than he can stop the flare of mint green within him.
Silence continues over the line so long that Cas pulls the phone away to check that Dean is still on the other side.
“Was there something else, Dean?” Cas asks hopefully, not really sure what he wants until Dean responds.“Well, I was gonna say, since you’re here and all, and now I won’t be able to get back to sleep, we could catch up on some of the movies on our list, but I’m guessing you’re a couple hundred miles away, right?”
Cas could tell Dean that he is exactly two hundred and eighty-six miles northeast of him and that his soul shines bright enough for Cas to see it from here like its some kind of northern star, a beacon beckoning him home.
But he doesn’t say any of that because that would make Dean uncomfortable and Dean already put up with too many of Cas’ idiosyncrasies and antics.
“Yes, I am in Iowa currently. I wish I could come and watch a movie Dean, really I do, but … I have to go.”I don’t trust myself around you. And I don’t trust your soul around me, at least not until I can poke around heaven and figure out why a soul would react like yours did, how it was able to split and plant itself in my grace, why it could affect my physical body or even how a soul could have manage that kind of interaction.

“Oh, yeah. No problem, Cas. And hey, um, don’t be a stranger, okay? We’d love to have you pop in from time to time. I- We miss you around here, buddy.”
“I promise I will stop by soon. Goodbye, Dean,” Cas means the promise, and he’s unsure if the warmth blooming in him is from his own grace reacting to the knowledge that Dean misses him, and not just that his soul mises Cas’ grace, or if Dean’s soul within him is transmitting some joy that Dean feels at the promise.
“See you soon, Cas,” Dean corrects.