Chapter Text
Dean had always been a physical creature. This, Castiel understood.
Dean would rest his hand on Castiel's shoulder and sometimes press a hand against his chest to keep him back or to draw him away from something. When he was angry or displeased, Dean would hold Castiel's arms in a grip that would have been painful to a human. At times when Castiel least expected it, Dean would tap his fingers against the back of Castiel's hand to gain his attention, or pat his back gently so that Castiel could feel cotton and the impression of a hand on his borrowed skin.
Sam never said anything, or even blinked, when Dean did any of these things, so Castiel concluded it must be normal human behaviour. Or at least, normal Dean behaviour. Even if Dean didn’t touch his brother, or Bobby, or anyone else he had ever met with the same frequency.
Sometimes, Castiel watched Dean's dreams. He told himself he was guarding against outside influence; keeping Dean safe from Zachariah, from Michael, and from Lucifer. He told himself he was preventing the discovery of their location, or their information, or their strategy. But often Castiel found himself staying the whole night through, marvelling at the unconscious minds of humans.
Of Dean.
There was safety there too, in the known and familiar soul of Dean Winchester. Somewhere to hide from his brothers, somewhere he could rest without the constant fear of discovery. Castiel realised he felt welcomed there, but that feeling would pass quickly, leaving Castiel uncomfortable because he didn't know if he really was. He had never asked Dean, and he knew how much Dean valued the privacy of his mind. Knowing this made Castiel feel worse, and he thought it was shame.
He should tell Dean, ask for permission, but Castiel was afraid that Dean would say no. If he did then Castiel would never be able to return. Never again be able to see the shifting stories and landscapes and colours of Dean’s dreams. So he held his silence, and hid in the far corners of Dean's dreams, and told himself that it was all to protect Dean, ignoring the part of him that called it selfishness.
Dean was loud, even in his own head, and Castiel could avoid very little of Dean's imagination.
In his dreams, Dean was a demon and an angel and a child and an old man, and sometimes a woman and a father and a truck driver and a dinosaur. Castiel liked the dinosaur dream very much.
And sometimes, Dean would make love in his dreams, even as he no longer did in the waking world. Castiel knew that Sam worried about this, as though something which had for a long time been a defining part of his brother was changed. Unfamiliar.
Sam told Castiel, exasperated, "Dean used to love sex," and he admitted, "I don't know what to do."
He didn't ask Castiel for help, for which Castiel was thankful. Castiel understood so very little about this aspect of humanity that he was sure he could be of very little assistance in this matter. But Sam seemed relieved just to have spoken his frustration out loud so Castiel nodded and said, "Dean is strong, and he is still Dean. He will be fine." Castiel was confident that this was the truth.
Sam didn't look entirely convinced, but his agitation was eased and he muttered an agreement.
And Castiel watched Dean in his dreams.
Sometimes it was a woman, and sometimes it was a man, and once there had been Alistair in the fires of Hell and Dean's eyes had been full of fear, so Castiel had put a stop to that dream and given Dean a candy shop from a childhood memory instead.
Castiel learned many things.
He learned that Dean liked to be touched everywhere, but especially along the back of his shoulders and down his sides. Dean was ticklish on the soles of his feet.
Dean liked to look into the faces of those he made love to as he came to orgasm, but he did not like to be on his knees.
Once, Dean and a lithe blond woman he had seen at a diner earlier that day made love against the diner's counter while plates and cups rattled on its surface. It was bright, daytime, and Castiel was glad Dean had not imagined any other customers.
Twice, Dean made love to Anna on the backseat of the Impala, and Castiel found that he had to look away. It was a relief when Castiel returned the next night to find Dean dreaming of him, instead. They were standing by the lake Castiel had once crafted for Dean, the air fresh and warm, and Dean was looking at the Castiel in Dean's dream, and the Castiel in Dean's dream was looking at Dean. There was no wind, and no sound, and the colours were bright and alive.
They stood like that for a long time until Dean asked, "Are you really here?"
The Castiel in Dean's dream replied, "No."
And Dean said, "Oh," and the air became a little cooler.
Castiel thought and thought about the dream-him, and about the growing unease he felt about hiding in Dean's mind until it distracted him so much that Sam noticed something was wrong.
Frowning over the pile of books they had been working through all afternoon, Sam asked, "What's wrong, Cas?"
Castiel's first instinct was to dismiss the matter as nothing, as trivial, but Sam knew Dean better than anyone and this was perhaps an opportunity that Castiel should not miss.
"What do you imagine," Castiel began, choosing his words carefully, "Dean would think of my presence in his dreams?"
Sam looked confused. "You, like, this you in his dreams? Not a dream you? Like you did before?"
"Yes," Castiel affirmed.
"Why would you want to?" Sam asked, then suddenly his expression turned nervous and anxious. "Is Dean dreaming of Hell again? Is something wrong?"
Castiel shook his head. "No, Sam. No, Dean is well. I was curious what he thought of my presence there." It was almost a lie. Almost.
Sam studied Castiel for a long moment, as though he knew there was more to this than Castiel was saying. "You know how Dean is about, y'know, people looking in his head." He gives Castiel a dubious look. "But, maybe if there's a good reason and… it's someone he knows," Sam shrugged. "Maybe he could live with it."
Sam laid his hand lightly on Castiel's arm and Castiel wondered why it felt different -less intimate- than when Dean did the same thing.
"Cas," Sam said seriously, and he had his full attention on Castiel as though he was searching his face for something. "What's this about? Has something happened?"
"No," Castiel assured him. "No, it’s nothing."
He felt he had his answer.
Castiel pulled away from Sam, turning back to the books and trying to concentrate on the lines of Latin in front of him. He could sense Sam watching him for some long minutes, but he said nothing, and soon enough he returned to his own study.
Castiel did not watch Dean's dreams.
Over the long days that had once seemed so short and fleeting, Castiel grew tired.
More than ever it seemed as though everyday brought more of his brothers at his heels, and everyday he ran faster and further and could go to Sam and Dean less and less for fear of revealing them to the host.
Dean called after a week demanding to know where the fuck Castiel was and what the hell he was doing that he couldn't respond to Sam's three million texts and didn't Castiel know that Sam was shitting kittens worrying that his feathery ass had been captured or skewered. Dean called Castiel a bastard and sort of a friend and shouted at him for a long time before allowing Castiel to speak.
"The other angels are close," Castiel tried to explain. "I will not bring them to you."
"There's gotta be a way we can hide you too," Dean insisted. Castiel paused, unsure what he should say. There was a way, but he was still unsure if he should ask it of Dean.
Dean seemed to take the pause as affirmation because he said, "There is."
"Perhaps," Castiel replied, noncommittally. "I must go," he added before hanging up.
The next time he called, Dean yelled at Castiel for even longer and called him even more unkind names. Castiel was so exhausted and so alone he enjoyed every word of it and smiled when Dean said, "Cas, you better be fucking listening to me," and "I'll find a way to summon your angelic ass if I have to," and finally, "Are you okay?"
"I am well," Castiel lied. Actually lied.
"Yeah, right," Dean snorted. "You sound it. Just… come on, man. We'll think of something. Sam said you asked about dreams."
Castiel shouldn’t have been surprised. Sam was perceptive and clever, and Sam had sworn there would be no more secrets between himself and his brother. But it was the concern, and the insistence in Dean's voice that made Castiel wonder when the Winchesters had started caring what happened to Castiel.
It made him less weary, lighter somehow. It made him long to be with the Winchesters.
"You would not like it," Castiel told Dean.
"What? You hanging out in my dreams? I can think of a lot of things I don't like more than that, Cas."
Castiel shook his head, forgetting that Dean couldn't see him. He really didn't like speaking on the telephone.
"Even so."
"Seriously, Cas," Dean said. "How bad can it be?” He laughed. “So Sam was right? You actually can hide out in my dreams or something?"
"Yes." Castiel itched to move on, acutely aware of how long he’d been in one place and how easy he would be found like this.
On the other end of the phone line, Dean laughed again. "Okay, I was joking, but whatever."
"You know I can see your dreams, Dean."
"Yeah," Dean agreed. "It's nothing you haven't done before."
"You don't understand," Castiel pressed. "I have watched your dreams before, many times, and I did not ask. It is difficult to-"
"You never gave a crap before," Dean cut in.
Castiel knew that this was true, but things had changed. That was before Castiel had spent so much time among humans. With Dean and Sam. Before he’d known what it was like to listen to Dean's long complaints about intrusive bastard angels and privacy and Castiel being creepy.
"I didn't know any better." Castiel still didn't really understand, but it seemed important to Dean, so Castiel accepted the idea of privacy as a facet of humanity he had yet to learn.
Dean was silent for a long moment. Castiel knew he had remained in one place for too long when he felt faint shifts in the air around him, signalling the approach of one of his brothers.
"I must go, Dean," Castiel said, even though he found himself loathe to sever the connection. Dean and Sam were, after all, the only beings Castiel spoke to with any frequency and the silence and isolation Castiel now found himself in he was not used to at all.
On the other end of the line Dean said, "Right," then after a pause, "I don't mind. Much. If it'll keep you alive I'd have to be an asshole not to let you, you know, hang out in my brain or whatever. Just… remember that I don't actually get a lot of choice about what goes on up there."
"I have never seen anything which makes me think any less of you, Dean," Castiel assured him. The human subconscious was a strange place, but Castiel had seen Dean in Hell and not been horrified at what he had found there. It was unlikely anything Dean could create in his imagination would be worse than what Castiel had seen in his long life. Than what Castiel had seen in Hell. And in Heaven.
"Err." Dean sounded confused, perhaps embarrassed. "Okay. Great. Don't get slaughtered out there."
"I will do my best," and Castiel hung up.
He flew.
He didn't go to Dean that day, or the next, and Castiel hadn't planned to go to him the day after that either, but then Sam sent a text message which read, "Get here now or Dean is going to cry."
Castiel was fairly sure Dean would not actually cry, but the sentiment was understood.
That night, Castiel took himself to Dean and slipped easily, familiarly, into his dreams.
In his dreams Dean was sleeping, and Castiel watched and did not think and rested sitting in an old, tatty chair in a motel in Dean's mind.
Again, the next day, Castiel received a message from Sam.
"Dean cried. You should've seen it."
Castiel laughed and wrote back, "I doubt he did. I visited."
That evening Dean sent the message, "Sneaky. Didn't notice at all."
"You were asleep," Castiel replied sensibly.
The night after that Dean dreamed of three tall, crystal glasses filled with what looked like water. He watched as Dean took a slow, careful sip from each.
"You were there last night, right?" Dean texted the following morning, and Castiel replied, "Yes."
The next night Dean dreamed he was running and running through a cold, damp forest. The sun was so bright it was blinding, and there was a silence so complete that Castiel could not even hear the sound of Dean's footfalls or his breathing as he raced over decaying, fallen trees and vivid, green undergrowth.
As Castiel moved on, and on again, crossing the Earth's surface and back again in the days that followed he would often find himself thinking about the dream, and how so deeply it resembled what Castiel's life had become.
Dean texted, "Are you ever going to come and see us when I'm awake?"
Castiel replied quickly, "Not for the time being,". His brothers were so close that Castiel could feel their grace and their love.
It was three days and three nights before Castiel felt he could safely rest with Dean again, and that night Dean was waiting for him.
There was the lake again, and the pier.
The sky was a deep metallic grey and the colours of the lake and the trees looked dimmed and washed-out. Dean wasn’t fishing, but standing with his shoulders hunched and his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jeans like he was cold. He was staring out at the water.
He must have heard Castiel's approach because he said, head still bowed, "I never know if it's really you or not."
"Does it matter?" Castiel asked in reply, coming to stand beside Dean. He watched the grey clouds as they moved, slowly, across the sky.
"Yeah," Dean snorted. He sounded amused to Castiel. "I need to know if I should be embarrassed when I wake up."
"I told you, Dean. I have never-"
"I know, Cas," Dean interrupted. "You don't care what I dream. I'd still kind of like to know what you see."
Castiel wasn't sure how to reply to that, knowing that Dean only remembered a fraction of what went on in his head as he slept. Thinking it was something safe, something obvious, he told Dean, "You have sex very often."
Dean laughed openly at the comment, loud and sincere. "You saw that, huh?" Dean smiled, turning his head to look at Castiel.
"It was difficult to miss."
Dean smiled even more widely, before saying, "At least dream-me is getting laid."
Castiel really had nothing to say to that, so he just watched as Dean's expression turned more thoughtful, but there was still amusement in his eyes. "You should try it sometime."
"I don't sleep."
And then Dean grinned in a way which Castiel thought looked devious. "I wasn't talking about dreaming."
Dean's words and his smile stayed with Castiel as he crossed the Atlantic. It was just how Dean was with everyone, he told himself. There was so much affection in Dean and even if Castiel could no longer sense it so easily, he could see it in the way he teased his brother and the way he listened to Bobby and the way he harassed Castiel with pointless text messages.
When Castiel returned to Dean, nights later, he was dreaming of Hell. With his strength so faded, it was difficult to reshape Dean's dreams, but Castiel could not leave Dean to the torture of his own memories, so he took the red blood and the flames and mixed it with the yellow of sulphur to form an orange sky, as deep and clear as sunset. He took the black of demon eyes and the metal of knives and chains and made a bench and a playground. The pale blue of torn jackets and jeans mixed with the yellow hues of rock to make a carpet of green grass. It was the best Castiel could do. He put Dean on the bench beside him and then sat and rested, waiting for Dean to return to being Dean again.
Castiel created a soft, cool breeze, and the sounds of birds and distant cars, and listened as Dean breathed until finally, he opened his eyes. They were green again.
"I take it this is you," he said, voice quiet and hoarse.
"Yes," Castiel replied.
After another long moment Dean slumped back against the bench, tipping his head to look up at Castiel's rust-coloured sky, relaxing into himself and into the changed environment, letting Hell fall away. He said, "Thanks."
Castiel visited again the next night, afraid that Dean would again dream of Hell, but he found Dean driving his car along an empty road. On either side of the car, fields and fields passed in an obscured blur. It was perhaps mid-afternoon, Castiel felt the weight of his coat and the closeness of his shirt against his skin. It was a strange sensation that Castiel recognised as the heat. He wondered at how his mind knew to create this illusion within himself.
Castiel sat in the passenger’s seat, listening to the leather creak as he shifted in discomfort, fascinated by the sound.
"You could take the coat off," Dean suggested. He seemed at peace, and Castiel was glad for it.
"I could," Castiel agreed, but he wanted to feel the way the heat made him sweat, and how it ran down his back and the backs of his knees, tickling his skin.
It was quiet, Castiel noticed with a start.
"You have no music on?"
Dean looked down at the radio thoughtfully, then turned his gaze back to the road, shrugging.
"You should come see us," Dean said. "When we're awake. Sam's starting to think you don't like him."
Castiel shook his head. His face felt warm, prickling, particularly the skin over his cheeks. "That's not it, Dean-"
"I know, I know, Cas. Angels on your tail." Dean glanced at Castiel for a moment before looking back to the empty sky and the empty highway and the empty, formless world around them. "You should check in with us sometime anyway. So I know for sure I'm not just dreaming you're here. So I remember dreaming you're here."
Castiel could have argued, that he had about as much control as Dean did, now, over what he remembered. But Dean seemed relaxed, almost content, and the atmosphere was welcoming and comfortable and Castiel had not felt any of those things in what seemed like a very long time.
Instead, he told Dean, "I like this dream," and watched as Dean smiled and drove.
It was selfish and it was ill conceived, but Castiel remained with Dean all night, and was still there when Dean woke up in the morning.
Dean raised a hand in greeting. "Hey Cas. Couldn't stay away, huh?"
"You asked me to visit," Castiel pointed out. Sam stirred in the bed beside Dean's, sitting up on his elbows and turning to face them, mussed and buried in sheets and still half-asleep."
"Did you say Cas?" he asked. "Cas is here?"
"I am, Sam," Castiel said. Dean was pushing back the covers, swinging his legs off the side of the bed and onto the floor.
"'Morning Cas." Sam looked at the watch on his wrist before flopping back down onto his bed. "You couldn't have come by at a reasonable hour?"
"That is Dean's doing," Castiel explained. "He woke up."
Dean scoffed, pushing himself to his feet. "That's right. Blame me." He pulled off his t-shirt and threw it into Sam's face, in response to which Sam flailed and sputtered and cursed Dean in some very creative ways.
Castiel wondered at how different the physical presence of Dean, how the bone and muscle of his body moved and shifted so differently in the waking world than in Dean's dreams, as though Dean saw himself as somehow less. Somehow older and more weary.
Dean clapped a hand on Castiel's shoulder as he walked past. "I'm showering. You," he pointed at Cas with a finger inches from his nose. "Stay put."
Castiel should have argued that he had no choice, that it was dangerous to remain, but Dean added, "And don't even think about arguing with me," before letting go of Castiel and making his way to the bathroom.
Castiel knew he didn’t have to follow orders anymore, even Dean's, but still Castiel found himself wanting to. So he stayed for breakfast, and Dean and Sam arguing over things that Castiel neither understood nor cared to. He stayed with them in the Impala for some time, as they drove along roads that were neither empty nor straight. There was sound; Dean's music and Sam talking and asking questions, and it wasn't hot in the car so much as it was mildly warm. Castiel concentrated on the feeling, wondering if he could get used to the discomfort and the strange lethargy the heat brought with it. Wondering if one day he would have to. The backseat of the car creaked like the front, Castiel found, and he moved sometimes just to hear it.
At the first sign of his brothers' proximity he left, and Dean texted him shortly afterwards with, "You could at least say goodbye."
The next dream Castiel saw was bizarre in the extreme, even for Dean. It was all colour and movement and Castiel found himself imagined as a yellow blob on a background of grey. He moved across the surface of the dream and could not find Dean anywhere. Castiel understood, to a certain extent, the idea of abstraction. He was himself, in essence, an abstract creature. But the dream of muted colours was unsettling in its incoherency and its bleakness.
After that, there was a childhood memory of watching television with Sam, and a dream of a feast of sumptuously arranged food that sat rotting on silver and gold dishes as Dean watched.
One night, Castiel was resting in a comfortable armchair he’d found in a dream of a large department store when Dean came walking past, completely naked. He stopped in front of Castiel and sighed heavily, wrapping his arms around his chest.
"I don't normally have dreams like this," he said.
"I... didn't think you did," Castiel replied uncertainly.
Indistinguishable characters stood around, pointing at Dean and laughing, and Dean turned his head towards them, away from Castiel, frowning and looking miserable. "They're pretty common. Naked dreams. I forgot to put clothes on this morning."
Castiel had no knowledge about the frequency of types of human dreams, but he nodded in agreement anyway. Dean shivered, prompting Castiel to stand up and begin stripping off his coat.
At the movement, Dean’s head snapped back towards Castiel, looking him up and down warily. "What are you doing?"
"You are cold," Castiel explained. He stepped closer to Dean, who watched Castiel closely but didn’t move as he slung the coat around Dean's bare shoulders.
Dean frowned, but pulled the coat around himself more tightly. He grinned suddenly. "Sure you weren't just embarrassed by all the manly flesh on display?"
"No," Castiel told him. Clothes or skin made very little difference to him.
"Right." Dean rolled his eyes. "Thanks."
And Castiel wasn't sure why he did it, but just before Dean awoke he found himself leaving his coat draped over Dean's sleeping body in the physical world. Moments later, as Dean became fully aware, Castiel departed to the sounds of Dean's surprised laughter.
Days passed, and Castiel saw that less and less of his time was spent searching for his Father, and that every day more and more effort was being spent on running and hiding from his brothers. It was disheartening, and exhausting, and above everything else frustrating.
"I was thinking," Dean said, languishing in bed and covered with a thick, flower-patterned blanket, asleep and ill and dying. "Do you have dreams?"
"I don't sleep." Castiel had told Dean this many times, and wondered if there was some reason for the repeated questioning. He did not imagine Dean, even Dean asleep, to be so forgetful. "So I can’t dream."
"That sucks," Dean sniffed. His hands shook where they lay on top of the bedspread, wrinkled and fragile. Sitting down carefully on the mattress beside Dean, Castiel watched as he coughed, wet and painful-sounding. He considered Dean's grey hair and his withered body and his wry smile.
"You are enjoying this dream?" Castiel asked.
"Hell, yeah," Dean replied. "Never thought I’d get to grow old." Dean frowned, forming deep lines on his forehead. "Except for that one time. But that doesn't count."
"You aren't old in reality, Dean," Castiel pointed out. Dean rolled his eyes and ignored Castiel's argument.
"I still have your coat," he said instead. "If you don't come visit I'll burn it."
Castiel found himself surprised, and amused. "You are trying to bribe me with my clothing?"
"Yeah." Dean grinned and the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled. "I'll do it. I'll burn it to ashes."
There really was no arguing with that so Castiel said, "All right."
Dean called him a pushover and laughed, and Castiel couldn’t help but smile.
"Good as new," Dean announced, handing the trench coat back to Castiel in the waking world.
In thanks for taking care of his coat, Castiel stayed to help Sam research portents that day, and allowed himself to be led to dinner when Dean decreed it.
That night, he went into Dean's dreams content and comfortable, until he saw what Dean was dreaming of.
It had been some time since Dean had dreamt of sex.
When Castiel first fitted himself into Dean's mind he wasn’t sure what to do. He thought to leave, but it had been some days since Castiel had rested and he was so tired. He could keep himself hidden as he had in the past, but now that felt distasteful, like Castiel would be betraying Dean's trust. That only left revealing himself.
It occurred to Castiel then to wonder at why, this time, unlike any other, he felt so conflicted and unsure.
There was a long hallway in Dean's dream. At one end there was a steep, wooden staircase and at the other a door, half-opened that led to what looked like a bedroom.
Dean had a woman Castiel did not recognise pressed against the hallway wall. She was slim, with dark, tightly curled hair falling around her shoulders. Laughing softly into her mouth, Dean ran his hands up along the length of her thighs to her waist, pushing her top up and then off, revealing soft, flawless skin. The woman smiled back at Dean, fumbling with the buckle of his belt and then the buttons of his jeans.
Castiel had learned much about discretion in his time on Earth, from Sam at least, so he placed himself at the very bottom of the staircase leading up to the hallway. He made his way slowly up the steps, placing his weight heavily, carefully, so that the stairs creaked as much as possible.
He heard Dean laugh and say, "I bet that's Cas." Then, a second later he called, "Cas! I know you're there. You can stop hiding!"
Castiel was not hiding.
He took the last steps quickly to find Dean standing beside the stranger, watching him. His shirt lay abandoned on the polished floor halfway between Dean and Castiel. The woman had her hands on Dean's bare shoulders, massaging at the muscles in a way that Castiel had seen Dean enjoyed.
"I was being discreet," Castiel said.
Dean huffed a laugh. "Not very discreet, Cas." Behind Dean, the woman slid her hands around Dean's waist, pressing her lips to the back of his neck. Dean squirmed.
"I apologise for... interrupting." Perhaps, Castiel considered, it would have been easier to leave after all. Dean didn't look embarrassed exactly, but he pushed the woman's hands gently away and took a step towards Castiel.
"It's cool," he shrugged.
"I can return another night," Castiel suggested, but Dean shook his head.
"No, man. I'm not dick enough to throw you out if you need to rest or whatever."
"I will be fine," Castiel insisted, though he wasn't sure why exactly he was pressing this argument. It was, Castiel decided, as though he wanted to be sure Dean wanted him there.
"We haven't seen you in days so just shut up and stay." Dean stalked close and took Castiel by the arm, leading him away from the staircase and towards the open door at the end of the hall. The woman had disappeared, but Dean was still not wearing his shirt.
Castiel stayed, sitting on a bed covered with white, pristine sheets, in a sunny room overlooking a quiet, tree-lined street that only existed in Dean's imagination.
It was a restful night, and Castiel was sad to leave.
He was so full of doubt, these days. But he still had faith in his mission, and so he continued on with his search.
With every day that passed Castiel knew he was slowing and growing weaker. He became tired from doing things that once had been as simple as existing. He ached, sometimes, joints and muscles that were not his burned, craving rest. Every time he flew Castiel was sure this time his wings would snap they felt so fragile. He would fall to the Earth and his brothers would destroy him and Dean and Sam would never even know it.
Castiel came to land somewhere he didn't recognise, and the not knowing made Castiel feel disoriented and perhaps a little afraid. If he couldn't tell where he was, how would he find the Winchesters again?
It was dusk in the desert he'd come to, and Castiel could feel the sand like a thousand pins against his exposed skin. The heat was not comfortable, wasn't a novelty, but a weight, confining in the way his clothes hung from him.
Castiel walked, his feet slipping in the sand, and searched. His feet became sore in his rigid shoes, his eyes stinging from the glare of the sun.
Castiel found himself contemplating maps and, if he could find another being in the bleak wilderness, asking for directions. It was then Castiel realised that it would be pointless, because he had no destination. Suddenly, in that empty place, it seemed important to speak to Dean.
Dean didn't answer his phone, so Castiel supposed they were hunting or asleep. It was not unusual for Dean not to pick up, so Castiel left a short message requesting them to call him back. He turned his mind instead to discerning any divine presence, and was not surprised when there was none. He turned towards the afternoon sun and watched its path across the sky until its light was fading from the world.
It had been a while, Castiel thought, since he had stopped to think. It was, he thought, better that way. He had no time, usually, to think of what had he'd once been, or what he was doing, or how he had very little left other than a life of running from his own brothers. He did not want to fight them, and he certainly didn't want to kill them, but there was still the apocalypse to consider, and Castiel did not want all he had lost and all he had given and all he had done to be for nothing.
He should move on, he knew. But the sun was almost gone, the sky fallen to blue and black, and with it the temperature turned to something more comfortable. Castiel didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay, in the quiet and the peace, away from humans and angels and demons and just be, for a while at least.
As the last of the light disappeared, his phone rang.
"What's up?" Dean asked.
"I would like to rest with you, tonight," Castiel replied.
He heard Dean laugh, sounding tinny and far away over the telephone line. "Cas, you wanna make that sound less gay next time?"
"I have no idea what you mean."
Sometimes, it made Castiel feel frustrated, tired, whenever the brothers laughed at something he said, or referred to something he didn't recognise.
Dean must have heard something of his exasperation in his voice because he said, "It's nothing, man. Motel 8, Coatesville..."
That was still all Castiel needed, he was relieved to find, so he cut Dean off with a, "Thank you," before closing his phone.
Taking one last deep breath of the still-warm desert air, Castiel thought to come back to that place again.
He spread his wings, concentrated on his destination, and it was only then, just as it was almost much too late that he felt them; the presence of other angels bearing down on him. With as much speed as he could muster, with all his strength, Castiel ran, changing direction, changing direction again, and hurtling recklessly and randomly over and under and upon the Earth.
The angels followed, two falling away only to reappear a split-second later in his path. Three fell away, appeared in his path and to the north and Castiel realised then that they were herding him.
Castiel tried to dive low, his wings bent to breaking point from the strain and the speed of the fall. It hurt but Castiel pushed on, changing direction at random and evading his brothers' attempts to forestall him and direct him. There were many of them, though, maybe seven or eight, Castiel estimated, and they were strong from Heaven and not worn down as he was. They fought with the conviction that Castiel was a traitor, blasphemous; an abomination. Castiel could not bring himself to fault them.
They drove him to Earth three times, and each time they were waiting for him with swords drawn. Castiel had no time to defend himself so he did the best he could to avoid the sharp knives, to run faster. They caught his arm, the backs of his legs, and his shoulders, and the cuts bled heavily and stung but Castiel let them. He knew they were going for his wings, hoping to cripple him, so it was better the human flesh than that.
The fourth time they drove Castiel to land there was fire.
He smelled it with his human senses before he could even see it, masked by wards, and if Castiel had had the time he would have laughed that something so very simple as smell could save him from angels. They were trying to trap him.
It took everything he had left to avoid the circle, veering dangerously away from the fire at the last minute as he came to a stop. Without the warning, he would have landed almost in the very centre of the ring of oil, but instead he landed just to its left. The oil erupted in flame and heat and Castiel knew instantly he hadn't gone far enough because he felt the fire burning his wing. He pulled away abruptly and saw that the flames were reaching out to him, licking at his human arm and his side and he could smell burning feathers and flesh.
At first, he couldn't feel anything. It was like all his nerve endings had been burned away, and all he felt was cold fear and a sickness in his stomach. Pain crept up on him like poison, burning at his veins and making him feel light-headed, disoriented. Castiel felt himself crying out in his true voice, for the first time in a very long time, and his own human ears ached with the sound of it. The pain turned to agony, spread quickly across his skin and his grace, and it was so hard to think. But he could see his brothers approaching and he had to get away from the flames before they had the chance to overwhelm him completely, so Castiel shoved everything else aside but the thought to fly.
His brothers followed; Castiel could feel their anger and their blades at his back. It was clear they hadn't expected him to escape their trap, their pursuit instead unorganised and reactive. Even so, Castiel had little hope of out-running them. He was worn and his joints ached and his side burned like it was still alight with the holy fire. Castiel had been on the run from angels for some time, though, and had conceived of a day when he would be so weakened that his brothers could easily catch him. He had hoped it would never come to this, but it was the only possible escape Castiel had left, so he sped up, gaining altitude, before diving suddenly in what was more or less a controlled fall. He didn't stop when he hit the cold surface of the Atlantic, kept going as the water grew dark and heavy. Castiel passed the upper seabed, pushing further and deeper into the deepest trench he had been able to find. Some time ago he'd warded its edges and its caves and its sands and he could feel their presence now, shifting but strong.
It took a long time to reach the bottom.