thursdays_angel | (no subject)

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The room is small and fairly plain. But it is comfortable, as humans judge such things. Castiel had asked Bar for “quiet” and this room somehow manages to exude it.

The view from the window is not terribly different from the view from his own. Which, Castiel reflects, it wouldn’t be. His own room is right next door. He has been standing at the window, appreciating the sight, for some time. It is good to see something other than Hell.

And he is still waiting for his charge to wake up.

Dean is laid out on the bed, dirt and smoke against clean muslin. He hasn’t stirred yet, but they have time here. And when he wakes, Castiel will explain what has passed, and then they can move forward in their respective missions.

They both have work to do.

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Safe.

The only way Dean'd be safe is if he had his knives.

His tools.

His --

No.

"Lilith. Alistair. Where are they? They're gonna have my balls for breakfast and lunch, and -- "

He can't go through that again. He can't. Not --

Not like this.

Not when it hurts.

Though Dean is speaking, Castiel would not swear that the man is even aware that he is there. Still, he answers.

"They are not here."

"They are in Hell."

"You are not."

He's not in Hell.

He's not in Hell.

It's that thought that makes Dean sit up whipcrack fast, grabbing Castiel and yanking him down, eyes wide and panicked and unseeing.

"You take me back there right now, you hear? You've gotta get me back. You have to -- "

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

It's a voice he's heard before.

It's a voice he's knows better than to interrupt.

And it's low and soft and close to his ear.

"It's okay, baby. You've run away, which is naughty, Dean, but don't you worry. I'll find you. I'll have you back with me soon. Where you belong.

"I will always find you."

Find him. Find him.

Where he belongs.

It's the sick warmth creeping through him at that that makes Dean whimper, letting go of Castiel and falling back. He half expects to keep falling, endless weightless moments that end with him smashing and reassembling on the floor of Hell.

He's been there before.

The relief only makes him feel sicker.

(If he could just see her -- )

Castiel had not reacted to being grabbed. Except to look at Dean as if he might be a bit addled. (Which, given where he has been, is a distinct possibility.)

When Dean abruptly lets him go and falls back with a distressed sound, Castiel leans back only slightly. He is busy examining Dean for some sign, some indication of what tack he might take to reach him.

Castiel has gotten better at assessing and responding to human feelings. But it is still not what one would call one of his strengths.

"I will not take you back. Can not," he says.

"You are needed elsewhere."

"Do you understand me, Dean?"

Dean has already curled up again, eyes clenched shut.

He's here now, but soon he won't be.

She's coming for him.

All he has to (can) do is wait.

All those people --

It's only what he deserves.

Castiel can heal flesh. (Not so well in Milliways, but still.)

This sort of damage? This he is not sure how to heal.

All he knows is, it must be healed. Dean has work awaiting him on Earth.

"Dean." He tries again, resting a hand on one curled shoulder.

"God has not forsaken you. Have faith. You will not have to go back."

The hand on his shoulder doesn't hurt. Not even a little. A guy could get used to that, except --

"Don't you touch me!"

He uncurls faster than should be humanly possible, striking out with fists and elbows, untutored and blind.

He has to --

He has --

Dean doesn't even realize his teeth are bared.

The rain of blows does not affect Castiel so much as the snarl of emotions that seems to be driving them.

Castiel does not even know where to begin going about untangling it.

And he is worried that Dean is going to do damage to himself in this state.

So it is for his benefit rather than his own that Castiel reaches past the flailing fists and rests two fingers against Dean's forehead.

Willing him to sleep.

Dean drops like a stone.

Hell is waiting.

Castiel deposits Dean back on the bed, and looks down at him for several moments, considering.

This is uncharted territory, and Castiel is beginning to doubt his ability to find his way alone. He is not sure he has the capability to help Dean by himself.

In fact, it may be hubris to think that he could.

Castiel needs help. He knows he has help for the asking.

And Dean is not going to come around again for a while.

Castiel leaves the room, locking the door behind him.

Does the little angel really think he's locking anything out?

Does the little angel have any idea what he's locking in?

Because, yes, hell is waiting, behind the door, and around the corner, just inside the lids of Dean's eyes, and deep in his head.

Where a voice is singing.

Hush, little baby, don't say a word,
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird . . .

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