Chapter Text
Castiel curled into Dean’s side in a dark motel room, and Castiel stood in the shadows, in a warehouse, fingers twitching around his angel blade.
He looked out from behind a staircase, vision separated into rectangles by the risers. Dean walked fifty feet beyond them, his silhouette identifiable by the bow of his legs, the cautious way he stalked forward with a gun in hand.
Kill him, Castiel.
His sister's order was straightforward. His instinct was to ignore it; it wasn't right—Dean was sleeping in a motel room outside Oklahoma City; Dean wasn't here; there was no reason for Castiel to harm him—but Castiel advanced because the order said he must.
“Cas!” Dean cried when Castiel raised his fist.
Dean shifted in his sleep, nosing Castiel's neck and murmuring sounds that weren't words. Castiel gathered him closer and inhaled the scent of home.
He swung his arm and heard Dean's nose crack, saw red and didn't blink.
“Cas, Cas, no—” Dean cried as Castiel continued to hit him. Dean stumbled and fell to the hard concrete. Castiel loomed over him and felt nothing as he drove the blade home.
He jerked upright in bed, gasping for breath, and craned his neck to look down at Dean's face. It was concealed by the pillow, but Castiel lowered his mouth and shakily kissed the corner of Dean's lips and his cheek and his ear, kissed him until Dean stirred and turned his face enough to kiss back.
Tears pricked at Castiel's eyes as Dean held him.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Castiel, and he moaned when Dean gently bit his neck, then soothed it with his tongue.
When he whispered into Castiel's ear, “Don't wake Sammy,” there was laughter in it, and Naomi spoke again:
Kill him, Castiel.
Dean lay heavily on top of him. Castiel memorized the slow grind of his hips, the changes in his breathing, and Castiel looked out from behind a staircase as Dean kissed his mouth open. He wouldn't hurt Dean. He wouldn't hurt Dean.
Kill him, Castiel.
He began to shake. He could not disobey an order, but he could not follow it. He tightened his grip on the blade in the shadows, wrapped his arms around Dean and held him desperately under the sheets before flapping away.
+
He waited until daylight, standing invisible at the end of Dean's bed, watching. Dean couldn't see or sense him. He slept on his back with both arms under the dingy sheet, mouth just parted, breathing noisily. His hair was flattened and stuck to the side of his face. In the next bed, Sam snored into a pillow.
Castiel didn't trust himself. His memories conflicted. He had no memory of leaving Purgatory, but there was a room, a white room, and echoes of pain. But he wouldn't hurt Dean. He would kill himself first.
The brothers woke and dressed. Castiel read disappointment on Dean's face as he surveyed the empty half of the bed, but the voice giving orders had gone silent for now.
He materialized in a diner two miles down the road. Sam was picking at his eggs. Dean drummed his fingers lazily on the white table and spun the bowl of creamer cups around and around. The diner was small, just ten tables and a counter. It had vibrant red walls, red like Dean's blood. The bowls and plates were rimmed with black and white checkers. The floor was gray like the warehouse's concrete floor and needed to be swept.
“I'll get the check,” Sam announced and got up, indicating his seat. Castiel dropped into it unhappily.
“Hello,” he said. Dean didn't look up from his plate.
“What the hell happened this morning?” he asked.
“I was summoned to Heaven.”
“In the middle of—” Dean rubbed a hand over his face. “Cas, I'm having a hard time believing anything that comes out of your frigging mouth.” He looked out the diner window.
They were quiet for several seconds. Castiel shifted uncomfortably and twisted his hands together on his lap. His eyes swept over the counter, to a familiar-style glass case. “Would you like pie?” he offered hopefully.
“No, I don't want any fucking pie,” Dean snapped. “I want you to be honest with me, you dick.”
Castiel blinked, and Naomi leaned across the desk toward him.
“Tell him nothing, Castiel,” she directed. “You know nothing.”
Doubt pooled in him, poisoned him, and he could only shake his head sadly when he was once more face-to-face with Dean.
“I'm sorry.”
Dean pressed his lips together.
“Top secret stuff, huh?”
Castiel nodded once.
“Ready to hit the road?” Sam asked, reapproaching the table and shoving his wallet into his jacket pocket.
“Give us a minute,” Dean said and tossed him the keys.
“I'll start the car,” Sam sighed and went outside.
Through the open window, Castiel watched Sam unlock the Impala and climb into the driver's seat, heard the engine growl and turn over. Castiel felt compelled to speak.
“I’m sorry for leaving this morning,” he said. “I care for you. Your well-being is essential to my own.”
Dean sighed and pushed his plate to the center of the table. On it was one strip of bacon, a puddle of hot sauce, the remnants of scrambled eggs. Hesitantly, Castiel lifted the bacon between two fingers.
“An olive branch?” he asked.
“It's bacon,” Dean deadpanned, but there was a smile hidden in the corner of his mouth.
Castiel took a bite and chewed thoroughly. It tasted of molecules, and the molecules tasted of penance.
+
Castiel sat in the backseat of the Impala as it barreled into Oklahoma City, and Castiel stood in a warehouse.
He pored through thick, dusty books with Sam, who scratched notes onto a flimsy notepad with a cheap ballpoint pen he nicked from the motel last night, and Castiel stood in a warehouse.
He straightened his tie and flipped his FBI badge the way Dean taught him (“It's in the wrist”), confidently following Dean and Sam into the crime scene, and Castiel stood in a warehouse.
He kissed Dean against the side of a convenience store, next to a rusting vending machine, night air on his face, and Castiel stood in a warehouse.
Castiel stood in a warehouse and he raised his blade. He stabbed Dean through the heart as Dean kissed him, as Dean whispered against his lips, “You did good today.”
“You’re ready,” Naomi praised.
+
Castiel's vessel inhaled the sweet stench of mildew in the crypt and the sharp, iron tang of Dean's blood. His knuckles were wet with it.
Dean moved slowly, like he was encased in something heavy and thick, mouthing words Castiel could not hear. Through his vessel's eyes, he watched Dean cradle the tablet against his chest. Castiel swung his fist in response and didn't blink, intent on taking it.
Bring me the tablet.
“Cas,” Dean spoke, distantly.
He stumbled backwards and held out his hands to ward off another blow, but Castiel raised his arm. He struck Dean again, the force knocking Dean into the wall. He crumpled to the ground but scrambled to his feet, advancing.
“Cas, you don't have to do this,” he said no louder than a whisper.
“I—I won't hurt Dean,” Castiel stammered through a fog, hands firm against Naomi's desk. Her office, usually a blinding white, was tinged pink and purple like the sunset, like the bruises that rose on Dean's skin where Castiel hit him.
“Yes, you will,” she declared. “You are.”
Dean struck him, his motions growing quicker. Castiel snapped Dean's arm without thought and heard him cry out, softly, like an echo. But Dean continued to resist, shoving the tablet out of Castiel's reach.
“You want it?” he challenged, rising up on his knees, muted as if he spoke underwater. “You're gonna have to kill me.”
Bring me the tablet.
“Do it,” Dean snarled. Castiel heard him clearly now. “Come on, you fucking coward, do it!”
Castiel struck Dean's face with the handle of his blade and heard his nose break, hit him until Dean didn't struggle anymore.
“Please,” he begged Naomi, sick over what he had done, was doing, but she didn't relent. She repeated his orders.
“What have you done to me?” he shouted as he struck Dean again, and Dean cried out, “Who's Naomi? Cas, who's Naomi?”
“I fixed you,” Naomi told him. “I fixed you.”
“No,” Castiel said, wincing at phantom pain in his eye, the memory of Dean wrapped around him. Dean was a good man. Castiel loved him. He couldn't do this, but Naomi's orders were clear:
“End this, Castiel.”
Dean swayed before him on his knees, his face swollen and bruised. Dean's blood was on his hands and Castiel continued to hit him, even as Dean begged.
“Cas, this isn't you,” he choked. “This isn't you.”
“Bring me the tablet,” Naomi ordered.
A thousand corpses lay unmoving in a warehouse, and Castiel stood in a crypt. He raised his blade above Dean's head, lined up the point and prepared to strike. One blow is all it would take, delivered precisely to his chest, a mirror of Dean's greeting when they first met.
Kill him.
He tightened his hold and looked at Dean, at his broken face.
“Cas,” Dean pleaded. “I know you're in there. I know you can hear me.”
Dean's eyes were wet. Castiel blinked.
“You have to choose,” Naomi ordered.
“We're family,” Dean said. “I love you. I need you, Cas. Please.”
Castiel felt his vessel's hand relax, perceived the clatter of his blade as it hit the ground. The tablet called to him, resonating on the wavelength of his grace. He bent to retrieve it, the stone cool against his vessel's fingers. Light burst forth, illuminating the tablet's markings, and pierced the fog.
Naomi screamed his name, and then Castiel couldn't hear her anymore.
Dean crouched before him on the crypt floor, battered by Castiel's own hands. He flinched when Castiel reached for him, curled his fingers into Castiel's sleeve in a futile attempt to hold him off.
“Cas, no,” he moaned. “Cas—”
Dean was afraid of him. Dean was right to be afraid of him, but Castiel caressed his face and healed his wounds with a touch. He dropped to his knees to wait, whispering, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Dean,” as Dean gulped in air.
After a moment, he looked at Castiel, who stayed rooted in place.
“What the hell happened?” Dean asked, touching his own face, his once-broken wrist.
Castiel told him everything, about Naomi and the tablet and a white, white room.
“She's been controlling you this whole time? Since Purgatory?” Dean asked, the tension easing in his shoulders.
Castiel nodded.
“So that explains your vanishing acts, and all of this?”
“Yes,” Castiel admitted, standing up. He tucked the tablet beneath his arm and helped Dean to his feet, keeping a tight hold on his hand.
“What about now?” Dean asked. “She still got her hooks in you?”
“No,” Castiel promised, relieved when Dean collapsed against him, murmured into his neck, “What broke the connection?”
Castiel answered with his lips, kissing Dean with reverence, kissing him by choice. Naomi had demanded his decision, and he chose Dean.