Work Text:
When Castiel Novak was six, he asked his mother why there were numbers on his wrist. He’d just learned 0-9, so he was accurately able to read them, and he wondered exactly what it meant when it said 18:11:26:03:45:08. His mother explained in simple terms that he would meet his “Soul Mate” in eighteen years, eleven months, twenty-six days, three hours, forty-five minutes, and eight… seven… six… seconds.
Castiel took the answer and solemnly nodded his head, but only a few moments later, he asked another question.
Castiel’s next question:
“But why are they there?”
Naomi Novak opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. She’d been one to ask this question herself, many years ago, and now wished she could remember what her own mother had told her, for it had quelled any fears or further questions she’d had about the mysterious numbers on her wrist. (Naomi’s now and forever would flash 00:00:00:00:00:00).
She attempted to make something up, about how God wanted every soul to be prepared for the day, the minute, the second it would meet its be-all, end-all mate. In the end, Naomi found herself spouting out words that meant nothing to her six-year-old son. She came to a halt and instead spat—spat, only because she was frustrated with herself—”You’ll get it when you’re older!”
A quick overview:
No one knows why the numbers are there. They just are.
***
It’s an accepted fact that sometimes, before one can meet his or her Soul Mate, they die. Such is life, and while it leaves the remaining half completely lost and sometimes feeling hopeless, they can usually find someone else whose Soul Mate was lost, settle down, and live a somewhat happy life.
When Castiel Novak was fourteen, the numbers on his wrist flickered. At first, he didn’t notice it, because he was too busy copying down notes in history, but then it happened again. He glanced at his wrist and saw it: each number flicking to 0 before going back to it’s original number, almost as if the 0 was running across his wrist. His heart jumped into his throat. Of all the things he was prepared for, this was not one of them.
His hands began to shake and he stood from his seat, disrupting the class and making the teacher turn around, narrowing her eyes. “Castiel, is there a problem?”
All the young boy could do was make a wounded sound and point at his wrist. It had already happened to two people that year—losing a Soul Mate. He couldn’t be the third. Without knowing who his Soul Mate was, he loved them, and he refused to lose them before he was even able to see them, to hear their voice or know them.
Castiel’s history teacher took a few swift steps forward, looking at his wrist and giving him a look. She dragged him out of the room and took a few minutes to explain that his Soul Mate had just been in a life-threatening situation, and it was possible that they’d almost died. The fact that the numbers on his wrist were still ticking down was a good sign.The fourteen-year-old was relieved, to say the least. And he could only hope that his Soul Mate was okay.
A related event:
Dean Winchester, 16, was involved in a car accident
at 2:48 pm on a Wednesday.
Both parents died, leaving only himself and his brother,
now orphaned.
The numbers on his wrist remain intact.
12:08:23:18:24:03.
***
At eighteen, Castiel began to ignore the numbers on his wrist. They’d worried him for close to twelve years, he decided one day not to worry about them anymore. He dreamed of a world where meeting your Soul Mate was a surprise, that people could live without ever knowing the one that was meant for them was gone—they could live with someone else and believe that was who was meant for them all along.
He wished for that world. He wore long sleeves and kept his eyes closed in the shower. Castiel hated the numbers. He wanted to carve them out of his skin, but upon reasearch, he found that many people had tried in vain to remove the numbers, only to find it impossible. His numbers had not flickered again, and even though he told himself not to, he wondered where his Soul Mate was; how they were doing, if they were okay. Castiel hated the numbers, but he still loved the person behind them.
***
05:10:15:23:52:10
Dean Winchester’s numbers flickered.
In hindsight, Castiel could see where he went wrong. So maybe in the months he’d decided to forget about the numbers, he’d picked up a new habit. Maybe it was destructive, maybe it wasn’t as good as it felt. Maybe when he waved off his sister’s concern, he should have listened.
Making excuses for himself was easy, though. He could tell himself that in order to ignore the numbers, he had to be high. Which wasn’t so bad at first—a little pot here and there couldn’t hurt, could it? But then it got scary. Weed wasn’t good enough anymore. He needed something stronger. His dealer offered him pills, and they worked for a while, too.
Faster than Castiel imagined, he was using dirty bathrooms with flickering lights for privacy to shoot drugs into his veins. It felt good. It felt worth it. But one thing about Castiel that everyone who knew him knew, was that he never half-assed anything. And it was one in the same with his addiction. It spiraled out of control before he could manage to take hold of it, and that’s what left him lying in the middle of his ratty apartment’s floor, eyes open but not seeing.
Anna Novak found him. She got him to the hospital. And when Castiel woke up, he made a promise. It was a miracle that Castiel hadn’t contracted any diseases from the needles he’d been using—but thank God for the programs that had given him clean needles in exchange for the same promise he’d given his sister. (Only to Anna, he wasn’t lying.)
Castiel’s promise:
“I won’t do it again.
I won’t.
I promise, Anna.”
***
Castiel made good on his promise. Anna let him stay with her, and he slowly healed. Nine months of drug use took four years of healing before he could talk about it without throwing himself into a panic attack.
At twenty-three, Castiel was working at a coffee shop owned by his older brother. He was a barista and he smiled when people complimented him. He looked at the numbers on his wrist, and he was excited again to meet his Soul Mate. Anna had already met her Soul Mate, a man named Adam Milligan, and she grinned when she touched the growing bump of her belly.
Castiel wasn’t afraid anymore. After a few years of sobriety, he realized that had been his problem all along. Right from the start, when he asked his mother why there were numbers on his wrist. He had been scared. At first of an unknown marking, and then of the future.
The owner of The Happy Bean, Gabriel, teased Castiel mercilessly about always being early to his job. “Over-eager,” the man called his brother, and ironically enough, the day Castiel met his Soul Mate, he was late. His hair was messy and his cheeks were flushed when he skidded into The Happy Bean, and he jumped over the counter, taking in a deep breath as he looked at the customers behind the counter. He could hear Gabriel tutting behind him. “I know I always call you over-eager, Cassie, but come on. Have some work ethic.”
Without paying any mind to him, Castiel began his job. In the end, he wasn’t sure how he missed it. He’d been spending his whole life watching his wrist, and the moment it ticked down to zero, he was too focused on putting cash in the register to know that the man standing before him was—
“Dean Winchester,” Dean introduced, staring at Castiel, his voice breathless. Castiel glanced up from the register, and just like in every cheesy romance novel he’d ever read or any romcom he’d ever watched, the breath was knocked out of him. His stomach tied up in knots—just like his tongue—and he could do nothing but stare. He didn’t need to look at his wrist to know.
His mouth was completely dry. Green eyes stared at him with a special kind of reverence he’d never received from anyone before. Castiel’s heart was beating so hard in his chest he was afraid it might break through his ribcage, and all he could do was stare like an idiot.
Later, when he was alone, he would chant cliche, cliche, cliche to himself, but at that moment, their situation couldn’t seem more original.
“C-Cas—” he tried to introduce, but he stumbled, and Dean gave a quirk of his lips.
God, his smile was gorgeous. Castiel felt like he was going to pass out.
“Cas?” Dean repeated, and Castiel melted a little inside.
“Close enough,” he breathed, hands shaking in a completely new way.
The only thing that made this better was the fact that Dean looked as awed as Castiel felt, and when it felt like hours had finally passed, Cas cleared his throat. “Do— would you— what can I get for you?” he stuttered, and Dean smiled again.
“Well, first, I’d like a small black coffee,” Dean replied, and Castiel shakily punched it into the cash register. “Then, I’d like your number. And some of your time.”
Castiel glanced up, cheeks flushed.
“Well. All of your time.”
Seriously, how was he not passed out right now?
“Okay,” Cas replied.
This time, Dean grinned.
Another cliche:
They lived happily ever after.