Chapter Text
It’s Wednesday and the city is fast; the sky is a slow, gray slate, pregnant with clouds, heavy. Everybody looks like they’ve got something to do, somewhere to go, something to hurry towards. San Jose is young and brimming with life, the way it is on its very best days.
The hustle and bustle of the Silicon Valley used to make Castiel excited, filled with a restless energy, his brain overflowing with ideas and possibilities, endless opportunities. Today, it just makes him tired, his throat dry and his head throbbing dull.
He knocks his head against the cool window of the car, watches the city happen frantic from behind the glass, head lulling against the glass a little as they weave through the late afternoon traffic.
“...right, babe? Babe?” He hears Evan’s voice drifting to him through the fog of his headache, realises he has likely been talking for a while.
“You okay?” Evan asks, hand reaching out to squeeze his knee. “Don’t worry about the flight; it won’t be that long.” There’s a tense little smile on his lips, and Castiel wants to feel reassured by it, but he feels annoyed instead. Evan keeps rambling on without waiting for a reply. “I’m still upset we couldn’t get you business class tickets. I swear these people screw five things up for every one they actually get right.”
“I’m not worried about the flight,” Cas sighs, rubbing his temples, fiddling with the air conditioning controls until it’s cold enough that he feels the sweat dry on his skin a little.
“Just... long day. I’m not happy about that buy-out offer. I don’t think I should be leaving right now,” he says for what he thinks might be the millionth time.
“I understand,” Evan says, changing the air conditioning setting back to heat again, like Castiel isn’t sitting right there, skin clammy and lungs tight. A spike of irritation swipes through his body, head to toe.
But you don’t understand, he thinks, spitefully. And he knows he’s being unfair, knows it’s not Evan’s fault that he’s wound up so tight he feels like his spine is an old guitar chord, tense and brittle and about to snap at the faintest touch. He bites his lips to avoid snapping at him and starting an argument he won’t be able to finish.
“It’ll be good, Cassie. You’ll see,” Evan tells him, voice low and hand light on his knee. He sounds so sure, and it’s so easy to believe him, so he makes himself.
Just like usual.
He takes a deep breath that rumbles into his chest, pictures himself sinking into the pillows of the hotel suite he knows his assistant must have booked him. Pictures himself relaxed and sleepy at the end of the day, heartbeat steady, skin dry, thoughts hushed.
It helps, just a little.
The airport is busy when they finally get there, and Evan doesn’t park the car, he keeps it running on the curb, and Castiel doesn’t mind. He gets out, takes his bags out of the trunk, fits his body through the windshield until he’s close enough to brush a light kiss on Evan’s cheek. He tastes his minty aftershave more than his skin, it’s bitter on his lips.
“Bye, I’ll text when I land,” he says through the open window. Then, softly, he taps on the roof of the car “Bye, Nicky,” he whispers.
There was a time when he could not understand humans’ love for objects, when naming a car seemed a little vain and a little silly; he distinctly remembers thinking it was strange. But that was before the Tesla. He tells himself that if there’s a car that actually deserves to be named and cherished, it’s one that can drive itself, and doesn’t feel apologetic about it.
“You’ll miss this silly car more than you’ll miss me,” Evan teases, mouth turned up at the corners, and it almost makes Castiel smile.
“Take good care of her, and don’t forget to email me the briefing tomorrow. I want to know how the everything is going while I’m away,” he says, eyes boring into his fiance’s.
Evan nods, and his mouth is a thin straight line, like he wants to say something but he’s holding back. There’s a pause, Castiel’s fingers clutching the open car door, muscles tense as he waits for Evan to decide what he wants to say, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Then someone honks, hurrying them up. Evan swallows his words, muscles tense, gives him a last little wave, and Castiel walks away, glad he can leave his words behind as he shuffles fast into the busy airport.
Getting through security is as gruesome as it’s always been, and he can’t help but scoff when a young woman in line behind him points out that this is still the fastest way to get to any place on Earth.
It's not, and he knows. The knowledge of how fast he used to be; a flick of his wings and he would be surveying rolling hills and colorful planes, human life bustling on the streets so far below him, everyone looking like a tiny busy ant.
It's something akin to pain, to remember what flying felt like, to know he'll never feel it again.
If he had to describe it -if he had anyone to describe it to- he would say it’s like dipping your toes in a muddy puddle after having bathed in the ocean.
When he’s finally allowed to board, his seat is a cramped, squeaky thing, and he struggles to remind himself how this could possibly be a good idea. He knows, logically, that he chose this, that he agreed with both Evan and his therapist when they told him he needed a break. If only he could feel that right now, stuffed tight into his seat and even tighter into his own skin.
He slouches, body folding up into the seat, knowing his face reflects his disdain, feeling the frown ridging his face right in the middle, but he doesn’t fight it. People will assume he’s just another grumpy traveller; he doesn’t mind, because maybe that’s really all he is.
He balls his hands as he stuffs them into the pockets of his jacket, fingers closing around a crumpled pamphlet. He takes it out slowly, smooths the ridges out so he can read it over again.
“‘Devil’s Thumb Ranch’ is the epitome of Texas getaway. Rustling pines, cozy leather armchairs, roaring fireplaces, sprawling meadows full of wildflowers — it’s just the place for a wedding retreat.”
That pamphlet is the reason why he’s now sitting on this clunky plane, munching on complimentary peanuts and sipping on too-sweet soda.
“Look, babe, doesn’t it look kinda perfect?” Evan had said, weeks before, holding out the shiny pamphlet across the leather couch of his therapist’s studio.
Castiel had looked at her for confirmation before taking it, still feeling too raw, brain still too sluggish to really process any new information.
“Evan thinks you might benefit from a more involved approach to your wedding, Castiel,” she had said, kind brown eyes finding him from across the room.
Evan had nodded, his trademark self-assured smile spreading over his cheeks.
“Your panic attack was because of the big, bad wedding monster, right?” he had asked; and Castiel had wanted to interrupt and explain that, no, that wasn’t exactly true, but Evan had kept on barreling on. “So, I thought, we’ll change it. Do a small thing instead, in Texas, with my family,” he had said, fingers pushing the pamphlet in Castiel’s slack hand.
He had waited just a moment for him to take it and open it before talking again. “You can go down there, deal with everything in person, take a break from work and just think about planning it however you want,” he had added. “I already have your ticket; you don’t have to worry about anything, baby.”
At those words, there had been a tiny but sharp intake of breath from across the room, a shadow of a doubt passing over his therapist’s features before she could catch it.
“I- I don’t- Do you think it’s a good idea, Tess?” Castiel had asked then, feeling like the fog in his brain still hadn’t dissipated enough for him to make such decisions.
Her eyes had been kind and a little sad when she had asked him, “What do you think Castiel? Do you wish to take this trip? The choice should be yours, no one else’s,” she had said, pointedly.
“I guess-” he had started, but had never gotten to finish his thought because Evan’s voice had already been there, loud over his own.
“Come on, Cassie. Don’t you think a break from work would be good for you? You’ve been putting in 80 hour weeks lately; is it really that surprising that you snapped?” he had said, body pressing closer on the couch, a hand resting softly over Castiel’s knee. “Trust me, it’ll be good. My sister will be there, and she’ll help you plan everything. You don’t even have to look at a laptop screen until you get back. I’ll handle everything for you ”
His face had been so close then that it had been all Castiel could see, a horizon filled with Evan’s blue eyes, the sure tilt of his smile, and the weight of his fingers on Castiel’s knee.
"Or you could always just sign those papers, hand over your shares to m- to the board and be done with all the stress of running a company altogether. That's always an option, you know I-"
"I believe Mr. Novak here has already discussed with you his decision not to hand over his shares of the company?" Tess’s voice had interrupted them then, turning Evan’s smile into a tight-lipped frown.
“Of course, of course” he had said, hand now slipping away from Castiel’s leg “I only want what’s best for him, and our company too. You know that, Cassie, don’t you?”
It had been easy to agree then, easy to blame any uncertainty on the lingering effects of his panic attack the night before.
“I trust you,” he had said, fingers closing over Evan’s wrist; basking in the smile he had graced him with then. For a moment, everything had made sense, and just like that, before he could really make sense of it all, he had been on his way to Austin, Texas to plan his own wedding.
He sighs now, straining to recall the warm feeling Evan’s marriage proposal had first stirred in him, all those months ago. It seems so far away right now, like it belongs to a different life, a different Castiel.
He pictures the perfect little venue in the hills, pretty wildflowers and friends gathered and everything he’s supposed to want. Everything he has promised to want.
He pictures himself, navy suit, maybe a rose on his lapel, kissing Evan and promising him forever; he waits for the feeling of calm and contentment to wash over him, but it doesn’t come.
It’s just the plastic-y smell of the plane, of air that sits thin in his lungs. He can’t wait to be asleep again.
There’s a sheen of nervous energy thrumming restless on his clammy skin; he blames it on the traffic, on the late meeting, on the tie that’s squeezing his throat a little too tight. Everything is too tight. His skin, a thin sheet, stretched over his bones, squeezing them as they drag against one another, dull friction at every movement. He feels stiff, wound up too tight, head foggy, limbs heavy. He just wants to curl up somewhere warm and dark, hidden. The lights of the plane are all too bright, too white; it throbs behind his eyes when he catches sight of them, and he wishes for nothing but the warm comfort of sleep.
There’s a prickling in his neck, and he pictures his anxiety settling there like a vulture, its claws digging deep into his skin. It helps sometimes, to give his fear a face, a tangible body. He can picture himself pushing it away, its talons digging into his flesh as its wings flap, loud, in the air, useless. If he can see it, he can fight it; or that’s what he tells himself.
He breathes in the recycled air of the plane, once, twice; runs his fingers down the hem of his jacket, back and forth, back and forth, pretending it’s actually doing something to calm him down.
The hem of his pants is digging uncomfortably into his waist, and he wonders idly how inappropriate it would be for him to just pop the first button and let himself breathe. He wishes, not for the first time today, he would have argued with his board of directors when they insisted he could fit just one more meeting right before his flight.
A child screams some five rows behind him and the sound travels right into his head, rattling his brain inside his skull.
He sighs, feeling around his leather bag for the pills he knows he has stashed somewhere, fingers itching to close around the plastic, like his body knows relief is close.
The bottle is mostly empty where it sits innocently at the bottom of his bag. He stuffs his fingers inside, grabbing one pill and not letting himself count how many he has left. He needs this one to sleep, to get through the flight; he’ll start being good tomorrow.
The pill rolls quietly in his palm as he wonders if he still knows himself without it, without the suit, the meetings, the company, Evan. A voice in his head tells him that’s all he is, that there’s going to be nothing left of him once he takes those things away, and it scares him how easy it is for him to believe it.
His fingers slip a little over the condensation on his Coke can as he knocks the drink back in a gesture that he imagines to be slightly too dramatic, pill dragging a little in his throat as he swallows it down. Then he just waits for the chemically induced fuzziness to overtake his brain and drag him under.
-
Texas welcomes him with an evening that’s all clear blue sky and light breeze, and he almost believes this might not be a bad idea after all.
His shirt is rumpled where he folded himself into the seat, and he starts scrambling to fit it back into his dress pants, before he remembers there isn’t gonna be another meeting to rush to, no fancy dinner or opera date; he’s free and nobody is looking at him. He leaves his shirt untucked and messy and smiles at nobody, rebellious.
Evan doesn’t call him when he lands, but Castiel knows he’s busy; knows they’re not that kind of couple, who can’t go more than two hours without talking to each other. They’re both professionals, and they can’t be concerned with such small things.
He shoots him a text to let him know he has landed safely anyways, just in case.
There’s a town car waiting for him right at the airport. The driver holds up a sign that says Mr. Casteel Novak, and Castiel doesn’t correct him; that might as well be his name for the duration of his stay, for all he cares.
“Long flight, sir?” the driver asks him as they pull out of the parking lot and into the traffic of the interstate.
“You could say that,” he grumbles, rolling the window down just a bit to soak in air that isn’t stale and recycled.
“The hotel I am taking you to is very renowned; you’ll like it there, sir.” Castiel just hums in reply and hopes the man is right.
“I recommend checking out the bar. They have live music, piano I think. Many customers have told me how enjoyable it is,” he continues, eyeing him through the rearview mirror.
Castiel shrugs noncommittally, almost says he wants nothing more than being alone in the dark, and silence, rather than being surrounded by people he doesn’t know and doesn’t care about.
But the driver is kind and he smiles at him, so Castiel plasters a smile on his lips and says “Maybe”, and he almost believes it too.
The hotel room is just as fancy as he expected it to be, lush pillows and covers and a great view of the lights of the city. He takes a picture of the twinkling skyline and sends it to Evan, glances at the screen for a couple minutes, waiting for a reply that doesn’t come, and has to tell himself to stop acting like a teenager.
The shower doesn’t disappoint either when he finally stuffs himself in it, water pressure perfect, cascading over pearly tiles. He counts them idly as he washes the travel sickness out of his skin until he feels more like himself, whoever that is.
When he gets out, his phone is still dark and silent where it lays face up on the bed. He’s not surprised. The silence and the dark he was craving just hours before now feel like they’re crowding against him, thick and overbearing, stealing what little breath he has left in his lungs.
Solitude suddenly doesn’t feel welcoming, but ominous, an empty, endless slate of fog and thoughts that are too heavy for his brain. He can see them crawling towards him, their endless little hands reaching out for him, closing around his throat, clenching the breath right out his lungs.
He eyes the bag discarded at the end of the bed, hands reaching out for the pills again.
The bottle is cold in his overheated hand, and it shakes a little as he trembles.
This is not how things are supposed to be going. He’s supposed to be relaxing, supposed to let go of all the things he’s holding on to so tightly he can almost feel his bones crack with the sheer pressure of it all.
The bottle drops with a thud when he finally releases his clutch on it, dropping it back into the bag and reaching out for a fresh change of clothes instead.
He needs people. He needs a drink. He can do this.
The bar isn’t crowded when he gets there, hair still a little damp from the shower, wearing dark suit pants and a white shirt that he leaves untucked just because he can.
The driver was right; there’s a piano, and a very talented young woman crooning about her long lost love. It’s easy to settle onto the wooden stool, let the bartender smile at him and talk him into ordering a cocktail with a fancy name.
“My own creation, my pride and joy,” he says with a wink when he places it down on the counter, liquid sloshing a little on the polished wood.
Castiel sits and sips and lets himself be empty, a hollow shell for the music to resonate through, nothing more. His head lulls a little as the notes echo in the space between his ribs, and he lets it. If he’s nothing else, at least he’s this, a medium for music to sweep through, a spectator.
The cocktail is sweet and tangy and it sits a little uncomfortably in his empty stomach, as he lets his eyes wander around the room, lazily observing his fellow bar patrons.
The song is coming to an end, soft notes blending with the idle chatter of the bar as the woman bows gently and announces a break. The absence of music now feels foreign to his ears -a light, cottony, buzzing in his head- when there’s the sound of the front door slamming open, heavy boots trailing on the polished wooden floors.
He almost doesn’t look, but then the bartender is smiling at the newcomer, glancing sly over his shoulder, and he gets curious.
There’s a man walking to the other end of the bar, broad shoulders stretching a plaid flannel, dark blue jeans hugging the bow of his legs as he walks up to the counter.
Castiel lets his eyes linger for just a moment, blames the coil of interest on the alcohol buzzing under his skin. The man is tall, carries himself with an air of self-assurance that almost spills into arrogance. It’s in the straight set of his spine, in the tight hinge of his jaw, the deep, sure ramble of his voice as he orders a beer.
The bar is dimly lit, orange light bathing the man’s features in more shadows than lights, concealing more features than it’s revealing. Castiel keeps looking and he’s not sure why.
It’s his stomach to catch up first. It coils and drops at his feet with a dull thud, leaving him unbalanced.
He’s still trying to figure out what his body is doing, when the man turns to the side, laughing softly at something the bartender just said, and Castiel can finally see his whole face, lips stretched into a dimpled smile, cheeks scrunched up in a laugh.
It can’t be. Not him. Not here.
Suddenly it’s an avalanche of flashing memories; Heaven, Hell, the Apocalypse, a shitty motel room in St. Louis, a shittier bar, and Him. The Sword. The Righteous One.
Dean Winchester.
Dean.
His knuckles go white where he’s clutching the counter too tight, a breath caught in his lungs like a fly in a spider’s nest, heart shoving against the confines of his sternum, like it wants to jump out.
He’s older, he realizes with dumb surprise. Like Dean was supposed to stay immaculate, fossilized like he is in his memories. His soul shiny and glorious and lush green.
There are laugh lines around his eyes now, dark stubble over his cheeks, more freckles on his tanned cheeks.
He’s every bit as beautiful as Castiel remembers him to be, and he’s there, in front of him, solid and warm and magnetic.
And Castiel is weak.
He sucks in a breath that feels too small for his lungs, ears ringing a little as the woman starts singing again, another love song Castiel won’t be listening to.
He follows his feet when they hurry, soft and fast, towards Dean, heartbeat thrumming in his temples, in his bones, in his mouth. Until he’s so close he can smell him, until he can see that his eyes are still the same shade of green they were so long ago.
“Hello, Dean.”