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Dean’s never made a habit of it, really, maybe a few tickets here and there to go with the packages of Slim Jims and cheese crackers and whatever else he can pull off the aisles without revealing too much about his personal life. Once or twice they paid out, a card in Tulsa earning him a solid grand after taxes, another in Bangor giving him five thousand to blow through in the coming months. But never anything like this.
Sitting in the front seat of the Impala parked outside of the Days Inn on West Oglethorpe, Dean tosses a quarter back into the ashtray and stares down at the Color Me Rich ticket in his hand, the number sixteen joined with a small emblem for a wad of money. He’s won before, sure, but this is different—his luck can’t be that good, especially in the midst of this case, on the hunt for a lost merman stuck in Lake Chehaw, a good five hours from the coast in either direction. A full week there in that dusty hotel room, and he’s found nothing other than a boat at the bottom of the river and a half submerged casket from a flood long ago.
This can’t be his luck. “I’m hallucinating,” he tells himself, his hands trembling as he exits the car and slams the door shut, loud enough to echo across the empty lot. Barely six in the morning, and the world is still asleep, the sun lost somewhere below the horizon.
His room is equally still when he unlocks the door with the card key, only the sound of the air conditioning unit greeting him. The tacky blue-and-white striped blinds are still pulled closed, and Dean’s bed is just as unmade as he left it, his clothes spilling out of the duffel at the front of his mattress, a shirt strewn on top of the scratchy comforter. Castiel is still asleep on the bed opposite his, a pillow shoved over his face, presumably to keep himself hidden or to quiet the noise of the world around him. Once, Castiel explained it while Dean was half awake, about how he needed to seclude himself every once in a while to gather his thoughts, to keep himself grounded amidst the burgeoning humanity mingling with his Grace, two factors constantly warring within him.
And Dean just left him to it, even when he found Castiel wandering the halls dragging mountains of blankets from a closet Dean still hasn’t found, even when he walked in on Castiel’s masterpiece of a fort constructed in the back half of his bedroom, adorned with leftover Christmas lights. Whatever works for him. Slipping his shoes off beside the bedside table, Dean sets down a plastic bag filled with convenience store donuts from down the road and a bottle of Advil, for the crick in his neck that’s been bothering him since they first arrived.
Sitting on the edge of his mattress, Dean stares down at the ticket in the dark, still unbelieving of what’s written there in bold writing. “Cas,” he whispers, and looks up to see Castiel staring at him from underneath his pillow, one blue eye open, the other smushed against the bedsheets. Not the slightest bit amused; maybe even annoyed, based on the sigh he breathes, low in his throat. “Cas, I need you to read somethin’ for me.”
“It’s not even six,” Castiel grumbles, bleary. Belatedly, he tosses his pillow to the side and sits up, palming his eyes and afterwards running his hands through his hair, mussing up the strands in every direction. Dean swallows and looks back down at the card, bouncing one leg while he waits for Castiel to stop doing… whatever he’s doing, which includes wrapping the blankets firmly around his waist. “Are you alright?”
Dean nods, rubs the back of his neck. “Couldn’t sleep, I guess,” he shrugs, tilting his head to the bag on the table. “Got breakfast. Only place that sold scratch offs.”
“I told you to stop buying those,” Castiel groans. Despite his complaint, he reaches into the bag anyway and plucks a paper-wrapped donut free, letting it sit by the half-empty water cup from the night before. “How much did you spend this time?”
“Ten bucks,” Dean admits, ignoring Castiel’s glare. “Trust me, you’re gonna wanna see this.”
Dean hands over the ticket before Castiel can say anything else, letting both hands fall into his lap when Castiel flips on the bedside lamp and takes it, eyes opening wider in increments. Maybe he’s not hallucinating after all—Maybe Castiel sees just what he does, those five digits finally visible under the newfound light. “…You won twenty-two thousand dollars,” Castiel says, finally, and looks up, skepticism in his eyes, even with the proof in his hands. “Is this a joke?”
“What—Why would—No, it’s not, Cas.” Dean cradles his face in his hands, his foot still tapping on the floor. “Swear on a stack of Bibles, I didn’t do anything. Accordin’ to that, we just won twenty-two grand.”
Castiel lets out a soft humph, runs his finger over the freshly scratched surface of the card, over the numbers Dean memorized by heart. “Interesting,” Castiel says, just the slightest bit mirthful. “When do you want to claim it?”
Dean blinks. Castiel actually plans to go through with this, actually wants Dean to pick up his winnings. The first real money Dean’s seen in years, all within his grasp. “…Whenever you’re ready, I guess?” He glances between Castiel and the ticket, again, hands still shaking when Castiel returns it. Twenty-two grand—he can handle that. “How’re we gonna claim it though? I’m—I’m kinda a ghost, here.”
“I don’t think Jimmy was ever declared legally dead,” Castiel offers through a yawn. “Unless something’s changed since, he should still be able to do as he wishes.”
Makes sense; honestly, Dean should have thought of that before. “Then we’ll do that,” Dean shrugs. “We haul Triton back to the gulf, and we’ll go up to cash it out. What’d’you wanna do with it?” He reaches across the gap between their beds with his socked foot, pushing the rumbled mess of Castiel’s bedding. “Spa weekend? Hike the Rockies?”
“I was thinking somewhere overseas,” Castiel says, nonchalant, like the idea doesn’t kick Dean’s heart into overdrive at the mere thought of aviation. “I haven’t thought much of it, but I’ve always wanted to travel for leisure, not on a mission somewhere, or a hunt. I’ve seen the world over eons, but never—”
“For yourself,” Dean finishes. Again, Castiel yawns, somehow still managing to nod through it. “Where… Where do you wanna go?”
“That’s not up to me.” Promptly, Castiel ends the conversation by shoving a donut into his mouth, chasing it with the tepid water he set aside. Next time, Dean will opt for coffee. Though, the last thing either them need is caffeine, with how many hours they’ve been pulling trying to find this damn merman. “Though,” he says through a mouthful of dough, “the decision is yours if you want it.”
Dean mulls that over, even after he collapses onto his mattress and stares at the ceiling, the air conditioner the only noise besides Castiel inhaling a halfhearted attempt at breakfast. It’ll do for now—later, when they revisit the lake again, they’ll figure out where to go from here.
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Chad, as he likes to be called, is washed up on the banks of the Flint when Dean and Castiel find him early that morning, emaciated and pale, skin flaking in areas from the constant sun. “Musta washed over the dam when it rained,” Chad explains while Castiel pulls him—and his eight foot tail—into Dean’s pathetic excuse for a boat, just far enough into the water for Chad to let out the most delirious moan alive.
If Dean weren’t so frustrated about the situation entirely, he might have thought him appealing. Instead, he restarts the engine from the back of their craft and turns back in the direction of the boat docks, nearly a mile down the river while Castiel covers Chad’s massive tail with soaked towels to keep him wet. “You couldn’t’ve been anywhere else?” Dean grumbles, none too pleased about Chad’s tail fin hanging out over the edge of the boat or the fact that he keeps groping Dean’s leg in a fit of euphoria.
“River dried up,” Chad explains, yellow eyes blinking up at Dean, a grin on his face. He looks every bit as attractive as the lore says, with a hard jaw and even sharper cheeks, eyes fanned with long lashes, his waist-length blonde hair practically glowing in the midmorning sun. The rest of him is even more enticing, right down to the freckles dotting his toned chest, all the way down to where his abs disappear in a sea of scales. Stop staring, Dean. “I tried to escape, but it was too shallow. It’s not fishing season, so no one thought to look down here.”
Admittedly, Dean never even thought about it, either. If anything, the reports stated that the merman was spotted in the lake, not over a dam into a nearby river. In any case, they have Chad now, and Castiel is attempting to breathe life back into him by pouring cups of water onto his tail to keep him breathing, at least until they can get him back to the Impala and the Uhaul they’ve been renting for the occasion. Figures, the one place they didn't even think to look is where they’d find their suspect.
First thing Dean plans to do with his winnings—pay the damn Uhaul bill.
After packing their things at the hotel—finally—and stowing everything in the backseat of the Impala, Dean and Castiel leave Albany in the direction of Florida, headed to somewhere unpopulated where no one will care about two men unloading a mythical creature from a kiddie pool in the back of a trailer into the ocean. “He said someone kidnapped him when he was younger and kept him in the lake,” Castiel says through the walkie talkie along the way, the device buzzing in the bench seat by Dean’s hip. “He’s only eighteen in human years. Prime mating age for his kind. I suppose he was looking for a lover.”
Dean snorts and reaches for the walkie, tucking his chewing gum against his cheek. “So what, he started showing his face and the locals flipped their shit?”
“Most likely,” Castiel beeped in. “Though, I do think he was hitting on me while I was filling the pool.”
“…Can’t blame him,” Dean says, finger far away from the ‘talk’ button.
Objectively, Castiel must know how he looks, based on how strangers look at him walking down the street. Hell, Dean can’t stop staring on a good day, especially recently, the two of them cramped in tight quarters at all hours while Sam mans the phones back in Kansas, leaving them to coop up in hotels far away from home. He’s seen his fair share of skin in the past week, and never once has Castiel shown any shame over his body, solely because it’s his.
If only Dean could look away.
They arrive on the outskirts of Port St. Joe around four in the afternoon, Dean pulling the Impala into park along the side of the road, right side tires skidding in a patch of grassy sand only a few inches from a dropoff. Castiel manages the Uhaul behind him, closer to the line than probably allowed, but anything to keep the behemoth from toppling over and forever ruining their reputation with moving companies. “You got him?” Dean asks into the walkie, waiting for the crackle on the other end signaling Castiel’s response.
What he gets instead is Castiel tapping on the driver’s side door; Dean promptly flings the walkie into the backseat, afterwards beating his chest to keep his heart from palpitating any further. “Gonna kill me,” Dean grunts, pulling himself from the front seat and shutting the door behind him. Castiel has the audacity to look smug, the mid-afternoon light glimmering in his eyes. Really, Dean shouldn’t stare, shouldn’t want to shove Castiel’s shoulder like he’s done so many times before, shouldn’t want to laugh like Castiel is the greatest thing to ever happen in his life.
He shouldn’t—instead, he opts for following Castiel to the back of the Uhaul, the two of them unlatching the sliding door and slinging it up into the ceiling slat. Chad waves at them from inside, swishing his tail up and down in some unspoken greeting. Water decorates the metal flooring underneath the kiddie pool from where it sloshed over from the roads winding down the coast, relentless and endless.
“You guys aren’t gonna dump me, are you?” Chad jokes, lighthearted, and lifts himself to sit, arms braced behind him as he stretches, his back a perfect bow. If Chad weren’t capable of dragging him to the bottom of the ocean and eating him alive—or if he were human, for that matter—Dean would most likely be interested, would probably even flirt back given the chance.
Whatever trance he’s attempting to work on Dean falls flat when Castiel hoists himself up into the truck and lifts Chad out of the water, an arm under his tail and another just beneath his arms, prepared to carry him all the way to the shore. He’s strong—Dean’s always objectively known, but seeing it in person never fails to startle him, especially knowing Chad must weigh close to four hundred pounds, mostly muscle and fin, heavy enough to nearly throw Dean’s back out from trying to put him in the back of the truck in the first place.
He doesn’t attempt to help this time, just follows Castiel’s lead while Castiel carries him down the grassy embankment to the sand, squishing softly beneath both of their boots, dry and scorching in the late summer heat. Absently, Dean wipes the sweat from his nape while Chad busies himself with wrapping his arms around Castiel’s neck, smiling and laughing about something Dean can’t hear. Something he probably doesn’t want to hear, either, not from the way Chad is looking at Castiel, like he’s made of the ocean himself. Hell, for all Dean knows, Castiel might have.
“I’ll put in a favor for you two,” Chad announces from Castiel’s arms, Castiel now standing in thigh-deep water and attempting to disentangle himself from Chad’s hold. Castiel looks every bit the romance hero there, carrying his long haired damsel into the surf with the sun beating down on his back, Chad’s hair blowing in the breeze. Not that Dean would ever admit to the stash of cheesy novellas sitting in a box under his mattress, some worn with age, some still smelling like the bookstore he bought them from. Eventually, Castiel manages to set Chad free, Chad promptly hurling himself into the Gulf and disappearing beneath the water’s surface, gone.
In the midst of the waves breaking along the shore, Dean laughs and rubs a hand down his face, coming away tacky with sweat and humidity. “God, why’d it have to be him?” he says. It’s Castiel, after all; Castiel understands. There’s no pressure there, no hint that Castiel would use his preferences against him.
If anything, Castiel just joins in, a smile just barely ticking the corner of his lips. “All merpeople are meant to seduce,” he offers, scratches at his wrist underneath his coat cuff. He really needs to lose the thing, especially in the heat; but this way, Dean can watch him sweat, can track the droplets beading at his hairline and wish he could lean forward and wipe them away, catch them between his lips. “Chad was no exception. Though, I suspect the lack of a mate probably spurred him on.”
Dean snorts, looks down to his boots, already covered in sand. “Figures, outta every monster we could find, we’d get squared with the horny one.”
All Castiel does is roll his eyes; even then, Dean knows he’s amused. “He would’ve disemboweled you,” Castiel remarks, walking back towards the embankment.
Dean follows, hands clasped behind his back while he whistles, kicking his feet in the sand. “What a way to go, though,” he chuckles, nudging Castiel’s shoulder, solely to earn that smile he’s been craving ever since they left Lebanon two weeks ago.
Castiel obliges him, just barely. “I’d prefer you alive, for what it’s worth.”
For once, he thanks the heat for disguising the heat rising up his neck, tinging his ears pink. “…Could say the same ‘bout you,” he mutters, just out of earshot. Overhead, the sun beats down, and the waves drown out Castiel’s reply.
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The Motel 6 on Courtland is modest considering it’s in the shadow of the Hilton, with only a few roaches in the bathroom and sheets that have been washed within the last few hours. Red-and-gold striped comforters adorn the beds, neatly tucked underneath the pillows; Castiel seats himself on the edge of his and begins untying his shoes, kicking them underneath the box spring.
If Dean had any energy left, he would follow suit, instead opting for crashing face first on the mattress closest to the door and groaning into the bedding. “Why’s it gotta be so stressful,” he says, muffled, weakly pounding his fist into a pillow. Castiel lets out something akin to a laugh at Dean’s protests, shrugging out of his suit jacket by the time Dean sits up, letting the article lay flat on the bed. “Seriously, we had to win in the one state that wants to get your life story?”
“They didn’t go that far,” Castiel chides.
For a short second, Dean watches him unknot his tie and begin to unbutton his dress shirt, oblivious to the fact that he’s doing this with an audience. Not that Castiel has ever cared about his state of dress—or lack of—around Dean, but maybe exhaustion is a factor after all. The lottery office downtown wanted a personal statement from Castiel under Jimmy Novak’s name, including his place of residence and reason for traveling, and a picture of him holding a fake check against a backdrop covered in the Georgia Lottery logo. That was all—an hour there and more time struggling with the bank to get them to pay out the fifteen grand in cash after the state tax authority took their share, and both Dean and Castiel left to rejoin the living in a motel room in downtown Atlanta, a few thousand dollars richer than when they left.
Even looking at the briefcase now, leaning against the decades old dresser, Dean still can’t believe it, knowing there’s wads of actual money in there, the most he’s ever touched in one setting. And it’s his—theirs, technically, all owned under Jimmy Novak’s name. “What d’you think we should do with it?” Dean asks and rolls over onto his back, feet hanging off the edge of the mattress. With sudden determination, he counts the cracks in the popcorn ceiling, anything other than watching Castiel undress on the other side of the room. “You still stuck on flying? We could probably get a nice room in Vegas, see the shows—”
“You know you wouldn’t like that,” Castiel cuts him off, a hint of mirth in his eyes. He shrugs on a shirt under Dean’s surveillance, erasing every inch of bare flesh, with it temporarily quelling the heat burning through Dean’s veins. From nerves or… whatever this is, Dean doesn’t know. “If you want to go to Las Vegas, we can. But I know you’d like a break as much as I do.”
“Really?” Dean says, going for amused; it dies somewhere between the hum of the air conditioning unit and Castiel’s quirked eyebrow, both drowning out the rapid pulse of his heart against his ribs. “You’d… I thought you said you wanted to go.”
To both his relief and embarrassment, Castiel joins him on the bed, covering his mouth in a yawn. Humanity looks good on him, really; if it weren’t for the ethereal glow in Castiel’s eyes and the occasional use of brute force, Dean would have thought him one. “I do,” Castiel admits, hands in his lap. “But I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to.” He pauses to look at the ceiling, brow furrowed in his thoughts. “…Phobias are complex. I once knew a child who was so afraid of the wind blowing, she refused to leave her house. Just months before, a tornado tore across her town on Christmas eve.”
Turning to Dean, he cocks his head, speculative. “Have you always been afraid of flight?”
Fighting down his humiliation, Dean swallows and rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked on the floor. “Not always,” he admits. As far as he can remember, no one’s ever asked him about why or how it came about, how his palms begin to sweat every time he even drove past an airport, how the sight of planes fills him with dread. Even now with the prospect of willingly boarding an airplane, his stomach flips and twists, nausea creeping up his throat. “…Planes crash, Cas. You see all those Airport movies and how shit goes bad in five seconds flat, and all of a sudden you’re sitting there thinkin’ about how that could be you.”
“The statistical likelihood of a plane crash is less than being attacked by a shark,” Castiel says, not the least bit patronizing. Dean’s grateful, really—anything else, and he might shut up and lock himself in the bathroom.
“Just…” Hand trembling just the slightest, Dean covers his mouth, closes his eyes before he speaks. “Dad enrolled me in some Junior High when we were in Omaha years ago, didn’t end up staying more than a month. But I met this kid, Jacob Haynes. Couldn’t’ve been more than a year older than me. His parents were flight attendants, so he’d be gone on the weekends going wherever. And one day he just…” He drops his head, and Castiel rubs his shoulder, unwilling to push him. “Never told Sam what happened, and he eventually just stopped asking.”
Castiel hums, imploring. “What happened?”
Dean shrugs, aiming for flippant but falling short. “Never really got the details, but the principal called me and a few other kids who knew him in and told us he died. …He’d asked if I wanted to go with him to Denver the week before, and I turned him down. Couldn’t leave Sam for that long, especially since dad was still in the wind. Local stations said a Cessna crashed, something about a catastrophic failure. …After a while, I just stopped listening.”
“…It was traumatic for you,” Castiel guesses.
Dean nods and lets out a deflating breath, shuffling his feet on the carpet. It shouldn’t even matter that much, really; nearly two decades later, and Dean still imagines what their final moments must have been like, imagines what he would’ve done if he actually went along with them that day. Sam would’ve never forgiven him. John would’ve spit on his grave—hell, Dean never would’ve forgiven himself, either. “Figure karma’s gonna catch up to my ass one of these days,” Dean laughs, half to mask his horror. “’S a stupid fear, anyway.”
“It’s not,” Castiel affirms, still absently rubbing Dean’s shoulder. Dean falls into the touch either way, hating himself for how much Castiel calms him even in his basest moments, always grounding him to wherever, whenever they are. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you told me. But even if you decide you want to go, I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Scratching his wrist, Dean lets that sink in, lets the words rest on his tongue before he even deigns to think, or let alone say anything that could embarrass him more than he already is. He doesn’t need Castiel’s help—but again, Castiel is offering to save his life in the event something terrible does happen and their plane is sent plummeting to earth. Even with his own security blanket, anxiety still plagues him, rattles his bones. “You promise?” he croaks before he can catch himself, and at his side, Castiel nods. “…Even if I ruin all the puke bags?”
“Even then,” Castiel chuckles. He lets his hand drop, much to Dean’s lament, and crosses the room, rummaging for something in the bottom of his duffel. “Do you still want to?”
He doesn’t know, honestly. He hasn’t left the United States since that one trip to the United Kingdom and a few hunts in Mexico, and the one trip to Vancouver he still can’t remember, even after Missouri poked around in his brain for three hours. And even then, the longest flight he ever endured was seven hours, over significantly less water. And Castiel was offering to stay by his side over the Pacific, even in the event of his own demise?
It could be fun, his mind supplies; maybe once the room stops spinning, he’ll listen to his own brain. “…’S long as you’re gonna be there,” Dean eventually mutters, both ashamed and relieved, even more when Castiel shoots him the softest grin Dean’s ever seen on him. “You’re not gonna drop us off in the outback, are you?”
Castiel lets out a short laugh, finally straightening himself. In his hand, he holds a map, yellowed at the edges and folded too many times, practically falling apart in areas. It’s not even a nationwide map, Dean notices as Castiel unravels it; it’s a world map circa the 1940s, complete with inaccurate country names and the territories of Alaska and Hawaii. “You kept that thing?” Dean asks, watching as Castiel takes a few push pins from the plastic box laid on the bed and begins pinning them to the wall next to the TV, through the atrocious pink-and-white wallpaper. Interior decorating-wise, it would be a nice addition if it weren’t for the rest of the room.
“Maps are interesting,” Castiel ventures, pushing the final tack in before stepping back to survey his work. “So much changes over time. You can see the rise and fall of nations, the growth of suburbs into cities, once vibrant countries obliterated over the course of years. The world has changed so much over the last century.” Reaching into his bag again, he pulls out a dart, most likely stolen from that rat trap of a bar in El Paso they visited three weeks ago. “You have an archive at your disposal, have you even bothered to use it?”
“Hey, I use it,” Dean huffs with an eye roll. “Just… not in the independent research way.”
“You should,” Castiel says, and Dean swears he sees Castiel wink. “You never know what you might find.”
Oh boy. Dean scrubs his hand over his jaw before he stands, in desperate need of a shave before they leave Atlanta to head… wherever they’re planning to go. “So what, you want me to pick somewhere off the wall?”
“Blind choice.” Castiel hands him the dart. Pointing to the map, he says, “Close your eyes. Wherever it hits, we’ll go, unless you object.”
Right, makes sense. At least this way, he won’t overthink his decision and end up heading somewhere he has absolutely no interest in. This way, it’s up to fate to guide him, take him where he needs to go. Facing the deteriorating map, Dean closes his eyes and readies his hand, blocking out everything except his own breathing and the warmth radiating off Castiel’s body.
He throws.
“Did it hit?” Dean asks after a quiet second, eyes still pinched shut while Castiel hums a wordless tune. Socked feet pad across the room, eventually stopping in front of what Dean hopes is the map; no one screamed, so no windows or walls were seriously punctured.
“I’m particularly fond of where you chose,” Castiel muses. “You should open your eyes.”
It takes him another few seconds to follow through, only opening one eye at a time until he can see where the dart landed. There, off to the right of the tacky map, the dart pierces straight through Japan, most likely lodged deep in the wall. “So… Japan,” Dean ponders, joining Castiel in front of the map. Granted, the thing still says the Japanese Empire, but Japan all the same. “…That somewhere you’d wanna go?”
“If you do.” Castiel turns to him, arms crossed and an eyebrow quirked. Dean alternates between watching his eyes and his lips before shoving his hands into his pant pockets. Castiel’s determination never ceases to amaze him, terrifying and inspiring him simultaneously, both to build him up and break him down. “It’s a very beautiful country, vastly different than what you’re used to here. I think you might enjoy the change of pace.”
I might, Dean thinks, looking down to the floor. Never in his wildest dreams has he ever imagined leaving the continent, especially for somewhere so far away, and especially for somewhere he knows next to nothing about. And as long as Castiel is there to guide his way, it might work in his favor—get out of the bunker for a few weeks, spend overdue time with Castiel, maybe break himself out of his self-imposed bubble.
Hell, he needs this more than he knows.
“Could be fun,” Dean admits, sheepish. Immediately he flushes when Castiel pats his elbow, almost too intimate to handle, especially considering they’re… not. As much as he wants it, Castiel won’t ever be able to see through his flaws, the scars blotting his soul, forever tainted by Hell and Earth and everything imaginable. But maybe, if he plays his cards right, they can at least try. “When d’you wanna head out?”
Castiel’s grin warms him to his core, impossibly bright against the backdrop of light pouring in through the window. “Whenever you’re ready.”
With a nod, Dean slumps his shoulders and lets out a deep, rattling breath. “…Then let’s go.”
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Planning takes longer than Dean expected, especially for something as simple as air travel. Buy a few tickets online, show up with the right documentation, and hope TSA doesn’t flag you for illicit materials or request a backroom pat down. But Dean has been legally dead for the last half decade, and getting his passport ‘legally’ verified puts them back almost four months while somebody in Rochester does the dirty work. Castiel still has a year on Jimmy’s passport before it expires, the booklet left in a shoebox Claire delivered just for the occasion, full of birth certificates and social security numbers and more legal documentation than he’ll probably ever need.
Just as long as no one flags Dean and forces him to turn back around, he’s sold.
“I can’t believe I have to stay here,” Sam practically whines the day of Dean’s flight in December, following him around the entire morning like a kicked puppy. It would be cute if he weren’t thirty-two and all limbs. As it is now, he’s bordering on pathetic. “Seriously, you win on a scratch off and I can’t even go?”
“We asked you,” Dean says, rolling up a Henley and shoving it into a battered suitcase covered in dried out stickers from India. “In fact, I think Cas asked you about four times already. But every time, it’s ‘I’m supposed to go out with Jody,’ or, ‘Claire’s been looking forward to going to Vancouver for weeks.’”
Sam takes no amusement in Dean’s mockery, his frown only deepening. “How was I supposed to know you’d haul ass off across the ocean though? Money doesn’t just fall into our lap, Dean. And even when it does, that goes straight into the gas tank, or food, or—”
“We need a break, alright?” Dean snaps, briefly bewildered by his own force. Sam stares at him, accusatory, before placing his hands on his hips. He didn’t mean it like that, but still, Sam took it for face value, clearly expecting a response, or at least an apology. “Look, just… It was Cas’ idea, alright?” Smooth, blame it on the Angel. “I figure, we take half of it, you get the other half to go do whatever you want. Buy that hair dryer you’ve been wanting.”
“God, you’re a jerk,” Sam sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Dean abandons his packing to shove Sam’s shoulder, lighthearted. “Think of it this way. We’ll both be outta your hair, and you can live it up in Europe or somewhere. Maybe for once, we can do somethin’ that doesn’t involve us elbow deep in guts, right?”
At least then, Sam agrees, his shoulders shaking with a barely suppressed laugh. “I’ll take it.” He pushes Dean back, nearly throwing him onto the bed with the weight of it. “Send me a postcard?”
“I’ll pick up some fridge magnets too,” Dean says. “Thing’s lookin’ a bit naked in there.”
“And whatever you do,” Sam shoots back just as he makes to exit the room, his finger pointed at Dean’s face, “don’t bring back any swords. Last thing you need is something else to put on your wall.”
“C’mon,” Dean groans, head tilted back. “You don’t think a katana’d go great up there?”
Sam snorts. “I’m not bailing you out of airport jail, dude.”
Castiel is on his second cup of coffee by the time Dean finishes packing his suitcase with at least two weeks’ worth of clothes, Castiel’s hair in disarray, pajamas foregone for one of the leftover Letters robes, bare feet toeing the tile kitchen floor. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced, and when Dean rounds the kitchen table, he swears Castiel is asleep, or at least zoned out with his eyes open. Snapping his fingers does nothing, nor does the pot Dean accidentally drops on the floor, scant centimeters from his foot.
“Earth to Cas,” he tries, finally earning a response; Castiel blinks up at him, shakes himself awake before downing the rest of his coffee in one swallow. “Jeez, you stay up all night?”
“I think I nodded off around eleven,” Castiel rumbles, glancing over to the clock. It’s barely two in the morning, and they’re cutting it close as it is. Chicago is nine hours away, and their flight takes off around noon, giving them just enough time to check in two hours beforehand. But at the rate Castiel is moving, they might miss it all together. “I was planning an itinerary on your laptop, but I lost track of time. I’m packed, if you’re wondering.”
“That’s what I wanna hear,” Dean says with a grin. Before he can stop himself, he reaches out to ruffle Castiel’s hair, feeling Castiel lean into his hand ever so slightly. For his own sanity, he passes it off as Castiel being sleep deprived and pulls away, apparently fast enough to snap Castiel awake. “You—We need to get the car packed. Got a…”
“I could drive,” Castiel offers, the words muffled through a yawn.
Shaking his head, Dean pats Castiel’s shoulder. “You get shotgun privileges. Just don’t put your feet up on the dash and we’re golden.”
Castiel looks up to him, then glances back down at his mug, the last dregs of coffee clinging to the bottom. “I’ll meet you in the garage,” Castiel mumbles.
Dean just laughs and pads his way up the stairs, fighting off the tension festering between his shoulder blades. “I’ll be there.”
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Terminal five, in the light of day, is a massive labyrinth of floor to ceiling windows and blue plastic seats and decorative carpet, all bathed in the blinding sunlight pouring through the panes. Seated at their gate, Dean has half the mind to use the neck pillow Castiel bought at a duty free store as a blindfold, just to muffle some of the situation, at least for a while. Castiel’s nightly habits make more sense to him now, in hindsight, his every nerve firing the longer he sits there and watches the planes pull out of their gates and head for the runways, all pointed at somewhere else in the world.
Theirs is currently sitting at gate, the behemoth of a 777 being loaded full of luggage and airline food from multiple carts underneath the wings. The back of Castiel’s head blocks most of his view, Castiel too entranced with watching the scenery than Dean’s oncoming crisis. Though, why should he care anyway? He’s an Angel—he’s flown higher than most airliners could even dream of, on wings made of… “What do your wings look like?” Dean blurts, bouncing one knee.
Castiel sputters momentarily, afterwards turning to Dean, his backpack tucked between his ankles. Just the essentials: laptops, phone cords, wallets, more than enough pills to last them, and an entire box of cheese crackers. “What do my wings look like?” Castiel repeats, placing both hands in his lap.
“Just… humor me, will you?” Looking down, Dean contemplates putting his head between his knees just to drown out the noise of the other passengers waiting alongside them, some saying their goodbyes to loved ones on the phone, others playing games, and one man giving an angry diatribe to someone Dean doesn’t envy on the other end of the call. “What, like, how many are we talking?”
Humming, Castiel looks to the ceiling, then back at the flight information displayed on the overhead screens. “Six, though they’re a bit worse for wear now. I’m still regrowing my feathers, but they’ll heal.”
“Bet they’re cool,” Dean mutters, letting his eyes close to the image of them, Castiel wandering around the bunker with his wings trailing behind them, patchy but recovering, long enough to reach each end of the war room, maybe even the library. Certainly the observatory, based on how many feathers Dean’s found there in recent weeks, most a light, almost precious shade of pink. Not what he figured, but he won’t put it against Castiel. “What else?”
Even without his sight, he knows Castiel is giving him a look. “Are you trying to distract yourself?”
“‘M tryin’ not to hurl,” Dean says, swallowing. “Lay it on me. What else?”
“If you’re asking about my true form,” Castiel pauses to lower his voice, probably aware of how many people could possibly hear, “they’re covered in eyes. Thousands, all with their own emotions and thoughts. They’re very expressive, as you can imagine.” Dean chuckles at the idea. “My halo can power the west coast power grid with just a spark, though it might blow every light simultaneously.”
“Showoff,” Dean snorts. “You really got a halo?”
“Not in the way humans conceptualize them,” Castiel continues. He waits for someone to pass, a woman and her daughter sitting next to the window, the young girl facing the back of the seat to watch the luggage trucks finish their offload. “It’s decorated in eyes and precious metals and is roughly the size of a wind turbine.”
Dean snaps his eyes open to balk at Castiel, his mouth agape against his will. So this is the reason why humans cowered in terror whenever the Angels descended to earth in the Bible—because they had wings and appendages covered in eyes and gigantic halos and—“How many heads do you have?”
Castiel laughs this time, letting his head drop, his grin still plastered on his lips. Dean warms with it, hands finally stilled against his knees. “Four. A smilodon, a falcon, a wildebeest, and my true face.”
Interesting. “…What’s your true face look like?”
Overhead, the boarding call for Zone B sounds across the terminal. “That’s us,” Castiel says and stands, still looking at his ticket when he starts walking. Dean grabs him by the wrist and tugs him back, just out of the way of running into a man wearing an oversized Stetson.
“You stick by me,” Dean says, more forceful than necessary, but Castiel follows along regardless, at Dean’s back when they hand the attendant their tickets at the counter and head down the taxiway.
Once they pass the overly-chipper stewardesses welcoming them on board, Dean manages to find their row in upper economy, two seats near the window in aisle 24. “It’s cozy,” Castiel remarks after Dean settles himself by the window, taking two packs of crackers from their bag before stowing it under his seat. Outside, a plane begins to taxi out for the runway; with the way passengers are filing on, they’ll be next to go. “We can watch movies,” Castiel mentions and hands Dean one of the packages.
“If I don’t knock myself out,” Dean grunts, alternating between bouncing his leg and picking at a loose cuticle; Castiel stops him with a hand to his thigh, applying enough pressure to settle him. Fiddling with the air conditioner port above only makes him look suspicious, especially since the plane isn’t technically on yet. They still have another few minutes to get everyone seated and engaged in the flight safety video before they even think about making their way down the runway.
“Do you think you can sleep?” Castiel asks, and Dean only gives him a soft nod, wrapping his arms tight around himself. It’s the least he can do to keep himself calm, aside from humming every song in his arsenal and picturing himself on a beach in Hawaii. “I have pills if you need them.”
“‘M fine,” Dean lies. Overhead, the plane lurches enough to kick the air jets on, cold air suddenly rushing into his eye. On instinct, he reaches out to grip both armrests, inadvertently covering Castiel’s hand with his own. He can’t tell what’s more horrifying—the overhead announcement welcoming them onto Japan Airlines or Castiel staring at him in a mixture of amusement and confusion. “This is it,” Dean manages, beginning to hum under his breath, growing louder once the jetway detaches and the plane begins to back out of its spot. This is how he’s going to die, in an aluminum tube just feet away from the terminal with a few hundred other passengers. He should’ve taken Sam along—maybe then, they’d all burn up together.
“Where are we?” Castiel asks, as calm as ever.
It’s enough of a shock to jerk Dean from his thoughts, and absently he wipes the sweat beading at his brow. “What?” he rasps, a hand over his heart, his pulse near-frantic.
“Where are we?” Castiel reiterates. He pulls his hand from Dean’s white-knuckle grasp and begins to rifle through the pocket on the back of the seat ahead of him, pulling out a battered copy of Sky Mall.
“I’m—We’re on a plane.”
Page seven. “More specifically.”
“Chicago,” Dean stammers.
“What time is it?”
“11:37.”
“Sam’s thinking about getting an English Mastiff.”
Dean laughs, probably more frantic than necessary. “He’s—And you’re gonna let him do that?”
“Not without your permission,” Castiel shrugs. He thumbs over an image of a table and chairs for a deck. “Do you want me to keep talking?”
“I… yeah.”
As much as he hates to admit it, the exchange is enough to take his mind off the constant chatter around them and the screaming baby in the back, and the actual plane taxiing down the runway. The pilot says something about them being next in line, but Dean ignores it for whatever anecdote Castiel is going on about, something about watching Animal Planet with Sam and how Great Dane’s only live to be six years old.
In fact, he almost misses takeoff; if it weren’t for the sudden acceleration and Dean holding onto the armrests for dear life, he would have completely ignored it. Still, Castiel keeps him occupied, even once they’re in the air and stabilizing, the worst of the ordeal over with, at least for now. “Do you need anything?” Castiel asks after a while, done with Sky Mall and now fishing headphones from the bag underneath his seat. Around them, a man leaves for the restroom, and stewardesses begin to hand out drinks and snacks.
Thirteen hours—he can do this, as long as he doesn’t look out the window. “Think I might take a nap,” Dean says, breaking into a yawn. “You gonna make sure…”
“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Castiel confirms, quiet, enough of a melody for Dean to cling to as he closes his eyes, lets the steady rumble of the Boeing’s engines lull him to sleep.
-+-+-+-
He’s not sure what wakes him first, his stomach rumbling or the puddle of drool he’s apparently face first in. And on Castiel’s shoulder, no less. Though, more shocking is the fact that Castiel is asleep next to him, his cheek pressed against the soft hairs on Dean’s head, snoring to his heart’s content. Overhead, the pilot is droning on in Japanese, and a number of passengers are returning to their seats, the fasten seatbelt sign flashing at the front of the cabin. “Cas,” Dean grumbles, pulling himself away and wiping the wetness off his face.
“‘M awake,” Castiel slurs, shaking himself before he falls into the spot Dean vacated.
He looks in even more disarray than Dean remembered, hair mussed from sleep and eyes tired, cheeks flushed from—Dean doesn’t know, maybe proximity, maybe the heat in the cabin. He doesn’t put too much thought in it and just busies himself with uprighting his tray table, a few crumbs from a halfhearted attempt at eating pretzels falling to the carpeted floor. Castiel doesn’t take notice, just watches the flight tracker now illuminated on the seats ahead of them. “We’re almost into Narita,” Castiel says, rubbing one eye. “We’ll be landing in two minutes.”
“Thanks for the update,” Dean says, both sincere and terrified. Landing is even worse than takeoff, he thinks, the risk of crashing and burning significantly higher the closer the aircraft gets to the ground. But the pilot has gotten them this far without incident, aside from the turbulence over Hawaii—maybe he knows how to land them safely, after all. Not that Dean ever thought he couldn’t.
Maybe it’s the altitude, but Dean feels himself coming back to earth the lower they fly, full realization not hitting until he watches the cloud layer give way to snow-covered fields and an even drearier sky, fat flakes dotting the windows and flying past at dizzying speeds. “You slept through most of the flight,” Castiel says to his right, the slightest of smiles on his lips.
And Dean finds himself smiling back, especially when Castiel leans over enough to nudge Dean’s shoulder. “Sure you didn’t knock me out?” Dean joshes, only half joking, his concern deepening with every second Castiel hesitates. “…Cas?”
“I didn’t,” Castiel says; Dean doesn’t entirely believe him. “But I know for a fact you haven’t been sleeping for more than two hours in the last week. Maybe it caught up to you.”
“Uh huh. Tell me that when you’re awake.” Dean pushes his shoulder again, just as the wheels meet the asphalt, almost throwing him back into his seat. He manages to stay upright though, and for probably the third time in his life, he’s glad to be on solid ground once again. Around them, the cabin erupts into applause when the pilot announces they have now landed at Narita International Airport, and that the current time is 3:17 in the afternoon.
“I forgot to check the forecast,” Castiel admits when they begin to taxi through the maze of runways, cheeks heated in embarrassment. It’s almost cute, Dean thinks, the way he looks past Dean to stare out the half-open window, snow falling thick around them and adding onto the half-inch decorating the dying grass. “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”
Dean nods, somewhat reluctant. He’s seen snow before, sure, but never like this, somewhere so far from home. And to think, they’re not even off the plane yet—what does the rest of the country look like?
But first, they have to make their way through the airport to even remotely see the outside world. Directly outside of the jetway, Castiel leads Dean past a wall of indecipherable letters and numbers for destinations he can’t read, along with English lettering displayed underneath larger-print Japanese characters, all declaring to follow the designated arrows for Customs. And apparently, the rest of the world is with him, passengers from several different flights from every country imaginable joining both him and Castiel on their endless trek through the terminal, past the displays featuring masks and temperature sensors and ‘Quarantine Zones’ for those with fevers. Dean feels his forehead in fear.
“You’re worrying too much,” Castiel says, dodging an orange cone in the middle of the walkway. He’s not worried, really. He’s terrified, both from being in a new country and the constant nagging fear that they won’t accept his passport and they’ll force him to get back on the aluminum death machine and send him back to the States. Sympathetic, Castiel nudges his shoulder, afterwards shrugging towards the backpack slung over his shoulders. “Get our passports and the tickets.”
Passports, right. It’s something to do with his hands, even while they’re walking close to a mile to Customs. He finds them tucked underneath a laptop and slips the tickets into the blue-backed booklets, handing one off to Castiel. “Think I took a pretty good picture, myself,” Dean says once he returns to Castiel’s side, energy waning the longer he walks. Even the nap on the plane failed to calm the anxiety skittering through his nerves, and now he feels it come to a head, adrenaline peaking and beginning to soften, slowing his gait.
Castiel is the only thing that keeps him moving, his hand to the small of Dean’s back, oblivious to the effect he has just with that one touch. Dean immediately heats, prays that Castiel can’t see how his neck reddens the longer Castiel keeps his hand there. Thankfully, Castiel is more interested in the widening hallway before them, and before Dean can fully process it, they enter the Customs terminal and the dozens of agents protected by walls of glass, dozens of people waiting in each line to make their way to the baggage carousels on the other side.
Above the booths, Dean spots one of multiple blue-illuminated flight boards, most signaling when baggage can be expected. JAL1542 is scheduled to arrive in the next ten minutes—they still have time. “You wanna go before or after me?” Dean asks once they make it down the sloped carpeted path to the tile lobby, managing to merge into a lane behind a woman and her twin daughters, both girls engaged in some strange clapping game.
All it does is make Dean’s skin crawl. He needs hand soap, or sanitizer or something before he starts getting hives. “I’ll go after you,” Castiel says, breaking him from his thoughts, all of which consist of scrubbing himself raw over the sleeves of his Henley. “It’ll be safer that way.”
Probably not safer, but it makes sense regardless. If Dean’s passport fails, they can leave together, rather than Castiel being trapped on the other side of the glass while Dean gets ushered away to airport security.
Thankfully, the line gradually progresses through the turnstiles, the average wait time for each person around thirty seconds, from Dean’s guess. A simple process, one he’s only been through once before. Hand the agent the passport and boarding ticket, answer whether he’s there for business or pleasure, and pray all of the documentation matches up with what’s on the computer.
Foolproof—still, his hands sweat the longer he stands there, until he has to unbutton the top button of his shirt to have something to do with his fingers. “Do I look suspicious?” Dean asks in all seriousness.
If anything, Castiel just smirks at him. “You’ve looked more incriminating before, yes. But as of now, you’re fine. You’re up.”
Shit. Moment of truth, he tells himself as he looks forward at the Japanese agent behind the glass wall, too chipper about something. She gives him a grin when he walks forward, her name tag reading Suzumura Naoki. “Is this your first time here?” she asks, motioning her hand for his passport through the small gap above her desktop. Right, passport—get your head on straight, Winchester.
“Yeah,” Dean says, belatedly hoping his grin comes off as secure. In a matter of seconds, she swipes his passport through the slot on her keyboard and double checks the information with whatever comes up on the monitor, then looks between him and the monitor. Again. The longer she stands there typing, the more his nape sweats, fear roiling his gut. This is it—he’s going to puke, or at least pass out, and Castiel will probably laugh at him. Hell, Sam would if he was here.
“You’re clear,” she announces, back to her regularly happy self, and stamps the first page of his passport, right next to the bald eagle and the pledge of allegiance. “Welcome to Japan, Mr. McQueen.”
“Thanks,” Dean says, genuine this time, and progresses through the turnstile to his right. He did it—he’s free, at least free enough to get both his and Castiel’s suitcases. But first, he has to wait and make sure Castiel actually gets through. In all his self-absorbed fear, he never took into account how Castiel must be feeling, whether or not he’s alright on his own—
And he’s out, in what must be a record ten seconds, and passing through the turnstiles, passport in hand and head held high. Any less high-strung, and Dean would laugh; for now, he settles for patting Castiel’s shoulder and jostling him a bit, grinning on the other end of the glass wall. “You didn’t mojo her, did you?” he teases, and it only makes Castiel smile harder, his eyes wrinkling at the edges.
“I think she liked me,” is all Castiel says.
Dean snorts, shakes his head. “You’re not gonna admit to it, are you?”
A grin. “I think our bags are waiting.”
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At night, Shinjuku is alive. Multitudes of colors stream by the bus window on their way from Narita into the city center, over countless bridges and on several highways, winding through traffic in the dark amidst the street lamps and skyscrapers. Even when they pull up to their hotel—a massive white structure jutting straight up into the night, dotted with hundreds of small lit windows—the residents keep moving, either to the underground entrance to the train station or above on the sidewalks, to shopping plazas or the Metropolitan Government Building, or their houses winding somewhere amongst the never ending landscape of side streets and towering buildings stacked one on top of the other, all draped in power lines and lights.
It’s alien, something Dean hasn’t seen except for on television or in movie theaters—and yet, he can’t look away. He stands there on the curb outside of Shinjuku Washington for a long few minutes, even after their bus has unloaded both passengers and bags, staring up at the sky as light snow falls, a few flecks dotting his eyelashes. Castiel stands with him, both hands on the handles of their suitcases, watching the lights with him, until he has to shake the snow from his hair.
“It’s getting late,” Castiel says, the abruptness of it snapping Dean from his reverie. Blinking, Dean glances over to Castiel, Castiel’s cheeks bitten with cold, the tip of his nose and ears red.
They should… go inside, get out of the cold, do something that doesn’t involve Dean cupping Castiel’s face to keep him warm. He opts to trip over his own feet instead, earning a laugh from two scarf-clad girls to their right, both snickering behind their gloved hands before heading to their destination. Castiel abandons the bags long enough to help Dean right himself, hand to his shoulder. “‘M fine,” Dean chokes, embarrassment painting him red. Two hours in the country and he’s already made a spectacle of himself. Still, he lets Castiel pull him up and brush the snow off his jacket, almost on autopilot, eyes never quite meeting Dean’s.
Maybe it’s exhaustion or jet lag, but he can’t help the fondness that overcomes him when Castiel lets him go, offering a smile. “I hope you don’t make a habit of that,” Castiel says, taking hold of his suitcase and leaving Dean to take his own. “I’d hate for you to fall up the stairs somewhere.”
“Bet you’d like to see me bust my ass,” Dean jokes, bumping Castiel’s shoulder once they’re inside the double doors.
Check in requires little effort on their part, thankfully, just handing over their passports to be scanned and verifying the check in information, all done by Castiel two days before they left. By some miracle, they’d managed to get a double room at the last minute, the last one in the hotel before the holiday season kicked in and all of the rooms filled. “Christmas is more of a marketing opportunity here,” Castiel informs Dean, sliding the card key through the slot on their hotel door before jiggling the handle open. “Retailers use it to offer year end deals, but there’s no religious affiliation. Though, the Illuminations should be up now—”
Castiel’s words get lost somewhere between the rush of warm air in their room and the sight of two queen beds, both parallel to the window on the opposite wall, overlooking the streets below and five skyscrapers, office lights bright, even at six in the evening. For the most part, it resembles almost every hotel room he’s ever stayed in, except without mold in the walls and sagging roofs and questionable sheets. Everything smells… clean—sterile, almost, even down to the small desk in the corner, complete with notepads and a coffee maker with actual washable cups.
Though, there’s no sign of the bathroom, aside from the odd cutout in the wall with a latch. “Dude, is the bathroom in the wall?” Dean cuts Castiel off and walks past him, pulling up the latch to yank open the flimsy door to a toilet, sink, and a bathtub that’s too tall and too short to fit him. The whole room, washroom included, has to be less than a hundred and fifty square feet, cramped yet spacious. Save for the bathroom—one grown man fitting into the space is a tight fit, let alone two.
Not that he would invite Castiel in for a celebratory shower, but still.
“I’ve heard the water pressure is something to be desired,” Castiel says, peeking his head in.
Dean nearly clocks himself on the door jamb in his haste to turn around. “Jesus, you’re gonna give me a heart attack,” Dean hisses, almost slurred. Exhaustion is a living thing in his bones now that they’re actually there and stable, all of his instincts telling him to crash from the waning adrenaline and not wake up for another fifteen hours. But he smells like canned air and his hands are probably crawling with God knows what, and a shower sounds like an even better idea.
“There’s a restaurant downstairs,” Castiel says once Dean vacates the bathroom, Dean struggling to find the strength to rummage through his suitcase to find the Ziploc filled with travel bottles and his toothbrush. “If you’re hungry, I could bring you something, or we could try in the morning.”
Mulling it over, Dean pulls the bag from beneath his jeans and places it on the bedsheets. “…Tomorrow,” he affirms; despite the hunger pangs, food remains ultimately unappealing, especially after the last few hours. “Just… tired.”
It’s all he can manage to get out, and inwardly he hopes Castiel understands; human bodies can only handle so much, and confronting every fear in existence in the last day has left him sluggish and praying for the sweet relief of unconsciousness. Thankfully, Castiel gets it, just smiles and begins removing his shoes on his bed, the one closest to the door.
There’s some meaning there, about taking Dean’s spot—whatever it is, Dean doesn’t dwell on it, just waves his Ziploc bag in Castiel’s direction. “If I fall asleep in there, just drag me out.”
Castiel chuckles, throws him a grin. “Let me know how it is.”
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In the midst of a dead sleep, Dean bolts upright, the sheets falling off his chest and into his lap. Not from a nightmare, but sheer realization, absolute terror. This bed isn’t his own—the mattress isn’t the same, the sheets are scratchier than he would like, the pillow too soft under his head. There’s an actual window here, complete with skyscraper view in the dead of night, the lights still pouring in at three in the morning.
Lebanon is a distant memory, and in the next bed, Castiel sleeps on, head buried under his pillow, blocking out the rest of the world. For the first time in a day, it’s quiet save for the heater pumping in warm air overhead and Castiel’s occasional snores.
Dean is here—so far away from home, in a country he only knows from the airport and the view outside of his hotel window, disoriented and confused and afraid. Of what, he doesn’t know; still, he shakes with it, his fists trembling in his lap, clasped together in a small semblance of prayer. He never should have gone through with it, never should have agreed and gotten on that plane or let Castiel book them a week in Tokyo and another in Kyoto. Lebanon—and his bedroom—are his safe place, his one constant in the world that doesn’t involve aircraft or life insurance policies or faking his identity to get into.
But maybe he needs this—maybe Castiel is right in believing Dean needs to see somewhere that’s not the States or the back of his own eyelids. That doesn’t stop the terror that bleeds through his veins though, nor does it quell the anxiety that burns in his stomach, especially from having Castiel so close to him.
This must be a record, he thinks; despite Castiel actually living with them for the last few months, Dean’s still not used to him being around for more than five minutes at a time. It’s been eight years—they’ve been through Heaven and Hell together, they’ve fought Angels and Demons and everything that happens to walk the earth—and there’s still the inkling of a chance that Castiel will leave him for someone better, someone smarter, someone who has their life together.
What if it’s all a ploy? What if he dragged Dean to Japan just to leave him there without the ability to get home? Dean can’t speak the language, can’t even read the street signs without squinting—how is he supposed to navigate without Castiel? For once, he’s not used to relying on someone else that’s not himself, especially someone with such a flighty history.
In the dark, the dawning drags him back down to earth, every ingrained fear and insecurity surfacing the longer he sits there, staring at the rise and fall of Castiel’s breaths and the occasional twitch of his foot underneath the blankets. Castiel swore, on his life, that he would protect Dean, wouldn’t dare leave him, and still, Dean can’t believe it. His skin itches with the constant need for touch, the urge to crawl into bed with him almost unbearable, sentient in his chest. Out of every other hour in their shared existence, Dean has never wanted anything more than the man sleeping just three feet from him.
Yet, he swallows it down and keeps his watch, begins to synchronize his breathing with the slow and steady rise and fall of Castiel’s, until his frantic heart begins to slow and the shivers quiet. He can think about it later, when jet lag isn’t mocking him and he can see things other than streetlamps; for now, he lowers himself back onto the mattress and rolls onto his left side, lets his eyes close to the sight of Castiel sleeping, unaware.
If only that was solace enough.
-+-+-+-
Grayed light greets Dean a mere four hours later, the last vestiges of sleep leaving him as he stumbles his way to alertness, to an alarmingly empty room. Immediately, both shame and terror seize him, and the memories of his near-panic attack earlier that morning flash before his eyes. This is it—Castiel’s finally left him, under the guise of what was supposed to be a vacation. Now, it’s a complete nightmare the longer he stares at Castiel’s vacant bed, the longer he listens to footsteps creep outside the door to his hotel room.
Pulling himself from bed, he reaches over to touch Castiel’s mattress, comforted by the warmth left behind; if he’s gone, then he hasn’t made it far. Maybe if Dean is fast enough, he can catch Castiel before he makes it to the station, or the bus bay, or somewhere. “’S not the time to be running off,” Dean grumbles to himself, more panicked than anything, as he grabs a pair of jeans and pulls them on over his boxer briefs. In his haste, he leaves his jacket in his suitcase and goes for the room key, his hand on the handle when it twists in his grasp.
His first instinct is to go for the intruder; maybe someone mugged Castiel and stole his key, or maybe it’s housekeeping at seven in the morning. Castiel’s bewildered face greets him, two 7/11 bags in hand and his card key between his lips, eyebrows raised. “…Are you going somewhere?” Castiel asks through the key and lets himself inside, stepping past Dean’s currently comatose form. His jacket is dusted in snow, dark hair speckled in melting white flakes.
So he wasn’t leaving. Castiel was just… going shopping. “You—I thought you—” Smooth, Winchester. “Where—Why didn’t you wake me up?”
From the desk, Castiel shrugs and unpacks his bags, setting two loaves of bread, several pre-packaged sandwiches, and four water bottles on the table. “You don’t sleep enough. For what it’s worth, I tried.” He smiles with his following words, “You told me, and I quote, ‘I’m not leaving the toaster.’”
So that wasn’t a dream. Defensively, Dean rubs the back of his neck and ducks his head, fighting back the shame that slowly creeps its way up to his ears. “Sorry,” he mumbles, seating himself on his bed. He scratches at his ankle with his toe, his shoulders slumping as he sits there, ruminating on it. Fear still sits heavy in his gut, coupled with the embarrassment that previously sent him ready to run through a foreign city just to find where Castiel had vanished. Maybe it’s the crushing loneliness that terrifies him, or this other weight that’s tearing at his heart, a feeling he can’t quite make out yet, something akin to affection or longing or—
No. Swallowing, Dean looks down to his bare feet and curls his toes against the carpet. He’s not in… love with Castiel. Or, if he lets himself think about it long enough, he is, and it’s even more terrifying knowing that Castiel won’t stay forever, or that he won’t return the sentiment. Or worse, Castiel will reject him and leave.
There’s no use crying about it, Dean tells himself and sucks in a breath, lets it out through his nose. Just keep it to yourself. He doesn’t need to worry about you, anyway.
“I have a list of places to visit,” Castiel informs him, enough of a jolt to startle him halfway across the bed. Before him, Castiel stands with one of the sandwiches in hand, holding it out for Dean to take. Dean does with some reluctance, his nerves still firing, especially so early in the morning. “There’s a World Heritage site within an hour’s train ride that I’ve been researching. There are several shrines and a monkey sanctuary, and on clear days, you can see Mt. Fuji.”
It sounds interesting, to say the least—minus the monkeys. The last thing he needs is to be mauled on a trail. Glancing to the window, he watches the snow fall, the entire horizon dotted in white flakes. Not as hard as he predicted, but enough to send a shiver through his veins just from the thought. “You sure we should go today?” Dean ventures, looking back to Castiel, Castiel now filling the mini fridge underneath the desk with the sandwiches and two of the water bottles. “They still run the trains when the weather’s like this?”
“It would take an astronomical amount of snow for them to call off transit,” Castiel replies, hands on his knees when he stands. That’s good, at least, the fear of being stranded barely easing the tension in his shoulders. Absently, he picks at the sandwich wrapper while Castiel watches, eventually taking a seat next to Dean, one ankle propped up on his knee, other foot on the floor. “…You’re upset about something,” Castiel mentions, imploring.
Dean just lets out a breath, head lowered. They should talk, or Dean should at least say something, anything to calm himself down, or keep himself from hurling, either one. But he can’t; even when he tries, his voice comes out in a croak, only prompting Castiel to rub his nape with firm hands, until Dean’s practically melting into his touch. “Bad dream, I guess,” Dean eventually mutters, eyes closed while Castiel subjects him to a massage, thumbs working deep into the knots probably permanently ingrained into his muscles. “’N when you woke up, I thought you—”
“I told you before,” Castiel affirms, steady and true, “I won’t leave you. I know it doesn’t mean much from me given everything”—Dean can’t help but snort, earning a particularly hard jab into his shoulder blade—“but I’d like to make it up to you. Let me take over, okay?” He pulls away far enough for Dean to chase his touch, affection gripping his heart and twisting it until he can’t breathe. And Castiel doesn’t even know—probably can’t even fathom what he’s doing and what effect it’s having, but Dean craves it all the same. “You’ve done your share in life. If anything, let me do something for you, for once.”
“You don’t have to,” Dean sighs, somehow gathering the courage that previously threatened to vacate the city limits. “Trust me, I can handle myself—”
“I’m asking you to trust someone else,” Castiel says, eyes firm. Dean swallows under the attention, fighting the instinct to duck his head and just take whatever abuse Castiel can deliver. But Castiel isn’t his father—Castiel wouldn’t hurt him, wouldn’t dare. “Dean, look at me.” This time, it’s an order, only softer, pleading. The bedding is more interesting though, along with the loose threads in his jeans. “Dean.”
“I’m trying, okay?” Dean huffs. “Trust me, Cas. I’m tryin’ my damnedest to accept the fact that you’re here, but it’s… Every part of me is tellin’ me you’re gonna fuck off just like everyone else—”
“I’m not.” It’s rough, but it’s the assurance Dean needs to ground himself. “And I won’t. And I’ll tell you however many times you need, I’m not going anywhere.”
It feels like a lie, like Castiel is telling what he wants to hear. Whether or not it’s the truth, Dean takes it and clings to it, lets it soothe the ache in his heart that builds every time they lock eyes, every time he longs for Castiel’s warmth, his hands, his everything.
It’ll go away, Dean thinks. It’s just because you’re in the same room together. It doesn’t mean anything.
But he wants it to mean something, more than anything.
“…Fine,” Dean says, finally, brushes off his knees. “You still wanna go?”
Castiel offers him a smile, barely cracking his lips. “Eat first. We’ll go to the station once we’re dressed.”
-+-+-+-
One weekend, he and Sam snuck out of their motel room outside New York City to ride the subway, purely for the experience. Miles upon miles of underground rail systems linking anywhere in the city, any neighborhood, any location. Shinjuku Station isn’t like that—it’s larger, running on impossibly precise schedules with thousands of people traversing the turnstiles and ticket booths and platforms all at once, everyone filing past Dean and Castiel to their destinations.
To work, for leisure, to shop, Dean doesn’t know—can’t concentrate on much, not with how fast they walk through the station in search of Chuo Line, leading to some place called Takao-San, as Castiel keeps calling it. A cursory Google search before they left to brave the snow informed him it was Mt. Takao, a park within an hour’s ride from the city into the mountains. Wherever it is, it better have central heating.
Majority of the population this morning is waiting in single file lines on the double-sided platform, all behind a large yellow painted stripe on the floor, about a foot away from the dropoff into the track bed. Overhead wires drape along the ceiling and lead out of the terminal, joining the multitude of wires Dean familiarizes himself with, solely because they’re everywhere, direct current as far as he can see.
“It’s different,” Dean mentions while they wait, looking down at the gray-and-green card in his hand, SUICA printed across the front along with his name in Japanese, ウィンチェスターディーン様. A penguin greets him, happy about something Dean’s not aware of. “Y’know, with the wires.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Castiel shrugs, turning enough to see both the train potentially arriving and Dean’s face. “I’ve been on a train once, but that was decades ago. Cargo compartments aren’t exactly as comfortable as they portray them in film.”
Dean snorts. “Why were you there?” he says with a grin, folding his arms around himself. He can just see it now, Castiel huddled in the back of a freight car draped in a moth eaten blanket, donning a beard and even wilder hair. “What, thought you’d slum it for a while?”
A horn blares down the tunnel, still half a minute out. Once it silences and the mass of people finish readying themselves, Castiel continues, “I was looking for my sister at the time. She was just a fledgling, and someone managed to summon her before she could fly. Signs led us to believe she was living in a community along the California coast, so we had to blend in.” Eyes to the tiled floor, Castiel spares a glance to Dean before looking back to the platform, where a flat-faced train begins to slow to a stop.
Dean nudges him when the doors open and the car’s occupants flood out, and together they file on, occupying a spot near the middle of the train, their backs to the window. They’re not the only foreigners here, Dean notices; there’s a few most likely European girls near the front gripping the overhead handles, and a Nigerian man chatting up someone who couldn’t look even the slightest bit interested on the other side. Castiel isn’t even the only one wearing a trench coat, either—granted, he’s the only one not wearing a suit underneath, only donning a heavy sweater and a pair of ratty jeans.
Any other time of the year, and Dean wouldn’t be wearing the heaviest coat he owns, black cashmere stolen from one of the Letter’s extensive closets. Surprisingly, it fits well and isn’t riddled with holes, and Dean wears it with pride, even if it does smell like nearly seventy years’ worth of dust after three washings.
Hands in his pockets, he watches the city go by once the train pulls from the station, skyscrapers with unreadable signage passing at high speed, along with apartment buildings with laundry hanging from the balconies. Snow covers the ground alongside the tracks, blurring in between stops, the scenery eventually drowned in white. “What happened to her?” Dean asks after a while, fiddling with his phone in his lap; he can’t get service here, but there’s still games he can tinker with, or music, if he bothers to pull his earbuds from his interior coat pocket. “Your sister.”
Castiel hums, looking up to the ceiling as the train rocks from side to side. “We found her after a few weeks,” he says, blinking at the overhead lights. “She had been living in an orphanage, unaware of who she was or why every time she spoke, all of the other girls cried.”
“The voice thing?” Dean asks, and Castiel nods.
“She hadn’t learned how to contain herself yet,” Castiel adds, wistful. “How she managed to find a vessel is still beyond most of us, but she was smart. …I still wonder if she’s alive, sometimes, if she’s one of the ones that survived the fall.”
Dean inhales, lets out a sigh. Around them, the train races down the tracks, disappearing in and out of tunnels and stations, all as the seconds, minutes tick on, uninterrupted. “There’s probably a way, you know,” Dean mentions, pulling up Scrabble and handing the phone over to Castiel. “To find her. If that’s somethin’ you’d wanna do.”
“Perhaps.” Castiel passes the phone back, his first move already taking up the longest spot on the board. God, he cheats. “She’s resourceful, though. Wherever she is, I hope she’s happy.”
Nodding, Dean fills in five squares echoing the same sentiment before handing it over. For everyone’s sake, Dean hopes she’s alive.
-+-+-+-
“Swear to God, if you make me climb this damn mountain—”
“It’s a mile,” Castiel rolls his eyes. “What did you think I meant by hiking?”
Dean steps off the funicular, his face immediately bombarded with snow. Inadvertently, he swallows some, the flakes melting on his tongue before he has time process what happened. “I didn’t think you meant that far,” he whines, head to the sky.
He knows he shouldn’t complain—this was Castiel’s idea, and Castiel wanted him to enjoy himself, no matter if it meant hiking over a mile up a steep, muddy trail to the summit. Hands in his pockets, Dean shivers with the cold, only moving with Castiel’s encouragement, a hand to the small of his back. The trailhead is only a short walk ahead, a solid dozen people at their front, some couples, others grandparents with their grandkids. A few women are in jogging gear, apparently ready to run an uphill marathon.
And here Dean is, out of place with an Angel at his side, cold and whining like he’s never been in twenty degree weather before. “You’ll like it,” Castiel assures; Dean doesn’t believe him, purely out of pettiness. “Do you still have the cameras we brought?”
Of course he does. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a yellow disposable camera, still with at least twenty photos on the roll; the other seven, Dean doesn’t exactly remember what they are or when they were taken. Knowing him, it’s probably of something in the library or the inside of his jacket. There’s still a few rolls of undeveloped film on his desk back home, from the collection he’s steadily beginning to grow, solely because he can now. He has a home, an occasional income when he and Sam pawn something off to another hunter, and a few empty photo albums dating back over a hundred years.
This way, he can keep the memories he makes.
Like now. Castiel wanders ahead while Dean fiddles with the power and looks through the viewfinder, managing to snap the back of Castiel’s head and a large staircase surrounded by red lantern posts and snow. If Castiel hears the click, he doesn’t let it show, just shoves his hands in his pockets while Dean catches up.
Googling the site in full probably would’ve been a great idea, Dean considers in hindsight; most of the places Castiel outlined for their trip, he’s never even heard of aside from one, but compared to the National Parks back in the States, it’s vastly different. Several shines are set up along the way when they eventually happen upon concrete, all decorated with handwritten signs and small offerings left underneath the pitched tin roofs, an occasional candle lit inside, out of the way of the weather. Though the forests very much resemble every one he’s ever seen, there’s something different about it, something he can’t put his finger on.
Maybe it’s the fact that there’s nothing there waiting for him. For once, nothing is planning to jump out at him and rip his arm out of its socket, or drag him off into a cave to eat him. The only thing that remains a constant is Castiel at his side, his nose and cheeks bitten with the cold, hair and shoulders dusted in white. Dean’s not faring any better, really, especially as the flurries pick up, falling softly through the gaps in the trees to gather along the paths. If only the weather were better, then he could enjoy it without wanting to huddle for warmth or steal Castiel’s coat.
Can he even feel it, anyway? Or the sleeping and eating and everything else, is Castiel allowing himself to feel humanity because he wants to, or for Dean’s benefit? In a way, it’s almost endearing, seeing Castiel loiter amongst humans, if not the slightest bit terrifying. Not that Dean thinks Castiel would ever cast out his Grace, but still—what would happen if he did?
“You’re thinking,” Castiel mentions while they step onto a muddied path, the incline killing Dean’s knees. Castiel watches him, occasionally brushing the snow from his own hair, rucking it up in every direction. Before he can control himself, Dean reaches up to smooth it back down, the temporary warmth of Castiel’s scalp soothing his frigid fingers. Even then, Castiel doesn’t comment, just smiles long enough for Dean to get the wrong impression. “What is it?”
“Just…” Swallowing, Dean turns to look ahead, at the asphalt lot just beyond the trees and a large gathering of people near what he suspects is an overlook, or maybe another shrine. How many are there, anyway? “You’re sleeping now. You haven’t really talked about it.”
Castiel exhales, his breath coming out in a fine mist from his nose. “Things are… different now,” he starts, quiet.
Stepping off the path, they happen upon another small shrine up a staircase, painted red and decorated with paper streamers hanging from the tin roof; a group of schoolchildren gather around the front while their teacher instructs them to pray. At least, that’s what it looks like she’s doing; from his angle, Dean can barely see anything aside from blue-and-white uniforms.
“Like what?” Dean asks, rubbing his hands together. He stops when Castiel asks for the camera, and they stand by a bench while Castiel snaps a picture of the shrine, tree limbs bowing with the weight of the snow. “It’s been…”
“A little over half a year.” Castiel hands the camera back and urges Dean to walk, hand to the small of his back. “Since God left, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“That’s…” There’s no use in denying it, after all. The departure of both God and Amara in the epic showdown-that-wasn’t left all three of them rattled and confused, Dean more so than any of them; though, he supposes, carrying around hundreds of thousands of souls with the intent of blowing himself up would do that to anyone. Sam was more than thrilled that he didn’t have to dig a symbolic grave for his brother, in the end, and Castiel never let Dean out of his sights for at least two weeks afterwards, always convinced that Dean would burst at any moment, because if there’s any constant in their lives, it’s that if something goes right, then another three things have to crumble in its wake.
But nothing. Dean and Sam still hunt with Castiel at their side, and Castiel lives with them in his own bedroom, eating and sleeping and pissing just like the best of them. Yet, he’s still an Angel—or, half of one, at least.
Castiel wipes his nose with the back of his glove, his cheeks pink from the cold. “My Grace is still intact, and I doubt it’s going anywhere anytime soon. But I’ve been living with you and Sam for a while now, and I…” He stops, looks to the dirt path ahead, the soles of his tennis shoes sodden with mud. “I don’t want to be the proverbial ghost wandering the halls. I can feel things this way.” He smiles, just enough to deepen the wrinkles around his eyes; Dean huffs, hiding his own amusement. “I feel the exhaustion after a hunt, the sting of wounds. My bones ache, I’m hungry. I’m nervous when something happens to either of you, I’m—”
“Human,” Dean finishes; if it’s what Castiel was planning to say, he doesn’t know. Castiel nods either way, head tipped to the snowy cedars surrounding them; snow gathers on his nose, a flake gracing his eyelashes. “So you just… wanted to blend in?”
“I suppose I wanted to be more like you,” Castiel shrugs. Dean grits his teeth, his fingers flexing in his pockets. “We’re not fighting the world anymore, Dean. Lucifer is dead, God and Amara are gone, the Mark is banished, Crowley and Rowena are in the wind… and all is right. The apocalypse hasn’t started just because we’re finally free.”
But free of what? They still hunt, they still crisscross the country and put on thousands of miles a week heading from one place to another. They still live in a town with more houses than people. They still drink, eat, sleep on decade’s old beds with no money in their wallets, and all but one of them is legally dead. Though their own personal body count is no longer rising, the memories of those who’ve perished because of them are still fresh, hanging on in the back of his mind. The would’s, could’s, should’s, all of them endless, weigh him down, body and soul.
There’s nothing free about this, Dean thinks, dusts the snow from his hair. Nothing about this life is free.
“Did you ever think you’d do it?” Dean ventures, nudging Castiel’s elbow. “Y’know, spend your whole life as an Angel and then decide you want anchovies on your pizza?”
Castiel laughs, his shoulders shaking. “A few years ago, probably not. Things have changed, though. Feelings, reasons, meaning…”
Something hangs on the end of Castiel’s words, something he may not even be aware of. Yet, Dean still longs to reach for it, especially when Castiel looks to him, lips parted, a syllable on his tongue—a screaming child interrupts whatever he planned to say, the girl and her friend running headlong around them towards another gravel clearing, this one more populated, finally flat. Later—Later, he’ll delve into what Castiel meant. “It’s up there,” Castiel says, pointing past end of the forest.
“Thank God,” Dean wheezes, throwing his hands in the air. He doesn’t know how long it’s been—an hour, maybe two—but they made it, toes and all. Snow crunches beneath their shoes when they step out of the mud, the gray sky greeting them, along with a throng of people about fifty feet ahead, all looking out over the stone railing, probably at the trees or a mountain or something. Whatever it is, Dean can’t see it. “Please tell me going down’s easier than back up.”
“I assure you,” Castiel says, amused, and pats Dean’s shoulder. “Come, you should see this.”
There’s not much to see really—or, at least, that’s what Dean suspects before he descends the few steps to the overlook, squeezing in between a Japanese woman and a foreigner, possibly from Canada. “On a clear day, you can see all the way to Fuji,” Castiel remarks, entranced with the landscape. Even Castiel isn’t enough to keep Dean from staring, awestruck, at the field of snow-clad trees stretched out before him, valleys and peaks coated, limbs eerily still in the weather. A few crows perch atop the highest branches, pecking holes wherever they can to find food.
All is calm. Dean scrubs his face, willing his eyes to behave, lest his tears freeze on his cheeks. “Really,” he says, stopping to clear his throat, “is somethin’, isn’t it?”
Castiel looks over to him, mirth in his eyes as he smiles. “When was the last time you saw a view like this?”
Admittedly not in a long, long while, Dean considers. Antsy, he places his hands on the stone wall, gloved fingers crunching the snow beneath them. “Have you seen it before?” Beside him, Castiel nods. “Can you tell me what it’s like?”
“Vast,” Castiel answers, snowflakes catching on the tips of his hair. “Much like this, but different with every visit. Some days, you can’t see farther than your hand, and others, you can watch the snow melt on Fuji’s peak.”
Dean snorts. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?” Turning, Castiel leans his hip against the wall, arms folded across his chest. “I’ll take you, if you want.”
For a brief second, he reaches across to cup Dean’s elbow, warm over the fabric of his coat, almost scalding. Dean just looks down at his shoes, at the snow gathering atop his sneakers. “I’d… like that,” he admits, hands now back in his pockets. “…What’re you gonna do, fly us?”
It’s meant as a joke, but Castiel just grins and squeezes him tighter before dropping his hand. “In time, Dean,” he soothes, and looks back to the forest. “I’ll show you.”
-+-+-+-
The sun comes out on a Thursday, for the first time since Dean left America and Castiel began to cart him across the metropolitan area to all of the various precincts and local and national parks their legs could handle. Though it’s not much, a few peeks between the clouds here and there, Dean basks in the light from his bed, turning under the sheets to let it blind him until the warmth baking his skin becomes too much and he’s forced to hide.
It’s barely eight in the morning, he notices when he rolls back over to look at the bedside clock, and Castiel is still asleep, no skin visible aside from a few fingers underneath his ever growing nest. As much as Dean is both loath and amazed to admit it, he’s been sleeping in later recently, waking after the sun rises behind the clouds to the hum of the overhead heater, and long before Castiel decides to drag himself to the land of the living. Really taking the human thing to heart, Dean thinks and sits up, stretching his arms above his head until his spine pops in three places and he can actually move without his muscles immediately aching from overexertion.
It doesn’t make sense, when he thinks about it, pulling himself from bed to gather a fresh change of clothes from his suitcase, the last clean pair of jeans he has and a shirt he’s worn at least once. Out of all the traveling he and Sam do on a yearly basis, all of the running and grave digging and dealing with the cramped confines of his own car, he always figured he would’ve been in better shape than he is. As of now, his legs protest with every step he talks, and even stepping into the tub in the bathroom is a feat that forces him to grab onto the wall.
For the last few days, all they’ve done is walk. Not run, but walk—leisurely strolls, hikes up and down mountains, treks to shrines and temples and a walk around a park in Shinjuku that Dean still swears they rounded about five times, based on how many times he saw the same squirrel in the same tree. Yet, it’s never tiresome, no matter how many times he thinks back on it. Somehow, with Castiel at his side, he forgets the exhaustion in his limbs and his aching feet, he forgets the fact that it hasn’t stopped snowing since they arrived.
If only he could forget Castiel’s warmth, though, just from proximity and the lingering touches Dean swears are platonic. They have to be—they’ve been doing this dance for years, hands on shoulders and hips, glances that last too long and lips not quite where they’re meant to be. They’ve never mentioned it, and if Dean is brave enough to think about it, he’s never even thought of bringing it up, either. The longer he can swallow it down and convince himself Castiel is just being a good friend hell-bent on breaking Dean out of his shell, the longer Dean can have to come to terms with this tremor in his heart every time he even dares to look in Castiel’s direction.
It’s gone on long enough—and it’ll go on longer if he has anything to do with it.
The warmth of the bath water soothes the near-permanent ache in his bones as he sits in the tub, knees bent above the water, his back leaning against the white-tiled wall. Idly, he listens to the water occasionally dripping from the faucet and the heater shutting off outside the bathroom, his own breaths his only company in the early morning hours. At least, until the door pops open and Castiel’s sleep-mussed head peeks around the corner, startling Dean into nearly hurling himself from the tub; he settles for flailing wildly and splashing water onto the tile floor, all of it heading down the drain underneath the sink.
“Cas,” he sputters, belatedly trying to hide whatever’s vital, despite the height of the tub’s wall doing most of the work for him. Castiel just snickers from across the room and enters, seating himself atop the toilet lid. “I could’ve sworn we had the privacy talk—”
“We did,” Castiel shrugs, “but I was wondering if you left. I didn’t see you in bed.”
“Gonna give me a coronary or something,” Dean says, palming through his hair, strands wet between his fingers. With a thump, he sits back and leans his head on the wall, all with his arms crossed, out of sight of Castiel. Not that Castiel is looking at him, either way. He’s fiddling with his phone in his lap, thumbing away on some website Dean can’t see. “Knee’s actin’ up again,” Dean mentions, turning his head to see Castiel finally relinquish his phone, setting it on the edge of the sink.
“You should’ve let me heal it last year.” Castiel covers his mouth with a yawn, eyes pinched shut. “You’ve been favoring your other leg recently.”
“’S the cold,” Dean adds. Absently, he rubs the scar over his kneecap, letting his nails scrape over the ridge. Arthritis, probably, from a life of too much strain and that one stumble down the stairs that left him with a bum leg and an even worse ankle. “I bought one of those dime store compression sleeves last month, guess I forgot to pack it.”
“Does it help?” Castiel cocks his head, hands in his lap, practically twitching to do something, to at least ease the ache in Dean’s bones.
Dean nods after a moment, still unsure. “Probably some placebo effect thing, but at least it doesn’t feel like pins and needles when I get outta bed.”
“Still, I hate to know you’re hurting.” It’s so nonchalant that Dean almost misses the sincerity of it, the softness of Castiel’s expression when he looks away, his words almost a whisper. Still, they ring clear, tugging at Dean’s heartstrings, the tips of his ears pink. Castiel doesn’t notice either way, instead occupying himself with his phone, thumbs tapping away at something. “We’re leaving Tokyo today,” Castiel reminds Dean, then hands over his phone.
Dean holds it over the floor, scanning the listed email, half of it in English. “You get us a bus ticket or somethin’?”
“Something faster,” Castiel says, amused. “Shinkansen.”
Despite his limited Japanese, most of his current knowledge stemming from anime and the words Castiel has taught him from restaurant menus and street signs, he knows that word. “No way,” Dean breathes, his chest tight. Anticipation burns through him, his stomach suddenly in knots. “Dude, the bullet train?”
“It’s one of the fastest links to Kyoto from Tokyo,” Castiel explains. He reaches for his phone again, and Dean hands it over without delay. “It leaves from Tokyo station around noon. We’ll have to pick up our tickets at reception, but we should be in one of the first cars.”
In all of his life, Dean has ridden on very few trains, and only for work-related reasons: Amtrak up the Atlantic coast to New York City, an empty freight car speeding through Wyoming, a tourist train circling the Grand Canyon’s rim. But none of them have gone faster than top speed of the Impala, and none of them can get him halfway across the country in just over an hour. It shouldn’t be as exciting as it is, but it’s all so new, something he hasn’t tried. Something he didn’t think he’d be able to even attempt, before now.
Before Castiel.
He can’t help the smile that splits his lips, especially when Castiel returns it in full, not even bothering to hide a laugh. “I’d hug you if I weren’t…” Dean waves at the bathtub, the water now lukewarm at best. So much for keeping warm. “So, when’re you…”
“Whenever you’re ready,” Castiel suggests. “We still have to pack, but there’s this pastry shop in Shibuya I’ve wanted to stop by. We’re headed in that direction, anyway.”
Nodding, Dean sits up and stretches his arms above his head, grunting when his spine pops. “At least tell me it’s gonna be warmer today,” he groans, both arms slung over the side of the tub.
Castiel’s laughter reverberates through the bathroom even after he leaves, the door still wide open. “It’s snowing in Kyoto.”
“Great,” Dean mutters and pulls himself back into the tub, intentionally submerging his face under the water to wet his hair. Gonna freeze my balls off before I make it home.
-+-+-+-
Compared to Shinjuku Station about an hour before, Tokyo Station is considerably more lax, only a few less people filing through its winding, cavernous maze of corridors and platform entrances and exits. The same dual language signs adorn the ceiling above their heads, all pointing to either the rapid trains or the different Shinkansen lines, heading either north to Hokkaido or west to Osaka and Kumamoto, or northwest to Nagano and Niigata.
It’s amazing people can find their way here, even the locals. Dean’s flustered just looking at the map while Castiel gets their tickets from the booth by the turnstiles. All of the locations are spelled out in English underneath each city’s kanji, more places than he even figured could be on a single train line, especially for a vehicle traveling that fast. Thankfully, before he can successfully panic from hearing Castiel wander up behind him, he catches Castiel waving as he walks over, two paper tickets in hand.
Dean waves back, barely bothering to uncurl his gloved fingers before shoving his hand back into his coat pocket. “How long’s this trip?” he asks once Castiel joins him, both of them looking over the map painted onto a support beam in the middle of the station.
“Almost three hours,” Castiel answers. He places his finger atop Kyoto, just barely covering Shin-Osaka. “I got you a window seat. We’re in the Green car, in case you wanted to nap.”
Napping does sound good; there’s only so much snow he can see in one lifetime, and he’s topping that threshold. But somehow, he doesn’t think Castiel will let him sleep for very long, especially if he keeps talking like he does whenever they board a train, always something about the buildings they pass or the history of each rail stop and the city it goes through. Never in Dean’s life would he have considered Castiel, holiest Angel to ever step foot in his life, to be an insufferable chatterbox.
At least he’s good company, all things considered.
Past the turnstiles, Dean and Castiel stop near the middle of the platform, Dean watching the time table above their heads count down to the next arrival. Nozomi is still another thirty minutes out, with Kodama arriving sometime after the next hour. Hikari, as Castiel previously named, is three minutes out, with the next stop Shin-Yokohama. Dean tightens his hand around the handle of his suitcase while he waits, alternating between staring down the track and watching Castiel type something into a message box on his phone, afterwards sending whatever it is and shoving it into his pocket.
Strange. “Doin’ something you shouldn’t?” Dean quips. “You got a blog I should know about?”
Castiel just smirks, all the bit conspiratorial. “Nothing you need to be concerned about.”
“C’mon,” Dean whines, throwing his head back for emphasis. Behind him, a young girl, maybe three years old, laughs behind her hand. “Tell me, are you talking to Sammy behind my back? Sending each other cat pics?”
“There’s been no exchanging of cats,” Castiel says, mocking exasperated. “He’s wondering how you’re doing. You didn’t talk to him this morning.”
“…Crap,” Dean groans, looking up to the ceiling as a horn sounds through the station. With all of the packing and running from train to train, contacting Sam somehow managed to slip his mind. At least Castiel was keeping contact, but that doesn’t help ease the guilt now sitting in his chest. It’s just a Skype call, he reminds himself, shakes himself out of it by the time the Shinkansen begins to slow into the station, the train finally coming to rest before their feet.
A throng of people pour from the open doors, filing past Dean and Castiel to the respective exits on either end of the station, gone as soon as they appeared. Tickets in hand, they maneuver through the car to find their seats, Dean immediately sliding into the window seat before Castiel can even think about sitting down. Dean just offers a grin and stows his suitcase in front of his legs, pulling Castiel’s in after.
Dean is barely settled before the doors slide closed and the train begins to move, thankfully with everyone seated inside. Families traveling for vacation, a few businessmen probably headed to the next city, a woman with her dog’s head peeking out from inside a small duffel bag—everyone settles in, some idly reading through books, other on their phones.
Castiel busies himself with neither, solely sitting with his hands in his lap, head back and eyes closed. He looks peaceful there, the crow’s feet smoothed at the corner of his eyes, breaths even and slow. “He’s not mad,” he says, one eye cracked open; Dean flushes and looks out the window, at the trees passing by in a blur. “Though, most of your calls take place when he’s asleep. I’m sure he appreciated being able to sleep in.”
True enough; the concept of time zones hadn’t exactly crossed his mind until he woke up the first morning, struggling to figure out what time it was in Lebanon with a spotty internet connection. The only time Dean worked out was six in the afternoon, approximately four in the morning back in South Dakota. Not that Sam wasn’t halfway awake by that hour, but Sam deserves to rest, especially without Dean in his hair at all hours of the day. Another week of this, and Sam might snap.
“Probably right,” Dean mumbles.
Turning away from the window, he spots Castiel looking at him, something soft in his eyes that warms Dean down to his toes, even warmer than the heating unit pumping in warm air above their heads. It’s the same look he’s had since they got there, hell, since Dean won the lottery, in fact. If Dean thought about it, he could probably trace it back further, years of hidden glances and memories he still wishes he could forget, even on his best days. As of right now, he’s stuck on a train with a few hundred other people next to a nondescript Angel that’s looking at him like—no.
No.
Immediately, Castiel’s face drops, admiration turning to concern, brows knitting. “Is something wrong?” he asks, reaching over for Dean’s hand.
Before Dean can control himself, he pulls away and drops both hands into his lap, beginning to tap his foot against the carpeted floor. “It’s… nothing,” he lies, turning to watch the scenery pass outside with Castiel’s eyes on the back of his neck, a lingering gaze Dean can’t help but feel down into his very soul.
-+-+-+-
Oyado Ishicho is a lovely hotel, really—tucked away about fifteen minutes from Kyoto Station alongside the river, with a beautiful front lobby and even better ambiance, far away from the rumble of car engines and the constant chatter that filled Tokyo’s streets on a daily basis. But all Dean cares about, as soon as he steps into their room on the fourth floor and slips off his shoes, is finding a bed, or at least some place to sit down to rest his legs. Traveling with luggage, even a week later, is taking its toll, and the last thing he wants at this very moment is to take another step that doesn’t involve him falling face first into a mattress.
But instead of finding a bed, Dean slides open the panel door to their living area and finds a nearly empty room, a low table sitting in the middle of the tatami floor with four cushions tucked partially underneath it. A television sits in the far corner, adjacent to another wall of paneled doors leading to a much smaller seating area, looking out at the homes next door, complete with laundry hanging from their porch lines.
“I think we got robbed,” is all Dean can muster, treading his socked feet on the mats while Castiel carries both of their suitcases into the room, setting them on the raised shelf underneath what looks to be a closet. For the last twenty minutes, from the time they arrived at the station to when they stepped out of their taxi, Castiel hasn’t said a word except to talk to the taxi driver or to check in, his face somber, almost downcast. Now, he covers his mouth, eyes pinched shut in a yawn. It’s been a long day; Dean can emphasize.
“Beds are in the closet,” Castiel says, thumbing to the closet at his back. He kneels to go through his bag, pulling out a set of pajamas for himself and his toothbrush.
The clock on the wall reads 7:20; too early for bed, but just enough time to settle down for the night, or maybe a nap in case they plan on heading to the restaurant two blocks down. Whatever it is, Castiel looks ready to crash for about two days; Dean probably doesn’t look any better, based on how his bones creak when he walks to the closet, reaching in to find two rolled futons and two sets of white-and-blue patterned yukata.
Dean has slept on the floor before: on his bare back, on concrete slabs, in the middle of fields when he’s knocked flat on his ass. Hell, he’s slept in truck stop bathrooms with nothing but the clothes on his back and the few singles in his wallet. But this, pulling the two mattresses free and spreading them out on the floor, both on either sides of the room, is different. Simpler, almost, calmer when he runs his fingers over the plush comforter, lets his hand push down into the thick bedding.
“It’s not what you’re used to,” Castiel says, his bare feet stopping beside Dean’s knee; he hands over a pillow and tosses the other onto his bed, afterwards sitting next to Dean on the mat floor, “but I think you’ll enjoy it. It’s been years since I’ve felt one in person.”
Idly, Dean watches Castiel rub at his shoulder, a vain attempt to relieve whatever tension he’s carrying. “Thought you weren’t supposed to be getting back aches,” Dean comments, worry betraying his confidence. Castiel shrugs him off, but continues kneading his skin, at least until Dean pushes his hand away and replaces it with his own, digging his thumbs in deep enough to Castiel’s nape to draw out a moan. “Think you’re taking this humanity thing a bit too far, don’t you think?”
Castiel doesn’t speak—or can’t, probably, with the way Dean’s pushing into the meat of his neck, obviously alleviating something there. Slowly, Dean eases away the knots between his shoulders until Castiel is pliant and humming in his hands, head lolling back on occasion and finally ending up against Dean’s shoulder, his nose tucked against Dean’s neck. Too intimate, even for them; yet, Dean lets him lay there, eventually lowering his hands to his lap when Castiel regains his sensibilities and pulls away, still too sluggish to do much on his own.
“Cas,” Dean whispers, watching Castiel blink himself awake and shake the looseness out of his limbs. “C’mon, this ain’t normal.”
“I’m fine,” is all Castiel mutters before he breaks into another yawn, not even bothering to cover his mouth this time. Still, Dean narrows his eyes in skepticism, nudging Castiel’s shoulder for him to go on. “Really. If I wanted, I could heal myself. I could follow you as I have for the last few years with my Grace, and I could tend to whatever you needed without sparing myself a second thought.”
Dean blinks, lets out a long breath. “You’re doing this because you’re bored.”
“I’d like to think of it as tired,” Castiel offers. He turns to Dean, his expression soft, approachable in the fluorescent light overhead; if he wanted, Dean could touch him, cup his cheek and feel the warmth there, stroke his thumb over the dark circles underneath his eyes and tell him he’s fine, he’ll be alright. For now, he listens as Castiel continues, “I’m… incredibly old. I’ve spent eons feeling nothing, and I’ve been given the chance to live again, to have control over my life, what I want my future to be. And I’ve chosen to feel everything. Pain, hope, joy and defeat, I want it all.”
Before Dean can comprehend the situation, Castiel reaches over to caress his cheek, imitating every fantasy Dean has ever wanted; red floods his face the longer Castiel looks at him, the longer he keeps his hand there, until Dean falls into it, entranced, his eyes fluttering shut. “Cas,” Dean whispers, the words caught in his throat when Castiel pulls away; he’s gone before Dean can even return the touch or even ask why, across the room and lying atop his bed face down.
Huh. “Cas?” Dean repeats. No response, aside from a snore and the hum of the heater pumping in warm air from the single vent near the television. Outside beyond the paneled doors, snow begins to fall in thick flakes, the first of the day.
Meanwhile, the longer Dean listens to the silence surrounding him, the more his heart flutters, confused and terrified with no answers in sight. Not as long as Castiel remains silent and keeps to himself, not as long as Castiel keeps leading him across the country on a mission to keep Dean occupied, to hide the truth lingering around every corner, the meaning behind every touch, every look, everything imaginable.
Clenching his fist, Dean lets his hand drop onto his pillow, deflating under his weight.
-+-+-+-
The snow hasn’t stopped by the following morning, a few sluggish flakes still making their way from the gray sky above their heads, decorating Dean’s shoulders and dusting Castiel’s hair the minute they step onto the grounds of Fushimi Inari, ascending the occasional step through the shopping stalls lining the cobbled streets. For Christmas Eve, it’s relatively packed, filled mostly with tourists trying to take in the sights before the holiday rolls around, at least for them. “It’s marketing,” Castiel explains, pausing to bow before a large torii and urging Dean to follow his lead. “They’re just making sales.”
“Still ain’t gonna stop me from buying you something,” Dean shoots back with a grin, earning a halfhearted shake of the head from Castiel. “C’mon. There’s shops everywhere, and I already know what I’m gonna pick up for Sam.” There’s a yukata in one of the vendor stalls with Sam’s name on it, the perfect length for his frame without the risk of it dragging on the floor: black with blue embellishments along the cuffs, and a long blue stripe falling from the collar to the tail. Hopefully, it’ll still be there when they leave. “What do you want for Christmas?”
Castiel shrugs, filling the silence with a drawn out sigh, mist pouring from his nose. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Isn’t this enough?”
Dean nearly trips over his own foot, catching himself before he falls fully onto the stone floor before two large pathways lined with vermillion. Torii stretch out as far as he can see, split into two separate paths, both presumably leading to the same destination. White decorates the top of the black spans, a light dusting coating the pathways, most of it trampled down by constant foot traffic before any new accumulation can form. “Whoa,” is all Dean can manage.
Beside him, Castiel chuckles and nods towards the gates. “You should take a picture.”
“Startin’ to wish I brought more film,” Dean practically laughs. Three of the six cameras they brought are already full back at the hotel, and the fourth in Dean’s hands is down to its last few pictures, another waiting in the bag on Castiel’s back. Whoever develops the rolls back in Kansas will probably have a field day fishing through all of the photographs. “Think we can get us both in one?”
“I’m sure we can,” Castiel assures, continuing, “But not here.”
Near the top of a smaller staircase at their backs, a swath of people begin to head in their direction. Too many witnesses, and too many people inevitably in his shot if they get ahead of him. “Probably best,” Dean says, shoving his camera back in his coat pocket. “So, are you gonna tell me what’s up there?”
Up there, as it turns out, is an endless path of torii and steps, all leading up the mountain at staggering angles and occasionally breaking off on narrow, winding paths dotted with shrine after shrine, all lit by candlelight inside. A lone cat wanders close to Castiel when they step away to stand by a stone fence, overlooking a lake; it’s blind, eyes closed over with black fur, yet it tracks Castiel as if it can see, ignoring Dean completely to rub against Castiel’s slacks, begging for attention.
“He’s happy,” Castiel says, kneeling, petting down the length of the cat’s back while Dean looks out at the lake, snow dancing off the near-green surface, trees blowing in the slight breeze that nips Dean’s ears. Even then, he knows Castiel is looking up at him, waiting for Dean to answer him or at least say something back, anything.
All Dean can do is stare, transfixed, at the lake, his fingers trembling ever so slightly atop the wall. They’re alone, at least for now, hidden behind a shrine and stone torii, the blind cat their only witness. He could ask Castiel now—confront him, figure out what the true meaning behind the trip and why Castiel won’t stop touching him, hasn’t stopped since they first met. Instead, his throat clicks when he swallows, the words lost on his tongue.
Thankfully, Castiel speaks for him, standing and leading Dean further down a path, out of the way of any onlookers. The cat follows, ducking into a gap separating two shrines, disappearing thereafter. “You’re upset,” Castiel ventures, unsure. “Did I do something?”
“What?” Glancing up from his feet, Dean catches the concern plaguing Castiel’s face, lips downturned, brows raised just enough. Instantly, Dean’s stomach sinks, his shoulders sagging. Castiel didn’t do anything—he never has, at least not intentionally. It’s not his fault in the slightest that Dean’s probably been misinterpreting every signal since the day they met, or at least unwilling to believe that it might mean something beyond platonic affections and brotherly love. It’s not his fault Dean can’t dig his own head out of his ass and actually talk for five minutes. He won’t get struck down by lightning—no one’s planning to stab him in the back or slit his throat or throw him off the proverbial cliff if he tells Castiel how he feels.
Castiel doesn’t deserve any of this put on him.
“…I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, making to turn back to the lake; Castiel stops him with a hand to his bicep, crushing in a way that keeps Dean still, rooted to the moment. He’s vulnerable here, despite their seclusion away from tourists and any onlookers—vulnerable and afraid, not for the first time in his life, but for the first time in a long while. Sure, he’s felt the rush before, the adrenaline that accompanies being shoved up against a wall in some seedy dive bar, scant touches that lead to too-close conversations, one look across a crowded room and a come hither grin. But this is different.
This is Castiel, the Angel that rescued him from Hell, the creature that refuses to leave his side no matter how stubborn he is, the man Dean’s come to admire in every way imaginable. Still, terror grips him nonetheless, his heart fluttering rapidly in his chest, throat clicking when he swallows. “If I’ve done something wrong, you can tell me,” Castiel whispers, inching closer.
Dean steps back before he can stop himself, colliding with a stone pillar at his back. If anything, Castiel’s confusion only grows, now verging on frantic. “Dean—”
“It’s not…” Talk, damnit. Staring at the ground doesn’t help, nor does Castiel’s ever tightening grip on his arm, threatening to bruise. “Do we have to do this now?”
“Look at me,” Castiel says, a demand, and Dean does, terror dancing across his face. “Ever since we left Kansas, you’ve recoiled every time I come near you. You’re terrified if I touch you, and even now, you’d rather be gone than standing within five feet of me.”
“Because it hurts,” Dean blurts. With that alone, Castiel lets his hand drop, eyes blinking wildly at the admission. It’s out, tainting the air between them, a permanent blot never to be wiped away, no matter how hard Dean tries to ignore it. “Look, you’ve… You never did anything wrong. This is my deal, okay? And I’m gonna deal with it in the only way I can, and I don’t need you tellin’ me you’re worried or whatever you’re thinking.”
A low growl emanates from Castiel’s throat, eyes narrowed as he steps closer, backing Dean further into the pillar. “I’m thinking you’re scared,” he accuses. “But you won’t admit it, because something is eating away at you. Not your soul, but here.” Placing his hand over Dean’s breast, Castiel clutches the fabric there, afterwards flexing his fingers to feel the stutter of Dean’s heart, frantic and pained. “…Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because it’s not the same for you.” Pushing him away doesn’t work—neither will jabs or insults. He has to live with Castiel until they fly back, he has to look at his face before he falls asleep at night and be the first person Dean sees when he wakes up in the morning. He has to accept that Castiel won’t leave him, no matter how self-deprecating Dean grows just because he’s in love and won’t admit it, not even to himself. “You don’t… You’re an Angel, what do you know about this?”
Castiel cocks his head to the side, inquisitive. “You don’t think I know how you feel? You don’t think that…” Swiftly, he takes Dean’s hand, pressing it over his heart; Dean sucks in a breath at the rhythm beating against his palm, matching his own. It’s human—and it’s even more real, feeling it in person, getting to touch what he’s yearned for so long. “Why do you always think you’re alone? Why do you think I’ve been doing this, any of this?”
“Friendly gesture?” Dean laughs, ignoring just how jilted it sounds, the joke falling flat. In hindsight, it doesn’t make sense, and the longer Dean ruminates on it, the more the pieces fall into place. Not just Japan, but everything else—years of betrayals and sacrifices, all for the greater good, all to ensure Dean’s survival. Because if anything matters in the world, it’s Dean’s sorry ass. “Look—”
“If you’re asking if I’m in love with you, I am,” Castiel says, utterly blasé about it, like he hasn’t just derailed Dean’s every train of thought and left him sinking to the tiles beneath his feet. Thankfully, Castiel joins him, sitting cross legged while Dean just stares—at him, at his hands, at anything that can ground him. This can’t be happening; none of this can be real, none of what Castiel… “Yes, I may have had ulterior motives in bringing you here, but it’s also the first vacation you’ve had in years. Think about it, Dean.”
Thinking is the problem, though. All Dean does is think, rattling between impossible scenarios in his head from the moment he wakes to when he finally collapses at night, playing out every fantasy he’s ever had just to spite himself, because he doesn’t get this. The confessions and the… love, all of it, all products of romance novels and chick flicks and idealistic Hallmark movies where everyone lives happily ever after, white picket fence, dogs, children and all.
He doesn’t get this—he never will.
Yet, Castiel’s hands erase all of that, ease the cloud muddling his brain and replaces it with a single touch, their palms sliding together, the pads of their fingers touching until Castiel laces them together, solid, life affirming. Dean swallows, his heart threatening to leap from his chest through his mouth and take off towards the coast. “You can’t…” he attempts, afterwards lowering his head; he can’t look Castiel in the eye, especially not now. “You don’t mean that.”
He expects Castiel to laugh, or at least acknowledge him. All he gets in response is Castiel squeezing his knuckles, bordering on painful. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Dean. Not about this.”
“But you have,” Dean shoots back, a lackluster attempt at self-defense. At least Castiel finds it amusing, simply shaking his head at whatever Dean’s spouting. “You’re saying… You flew me halfway across the world because you love me?”
“Among other things.” For the second time in twenty four hours, Castiel cups his cheek, more warmth behind it this time, now that Dean knows just what it means. And it clicks—something in his chest fits, achingly so, and he sucks in a cold breath with it, lets it burn his lungs, a welcome sting. “But you’ve been so distant. I figured you didn’t care, or you were reluctant to admit it.”
“Never been much of a feelings person,” Dean huffs, a blatant lie. “…I don’t get a happy ending, Cas. Of all people, you know that. And you’re just… How?” How long? How come? How?
Slowly, Castiel pads his thumb over Dean’s right eye, smoothing down the wrinkles there. It’s such an intimate gesture, his every sense isolated to that touch alone, his world concentrated down to one single moment in time, the chill of winter forgotten. Castiel kisses him with snow on his eyelashes, and Dean leans in, capturing him in a second with his hand to Castiel’s neck, drinking him in, this in, everything.
There’s a word for this somewhere, Dean thinks when they part, the sudden clarity accompanying a realization. Epiphany, probably. All he knows is that now, he’s freezing his ass off in the shadow of a shrine while he brushes noses with Castiel, and Castiel is his. For the moment, hour, year, decade, he doesn’t know, but he’ll take it all the same. “Love you,” Dean says, those two words so foreign on his tongue, disused and shaky. Still, he tries it out, his heart growing stronger with every attempt, and each time Castiel’s smile widens, until he’s laughing, smothering his humor in Dean’s neck. “It’s not funny—”
“I believe you,” Castiel says; even then, Dean trusts him, his body warming down to his toes. “But you can tell me again, if you want.”
“You ass,” Dean laughs. Ducking his head, he flushes when Castiel leans down to peck his cheek, afterwards moving to kiss his lips, just as gentle as the first. Even with such a light press, Dean finds himself smiling, bashful in a way he hasn’t been in years, almost giddy. They should’ve done this years ago—what have they been missing out on? What if Castiel had shared a bed with him every night, what if Castiel had been there to ease the ache after hunts or after inevitable failures—what if Castiel had been there, like he was now?
Given this newfound development, would he stay?
“We can go back to the room, if you want,” Castiel offers, once again seeking Dean’s hand and slotting their fingers together.
The hotel is probably warmer, with less risk of frostbite the longer they sit there in the cold with snow pouring down on their heads. But as frigid as it is, it’s… nice here, being with Castiel, now that it’s out in the open, a festering knot between them, waiting to be picked at and explored, healed. Sure, not everything is sunshine and roses, but whatever this is, they can make it work. Trial and error.
Dean shrugs, reaching up with his free hand to brush the snow from his hair. “Kinda like it here,” he says, his teeth just on the edge of chattering. “Can probably warm up if we keep walking, anyway.”
With a chuckle, Castiel nods and helps Dean to his feet—and because he can, Dean kisses him again, just long enough for Castiel to reach up and stroke along his nape, fingers dancing just under his coat collar. “I want to show you the foxes,” Castiel says, just as soft as the soundless snow. “There are more statues up the mountain.”
A nod, followed by a grin; Castiel joins in, his eyes wrinkling at the edges, and Dean wants nothing more than to press his thumbs to them, kiss them until they relax. Later, though; they still have more walking to do, and he still has to buy presents for everyone back home before Christmas arrives and the streets are packed. “‘Kay,” Dean agrees, his cheeks hot, growing brighter when Castiel sneaks in a final kiss before urging Dean away from the shrines and back to the stone pathways, where a group of schoolchildren are walking up the stairs ahead of them.
This, he’ll hold onto this as long as he can.
-+-+-+-
Midnight comes sooner than Dean expects, his phone vibrating on the tatami floor next to his futon, a text from Sam illuminated on the screen. “Merry Christmas, jerk,” it reads, and Dean can’t help but smile and send him back a bleary reply, hopefully legible through his sleep muddled brain. He sets the phone aside afterwards, volume shut off, and slips back underneath the blanket, pulling it tight around him to shield off the cold.
Only a few feet away, Castiel sleeps undisturbed, the table now moved to accommodate Castiel’s futon, within arm’s reach if Dean tried. It’s too cold now, though; he should’ve taken up Castiel’s offer to join their mattresses together, but at the time, the idea unsettled him, purely because of how new it felt, how raw he was after arriving back at the room. Sure, it all seemed fine when they were in mixed company, but now, alone in a hotel room, it all felt too real, too in reach.
The minute Castiel fell asleep, all Dean wanted to do was run—take off out of the hotel and flee to the nearest train station, make his way to the airport without looking back. Or, more realistically, around the corner under the bike shelter, just until he could get his footing and swallow his pride.
This isn’t something that’s going to go away, he tells himself, blinking over at Castiel, watching the steady rise and fall of his back. For longer than he can even think, he’s loved—been in love with—Castiel, and now, he knows it’s reciprocated, that Castiel has been clinging to the hope that Dean might drag himself out of the deepest reaches of his mind to come out and admit it. Still, it feels too real, too fleeting, like if he blinks, he’ll watch his future scatter before his eyes and blow away in the wind. The longer he thinks on it, the more his chest aches, and he reaches out to the empty space between them, fingertips just barely brushing the edge of Castiel’s mattress, close to his exposed hand.
To Dean’s shock, Castiel reaches out enough to take his hand; slowly, he opens his eyes, cobalt irises dark with sleep, illuminated by the white sky pouring in through the open window. “Supposed to be asleep,” Castiel rumbles and sits up, his chest exposed beneath his yukata, more skin than Dean’s seen on him in a long, long while. There’s a tattoo there, near his collarbone, something blue and green and yellow, spread out like splattered paint all the way up to his shoulder and probably further back. Where he got it, or when, for that matter, Dean doesn’t know.
Doesn’t think to ask, either, not when Castiel won’t stop looking at him like he’s found something he thought he’d lost forever. In a way, he probably has, considering. “Come here,” are Castiel’s only words; caught in the moment, Dean obeys, reluctantly pulling himself from his cocoon to drag his mattress across the few foot gap and drape their blankets over one another. Warmth seeps through the fabric into Dean’s skin, and he can’t help but cling when Castiel throws an arm around him, his socked feet brushing against Dean’s instep when they dovetail their legs together through the soft fabric of Castiel’s yukata, their bodies pressed flush, until Dean can’t begin to fathom where they begin and end.
It doesn’t fully hit him how utterly peaceful it is until he’s dozing off in Castiel’s arms, Castiel’s hair tickling his forehead and his hand rubbing slow circles to the small of Dean’s back. Absently, he knows snow is falling, he knows the heater is futily pumping in warm air above their heads, and he knows he’s far away from home sharing a bed with someone he loves the most—but the thing that cements it is touch, is feeling Castiel’s skin, breathing in sync with his own slow exhales, their every sense in tune, meshed together into one soul.
Maybe that’s what causes the first tear to fall. He blinks it away before Castiel can catch him, turning his face into their shared pillow, eyes out of sight for now. Still, Castiel nudges him with his nose, pressing a soft kiss to Dean’s temple. “Talk to me,” Castiel urges, just as quiet as the flakes falling on the neighboring roof.
“Guess I’m just… not used to this, really,” Dean admits.
It’s as close to the truth as he can get; it’s been a long, long while since he’s shared a bed with someone that didn’t plan to leave in the middle of the night. Even then, part of him still can’t bring himself to believe Castiel won’t wander off again, take flight and leave him to fend for himself. Castiel soothes him with a hand stroking down his arm, eventually linking their fingers in the scant space between their bodies, Castiel’s hand warm and solid in his own.
“I wouldn’t expect you to be.” Castiel is silent as he speaks, eyes half lidded, yet still locked on Dean’s lips, occasionally slipping closed in exhaustion. Their hike back to the hotel left them both worn to the bone, and making it from the room to dinner had been a hassle in and of itself. “I’m just as in the dark as you are.”
Dean chuckles, curling closer into Castiel’s warmth. “Guess we both get to fly into this blind,” he says, amused; Castiel smiles, mere centimeters from his lips, close enough for Dean to lean in and take if he wanted.
He wants—and he can take as he pleases.
It’s not their first kiss, and it’s definitely not their last, but there’s something lingering on Castiel’s tongue that Dean desperately wants to explore, Castiel’s mouth warm against his own, near scalding when their lips meet, the intensity burning bright behind every kiss, every pant. At some point, Castiel presses him onto his back, his legs straddling Dean’s hips while Dean clings to him, an arm around Castiel’s neck, the other gripping the fabric of his yukata, yanking in abortive attempts to strip it from him. “I have to untie it,” Castiel complains, unwilling to leave Dean’s neck alone, continuing to mouth dark marks along his jaw and down his throat.
“Wanna see you,” Dean whines, still pawing at Castiel’s clothing, until Castiel relents and sits up. The blankets fall from his back, and in the pale light, Dean watches Castiel unknot the sash around his waist and cast it aside, afterwards shrugging off the yukata arm by arm. He’s naked underneath, all tan skin and tattooed, ink definitely done within the last few months. Not that Dean would have noticed regardless, but seeing it now is confirmation enough that while Castiel has lived with them, he’s been indulging in an entirely different kind of pain.
The entirety of Castiel’s right arm is covered in thick watercolors, every color imaginable dying his flesh, the patterns almost unrecognizable until he runs his fingers down it, counting every swirling wave, every small white spot, the black patches that work to highlight reds and oranges, blues and greens. It all emanates from a white spot near his shoulder, from which sprout multicolored streams and what looks to be a large halo above it, intricate and geometric. In the daylight, it might look beautiful—now, it’s ethereal, and Dean’s alone to touch.
“I met a woman,” Castiel says close to Dean’s ear, his breath hot against the shell. “She wasn’t a witch, but she specialized in Angel lore. We’d met before, years ago when she summoned me without a vessel. She could see me, Dean.” A nip to his neck, just the barest hint of a tease. “She tattooed my likeness into the cosmos, so that even if I lose my Grace, I can look at this and see what I was.”
“You’re beautiful,” Dean breathes, his hands cupping Castiel’s cheeks. Castiel leans into it, lowers himself so that their foreheads touch, his eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly when Dean thumbs just below his eyes, up and over the crow’s feet wrinkling the skin beside them. Dean drinks in his sigh, a small smile ticking his lips, just long enough until he eases Castiel into another kiss, this one gentler than before, more of a promise of the future than the now.
Castiel hums into it, afterwards lowering himself onto his side, his arms finally giving out. Dean just snorts and turns over to drape his arm over Castiel’s waist, slowly tracing circles up and down his spine, Castiel ever so slowly relaxing under his hand. “Sam texted,” Dean yawns, using the excuse to tuck in closer, his head under Castiel’s chin.
“It’s early there,” Castiel murmurs, voice thick with fatigue, sleep just minutes away, especially with how close they are, the blankets shrugged back over their shoulders in a heavy cocoon against the winter air.
“It’s Christmas.” At that, Castiel stirs, tipping up Dean’s chin to look at him. “Christmas here, at least. He’s probably tryin’ to get Claire up or getting a head start on the eggnog.”
Against his lips, Castiel hums with a grin, his eyes closed all the while. “I didn’t get you anything,” he says, having half the heart to sound forlorn.
Dean shrugs it off and kisses him, briefly brushing his fingers against Castiel’s cheek before he pulls away. “I think a vacation’s enough,” he says, and really, Castiel didn’t have to do all of this. They could’ve stayed home and watched television all day, Dean could’ve cooked a full five course Christmas dinner and invited everyone he knew over, could’ve ate himself sick and spent the night groaning in bed while chewing an entire bottle of Tums. But this—away from the world, without the burden of hunting on his back, for once taking a time out that doesn’t involve breaking something or suffering near fatal injuries—this is more than enough, more than he ever hoped for.
And Castiel is here, and Castiel isn’t going anywhere, at least for tonight. He’ll take what he can get.
“I’m glad,” Castiel whispers; Dean tucks his head under Castiel’s chin again, breathing in when Castiel lets his hand slip to Dean’s waist, just palming over the fabric of his boxer briefs, no more than a tease before he lets it slide to his back, coming to rest against the waistband. There’s no intent, no pressure; even if Dean wanted to get handsy, he doesn’t think he could get it up, not with how comfortable he feels there, his body slack, relaxed down to his toes. And if Castiel’s breaths are any indication, he’s not any better off, the warmth lulling them quiet, with the snow their witness.
Quiet—pure, unadulterated quiet.
-+-+-+-
Dean awakes just as the sun is threatening to rise behind the clouds with feathers in his hair and one dangerously close to his ear, and an incredible weight bearing down on his body. Behind him, Castiel is still close, the beginnings of an erection pressed against his ass. Any other time, and Dean would reach back and help him along—as of now, he’s stuck wondering why he feels like he’s paralyzed and why the floor around them is solid black and glowing, faint blue light pulsing in time with Castiel’s breaths.
It doesn’t really hit him what this is until an eye starts blinking at him, cobalt and bleary in the early morning light. After that, dozens, hundreds of others follow, all staring at him from the mass of wings spread out on the floor, each baring a completely different emotion; some are angry, others bewildered, others faking sleep. A few look practically giddy, and Dean would laugh if it weren’t so terrifying. Sure, the description sounded peachy in his head, but seeing it in the flesh is unnerving, sparking some hidden fear in his core.
Thankfully, Castiel takes notice and snuffles himself awake, clutching Dean tighter while simultaneously extinguishing the eyes, pristine feathers now in their place. “I was keeping watch,” Castiel mumbles, briefly kissing Dean’s nape. Something black and soft drapes across Dean’s face, composed of smaller, downy feathers, all patting his face in some aborted attempt to comfort him, or annoy him.
If anything, it only makes Castiel laugh. If he weren’t so confused, Dean might join along. “Make yourself comfy?” Dean asks, struggling to turn over onto his other side. Castiel makes room after a long second, lifting his wing enough for Dean to move and breathe—what Dean sees nearly knocks the wind out of him a second time. Castiel may not have four heads in this form, but his halo is incredible, geometric and glowing in soft, alternating shades of pastels. Startlingly blue eyes watch him, irises radiating bright in the dim space between them. Underneath the shadow of his wings—six, possibly, from Dean’s estimation—the same hue greets him, bathing the futon in every shade of blue imaginable, from deep navies to periwinkle.
One thing he didn’t expect, though—small, black wings sprout up from behind Castiel’s ears, maybe a foot in length and not more than a few inches thick, the appendages trying their hardest to keep Dean close, practically pawing at his face and burrowing into his hair. That explains the feathers, at least. “Your head’s trying to pet me,” Dean chuckles, bordering hysterical. He’s not awake enough for this—there’s not enough coffee in the world to make him comprehend just what he’s seeing. It’s not Castiel’s true form, but it’s close, just enough to both scare him and keep him enrapt, awestruck.
This Angel, this being of light and sound, of holy wrath and righteous fury, is his, vulnerable and baring himself to Dean’s eyes only, cradling him in indescribable warmth and comfort unlike anything he’s felt before. “Feel like I’m having a religious experience,” Dean murmurs, awed; reaching up, he runs his fingers through the closest wing, lets the feathers pass through his fingers with ease.
Castiel sighs and lets his eyes fall closed, his halo pulsing even brighter now, along with the lights between every feather; not enough to blind him, but enough to seem… content, at ease. “You’re allowed to touch,” Castiel says, burying his face in the pillow, the smaller wings covering his eyes. It’s cute, almost, how much Castiel both wants to escape and to expose himself, all under Dean’s watchful eye. “I haven’t groomed myself since I got my vessel back, so I’m not… clean, exactly.”
Dean snorts; a feather comes loose in his palm, soft and jagged, near gray. “Figured that’s why I got feathers in my underwear,” he jokes; Castiel laughs, once. “We got anywhere to be today?”
“We still have the room for another three days,” Castiel mumbles. The mass of wings nearly topples Dean onto his back when Castiel rolls onto his stomach, the full breadth of them now visible. His wingspan is enormous, each wing bent and spreading at least halfway up each wall, wormed into almost every corner, the floor bathed in a sea of sable. Somehow, the table and their bags have been spared, along with the television set. Hopefully housekeeping won’t visit for the next few hours—or the entire day, if Dean can help it. He’ll have to spend half the time cleaning up feathers, anyway.
Just barely, Dean fights back a yawn, his eyes watering at the edges anyway. “I can clean ‘em for you,” he comments, still stroking through his uppermost wing, his skin tingling just from the contact. “Think that’ll be a good Christmas present?”
“Maybe later,” Castiel muffles into his pillow. The wings behind his ears flap aimlessly, smacking Dean’s face a time or two. “I’d rather sleep, for now. I lament not being able to hold you like I’ve wanted.”
Dean flushes down to his chest, his cheeks probably hot to the touch. “Could… say the same for you,” he stutters, hiding his face; Castiel’s wing pets just below his ear, coaxing him forward not so subtly. And he just goes with it, sprawls himself under the mass of Castiel’s wings and drapes an arm over Castiel’s back; Castiel, more than willingly, pushes himself onto his side and drags Dean in, fingers desperately digging into his skin in a vain effort to keep him close. “‘M not goin’ anywhere,” Dean affirms, and Castiel’s fingers slacken, his previously stuttered breaths slowing, the barest hints of a smile teasing his lips.
He’s beautiful, in every way, and Dean wouldn’t give him up for the world. “‘M not leaving,” he repeats, quieter now, a promise.
“I won’t let you go,” Castiel echoes, and cradles Dean’s neck with his wing, warm and bright.
Dean’s heart swells, from the touch, from Castiel’s words, from everything. “Don’t let go,” he says, and sleeps when Castiel kisses his nose.
-+-+-+-
What was originally meant as a relaxing few days of biking around Kyoto and visiting whatever shrine or temple they can find in and outside of the city limits, ends up being two days spent in bed, neither Dean nor Castiel willing to move no matter how many times housekeeping knocks to come in. The ‘do not disturb’ knocker is probably getting more use now than it ever has, resting on the exterior knob while Dean sleeps under the weight of heavy wings, wrapped up in warmth and comfort unlike he’s ever delved into, or allowed himself to feel.
That, and Castiel’s hands on him at all hours certainly helps, along with his mouth at intervals, slowly marring the skin of his neck in purpling bruises, visible even in the dark. Dean hasn’t turned a light on since their arrived, not that they need it; Castiel’s wings do most of the work, still spread out across the tatami floor, feathers probably trapped between the mats. Hopefully by the time the hotel staff find them, they’ll be long gone, back in America and asleep in their own beds.
“Which one do you like more?” Castiel asks at one point, stroking a hand down Dean’s chest to rest on his stomach, slowly sliding down to his hip, so close to where Dean wants it the most, yet so far.
Dean snuffles an answer, his mouth dropping open when Castiel nips at a particularly sensitive bruise. “Gonna have to be more specific,” he grunts, reaching back to cup the back of Castiel’s head, tugging lazily at sweat-matted hair.
“The beds,” Castiel says, nonchalant. Briefly, he palms at Dean’s cock, oversensitive and soft in his grasp; hissing, Dean reaches down to push him away, giving up shortly after Castiel lets go, a smirk on his lips. “I’ve been thinking of getting one of these for my room.”
“Suits you,” Dean snorts. “Think I like mine better, though.”
Castiel laughs, mirthful. Gently, he rolls Dean onto his back and leans down to kiss him, and Dean moans into his touch, idly scratching at the curling hair along Castiel’s nape. “You would,” Castiel says when they part, returning to the mottled spots along Dean’s neck with enthusiasm. “It’s not as comfortable as yours, anyway.”
“You could sleep with me,” Dean blurts, before the implication fully catches up to him—of course Castiel could sleep in his room. He’s done it before, on nights where Dean needed someone close, to sit there and pet his hair while he feigned sleep, to hold him when the urge to fling himself off the roof became a living thing in his bones. But this would be willingly, voluntary—even after the last few hours of them both sweating and swearing into the futon, would Castiel even want to?
In answer, Castiel kisses him again, his hands framing Dean’s face, thumbs sweeping under Dean’s eyes when he draws back. “I certainly wouldn’t be opposed to it,” he says, considering; Dean just tugs him back down, doesn’t let him go for a long few seconds, minutes, maybe hours.
They don’t fully leave the hotel room save for lunch and dinner—and the one visit to the onsen downstairs—until the day of their departure. That morning, they catch the train to Todaiji Station in Nara, the temple a full mile from the terminal exit, the two-lane street lined with sidewalks and scenic paths through green space, and hundreds of snub antlered deer that flock to Castiel the minute they catch sight of him. To no one’s surprise, he’s a hit in the courtyard outside of Nandaimon Gate, a good dozen deer gathering around Castiel while he feeds them crackers, bought from an overly enthusiastic vendor just feet away.
All the while, Dean snaps pictures of him, until three are left on the final roll of film. A six pack, and he’s finally down to his last few—where has the time gone? “Think they’ll let me pet them?” Dean asks, busy stowing his camera away in his backpack.
Castiel glances over to him for a brief second before looking back at the gaggle of deer circled around his waist, then back to Dean. To the deer, to Dean. Finally, one of the deer turns to Dean and nudges his hand until Dean can pet between its ears, fur smooth underneath his fingertips, almost like velvet. “She seems to like you,” Castiel remarks, fishing his last cracker out of the plastic bag in his hand. He offers it to the smallest of the gathering, a fawn still unsteady on its feet.
She does, Dean thinks—or she’s using him for food, the more likely scenario. Either way, they disperse after Castiel motions his hand, and they begin to march over to onlooking tourists, in search of whatever meal they can get. “They’re fond of me,” Castiel says, almost to himself, looking down at his shoes, at the melting snow beneath their feet. It’s sunny today, the sky a rich blue above their heads for the first time since they arrived. Warmth soaks into their skin while they walk the grounds, the cold still enough to keep Dean from removing his coat and tying it around his waist.
Though, today, he forgets the gloves, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, fingers within reaching distance of Castiel’s. He wants—God, he wants—but the locals are already watching them, two tall foreigners wearing trench coats and looking all the bit out of place; holding Castiel’s hand would only call for more attention than they need. Later, though, when they’re back on the train and heading to the hotel for the final time before their flight.
Shit, they’re leaving today, and for once, Dean doesn’t want to.
“When we got here,” Dean starts, catching sight of the dark circles under Castiel’s eyes and the lingering bruise just under his ear, a mark he claimed he wanted to keep until it healed, as a lasting reminder; Dean rubs the back of his neck at the thought, cheeks probably scarlet. “…You said you’d take me to that mountain, back in Tokyo—”
“Fuji,” Castiel corrects. Impossibly, the sun makes him look even brighter, smoothing down age lines, yet highlighting the gray hairs beginning to fan out behind his ears and along his temple; Dean wants to cry right there just, at how human it all is. And he gets to keep him, this Angel, this man—his love. “We’re a ways away, though. Unless you’d prefer a different mode of transportation to get there.”
Dean hums until it hits him. “You can’t… Can you even fly anymore?” At that, Castiel nods, eyes brimming with something akin to, ‘Try me.’
“If we check out in time, I can fly us there before sunset,” Castiel suggests. “And back to O’Hare, if you’d like, considering our flight isn’t until midnight.”
It’s a thought—one Dean doesn’t have to consider for very long. Anything to keep him off a plane for the second time in two weeks, away from screaming children and businessmen snoring in his ear. “Let me get this straight, though.” Dean stops before Nandaimon Gate, turning fully to Castiel with his hands in his pockets. Castiel considers him with his brows furrowed, like he’s searching for something on Dean’s face. “You coulda flown us here the whole time?”
Again, Castiel nods, his lips twitching. “Flying seemed simpler at the time. I wasn’t sure if my wings could carry the weight, but I think the last few days have helped.”
Dean chuckles, lowering his head. “What, so all you needed was a nap and you’re back up to full power?”
“Not quite,” Castiel shrugs. “Having you there helped.”
God, Castiel is too good for him.
“I don’t wanna get back on that plane,” Dean admits; he flushes even deeper when Castiel reaches across to take his wrist, pulling his hand free from his coat pocket. “And I don’t wanna go home either, but… I’m starting to really miss Sam. And my bed, and that old library smell.”
That earns a laugh out of Castiel, along with a smile, this one with teeth. “I can make that happen,” he says, and fully takes Dean’s hand in his, their fingers twined, hidden beneath the fabric of their coats. “I want to show you the Hall first, though.”
Dean grins, brushes Castiel’s shoulder with his own. “Deal.”
-+-+-+-
“And you’re sure about this?” Dean asks, because that’s the only thing on his mind right now—will ascending that far that fast, only to come to rest a few miles above the surface to the earth, kill him on the spot? “I’m not gonna—”
“I assure you, you won’t perish once we land,” Castiel assures, taking his suitcase by the handle. With his free hand, he reaches across to take Dean’s wrist, slowly allowing his fingers to trail down to Dean’s palm; without thinking, Dean twines them together, the hold temporarily quelling his existing nerves, at least enough to stop his hands from trembling. “All you have to do is keep contact.” Castiel squeezes his knuckles for emphasis. “After we’re done there, we’ll head to Chicago.”
It sounds easy enough. Take off from alleyway they’re currently standing in in Kyoto, land long enough to catch the sunset, and pop back into Chicago O’Hare to pick up the Impala and drive the long few hours home. But the execution, the longer Dean thinks on it, is flimsy; what if someone sees them on the mountain with their bags packed? What if someone catches them spontaneously appearing or vanishing? What if Dean lets go?
Glancing over his shoulder, Dean looks through the front door of Oyado Ishicho one more time and lets out a deep breath, settling himself. Castiel hasn’t flown anywhere in years—this could be life or death, if Castiel overestimates his abilities. They could die on impact, or fall off the mountain, or land somewhere off the coast of Hawaii and be eaten alive by sharks or whatever else is living out there. None of the options sound pleasant, but if Castiel can keep him alive, then it’s worth it. It’s all been worth it, in the end: coming here, dragged out of his comfort zone on every form of transportation they could manage, eating his fill from back alley restaurants and chain stores, having Castiel touch him at all hours, willingly.
If he could do it again, he’d relive these two weeks for as long as possible, branch his horizons, see the rest of the country. The world, if he could, as long as he had someone at his side.
Another exhale, and Dean steadies himself, tightens his hold on Castiel’s hand. At the mouth of the alley, two cyclists pass, oblivious to Castiel spreading his wings, unseen to all eyes, but still there regardless. Dean tugs his suitcase close, closes his eyes. “Take off, then.”
Every immediate sense—the bicycles, the cat that constantly loiters around the front entrance, the smell of udon wafting down the street—is replaced by a disorienting warp, all during which Castiel holds him close, until they touch back down half a second later, in an empty and equally secluded overlook near the top of the mountain, guarded by thick trees and an even more overgrown path. The fact that Castiel landed safely and they’re still alive, though, is overshadowed immediately by the landscape. Before them, clouds cover the sky a few hundred feet below, the sun beginning to set just beyond the artificial horizon, bathing everything it touches in reds and yellows, straggling cirrus wisps dyed pink above their heads. He can’t even see the ground here, the earth lost to him, gone from sight, from mind.
In his stupor, Dean nearly lets go, his fingers slackening until Castiel clutches him tight, dragging him back to his body and out of the surreality. It all feels so foreign there, like he’s floating, like it isn’t real. Maybe he’s dying, and this is the best his brain could come up with to calm him down as he takes his last breaths. Or maybe a lucid dream, and he’s still back in the hotel, held close in Castiel’s arms for the sixth night in a row.
Maybe he doesn’t exist at all.
“Just… feel so small,” Dean whispers, blinking his eyes dry. It’s only then that he realizes that he’s not the only one tearing up; Castiel is full on crying, tears streaking his face, dripping off his chin.
There, almost three miles in the air with God as their only witness, Dean’s heart breaks, fraught with fear and love, years’ worth of affection flowing forth between their joined hands, from their bodies when Dean pulls him close, an arm around Castiel’s neck. Castiel clings just as tight, face buried in Dean’s shoulder, fingers gripping the back of Dean’s coat hard enough to rip. “I never thought I’d see it again,” Castiel says, muffled, his voice as stoic as ever, but there’s distress there, emotion cracking through the veil. “I wanted…”
Dean nods, kisses his hair. “I know,” he says, forehead pressed to Castiel’s temple. Out of everything, Castiel wants to live and feel alive, wants to touch, taste, embrace whatever he can while he’s there, breathing. This is about as exhilarating as it gets, Dean figures, so isolated from the world, hand in hand, watching as night consumes the earth, stars in its wake.
Castiel wants to live—and Dean wouldn’t leave him for the world.
“You should take a picture,” Castiel mentions after a long few minutes spent breathing in Dean’s musty coat. Reaching into Dean’s pocket, he pulls out the camera, one picture left on the film roll.
It’s enough. “Kiss me?” Pulling away, Dean turns their backs to the sun and holds the camera out as far as he can, just as Castiel leans in to capture his lips for the last time in Japan, and the first of the rest of their lives.
The camera clicks.