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myaimistrue · 2 years

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holding close to my unsteady heart.

The apocalypse is drawing nearer and nearer. Everything hangs in the balance. And in Room 312 of the Harmony Hills Motel, an angel appears in Dean Winchester's bedroom. read under the cut or on ao3 here

Castiel is aware of how late it is. Dean has asked him before not to show up like this, not to just appear in the middle of the night with no warning. He wanted to wait—he tried to wait. But Castiel is weak, and every day, he grows weaker.

At his arrival, the sudden displacement of air, Dean stirs in bed. He’s the only one in the motel room tonight; Sam is at a woman’s apartment, sharing an encounter Castiel didn’t want to spend too long looking at. Dean and Castiel are alone in this place, Room 312 in Harmony Hills Motel, together.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is rasping, low in the darkness. “That you?”

“Yeah,” Castiel says. “It’s me.”

“What’s wrong?” Dean sits up all the way, already sounding more alert. Through the dark, Castiel sees him reach for the knife under his pillow.

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

Dean groans. “Then what the hell are you doing here? It’s, like, three in the morning.”

“I…” Castiel looks at Dean’s form in the bed, the blankets pooling around his waist. His soul is soft in a way Castiel has only seen it in very specific moments: moments of calm and safety, of contentment. “I apologize. I shouldn’t—I don’t know why I came.”

“Woah, hey.” Dean’s voice reaches out at the same time his soul does. They both curl around Castiel, imploring and gentle. “Whatever’s wrong, it’s fine. Just—c’mere. Tell me what’s going on.”

There was a time when Castiel would have been strong enough to refuse the request of a human. But that time is long past, and this isn’t just any human—this is Dean. So he goes, against his better judgment, and sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed.

“Hello, Dean,” he says.

Dean smiles, but it’s the smile he puts on when he’s worried about someone. “Hey, man.”

Castiel looks down at the bedspread. The pattern is floral, and he traces each flower with a fingertip, recalling their scientific names as he looks at them. Centaurea cyanus, Myosotis sylvatica, Gypsophila elegans—

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong with you?” Dean nudges Castiel’s thigh with a socked foot. He’s out from under the blankets now, sitting perpendicular to Castiel, and he bends his head in an attempt to catch Castiel’s eye. “C’mon, what’s up?”

“I’m…” Castiel speaks slowly. It’s been a long time since human language felt foreign to him, but this is difficult to translate. Difficult to say. “Are you… are you scared, Dean?”

“Me?” Dean laughs, the sound tumbling out of him in surprise. “Uh, why?”

“Are you?”

Dean searches Castiel’s face, and Castiel tries his best not to look away again, tries to bear the weight of the Righteous Man’s gaze. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m scared. All the fucking time.” Dean’s eyes glitter in the white light of the parking lot outside. “Are you scared?”

“I—” His voice falters; that’s never happened to him before. Castiel takes a long breath. Feels Dean’s soul, glowing warmly within him. “I can’t—I’ve never felt this way. Afraid, like this.”

“About the apocalypse?”

“About everything. All of it,” Cas says, voice beginning to shake. “I’m afraid for your safety, and Sam’s, and I’m afraid about losing my powers and leaving you without my help, and I’m afraid of what will happen if we fail, and I’m—”

“Woah, Cas, hey,” Dean cuts in. He reaches out and takes hold of Cas’s wrist where he’s still tracing the bedspread, Centaurea cyanus, Myosotis sylvatica, Gypsophila elegans. “It’s okay.”

“But it’s not.” Cas thinks there is another name for this feeling: despair. Hopeless, terrible despair. “I can’t save us. I can’t keep you safe. And I’m terrified.”

Dean looks at him for a long moment, his thumb feathering back and forth across the softest pulse point on Castiel’s wrist. And then, carefully, slowly, he gets down on his knees in front of him.

Castiel watches with hungry, disbelieving eyes. Dean slips off Castiel’s shoes, peels off black socks to reveal pale skin Castiel has never seen before. Then, he reaches up, hands hovering over the crotch of the pants Jimmy picked out one morning a million years ago. There’s a question in Dean’s eyes; Castiel nods, and Dean unbuttons and unzips and then slides the pants down Castiel’s legs. He squeezes Castiel’s knees with warm hands.

“Stand up.”

So Castiel stands. He’s the weakest he’s ever been, and despite that, he knows he could overpower Dean without much effort. But he allows Dean this, allows him to remove the coat and the tie, allows him to unbutton the shirt and reveal the white tank top beneath. He allows Dean’s hands to skim up his sides, raising goosebumps that feel like the thrum of grace through a vessel.

“Let’s lay down,” Dean’s voice is so soft, so quiet. Castiel wants to curl up in it.

Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever laid in a bed before. The mattress creaks as they settle side by side, and it appears to dip in the middle, forcing them closer. The sheets scratch against his skin. The floral bedspread is thinner than he expected. And Dean’s face and Dean’s soul and Dean’s skin is here in front of him.

“I know you don’t sleep,” Dean says, leaving it unsaid that Castiel might soon require it if he continues to lose his powers, “but sometimes it’s nice to lay with somebody you, uh. You care about. Sometimes it makes you feel better about things when they’re shitty.” Dean grins wryly. “And they’re pretty shitty right now.”

“They are,” Castiel agrees. “Thank you. For sharing this with me.”

Dean turns pink, right at the top of his cheeks. Castiel watches with fascination. “You’re welcome,” he says awkwardly.

And something about that, the color, the closeness, makes Castiel terribly honest. “I love you.”

Dean doesn’t seem surprised, not really, but his soul is flaring a bright, brilliant gold, something like fear and adoration and hope. “Cas, you don’t—”

“I know what I’m saying.”

“I…” Dean lets out a breath like he’s been punched, and Castiel doesn’t miss the sudden shimmering tears in his eyes. “Cas, this is really bad timing, man. It’s—the world is ending.”

Castiel reaches out and touches the warm pinkness of Dean’s face; his thumb traces the path of a tear, and Dean leans into it. “I know.”

“I—fuck.” Dean chokes out. “Cas, what are we gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel whispers. The edge of terror is close, still, but Dean is with him. They’re together. “I don’t know.”

There’s nothing more to say. Dean eventually reaches out and pulls Castiel flush with his body, tucks Castiel under his chin, runs calloused, gentle hands up and down Castiel’s back. Presses a kiss to the top of Castiel’s head.

And against the skin of Dean’s neck, the smell of motel soap and deodorant and human sweat, Castiel prays. His Father isn’t listening anymore, but maybe someone will hear it. Maybe someone will hear it, and answer. Castiel prays for safety, for victory, for love. He prays until the dawn light creeps up in the sky, turning the room into grey shadow. Then, he watches Dean breathe. That’s something to be grateful for: Dean, beside him, breathing and warm.

Some prayers are answered. The day is new. And Dean is holding him like something precious. That’s enough, Castiel thinks.

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