Talk to Me
I was thinking about part of this, and basically (lol #long post again!).
Give me the scene from Goodbye Stranger, but without Naomi's control, without a trauma bond, with an actual bond to make that scene much less uncomfortable, much more soothingly nostalgic and revealing about character. Give me that scene, but between a demon and an angel who actually don't want to be those things, who actually are friends, who actually can reminisce about things from the past, who should, because the two of them have not shared a few things they really ought to.
Give me a scene like the one from Road Trip, but without Sam in peril.
Sam's gone to bed, Crowley's running from Dean's rage upon getting close enough to himself again to loathe him, and Dean and Castiel are up late in the dim light of the lamp, sitting in two chairs on the same side of the table, passing back and forth their second bottle of booze (of your choice). With Dean still somewhat Dean and Castiel's Grace dwindling, they can both feel it about the same.
"Crowley's a dick," Castiel starts a new topic with. They've been talking for hours, and this is a very important thing to discuss.
"Yeah, he is." Dean says, no hesitation, and that's a relief, because a month ago it would have been much more of a struggle.
"I should've known when he suggested a civil war."
Dean blinking, surprised. "What? He did?"
Castiel nodding. "I was still the fool who agreed."
They drift through that topic, discussing Balthazar (Dean never felt threatened by him, he asserts, and Castiel doesn't know he's lying), Rachel, Raphael, and the culmination of Castiel's "corruption".
Dean coughs a bit, because booze and smoke sometimes mixes unpleasantly. "I had nightmares, after you exploded."
Castiel is quiet for a moment, and then, "Which time?"
They smirk at each other, weakly.
"The Levis, dude. Staying on topic."
Castiel makes a thoughtful sound, and then answers, confession for confession, "Oh. I had--dreams of you, too, as Emmanuel."
No sound except the slosh of the bottle, as both of them languish momentarily in memories the other can't hope to completely understand.
A sharp grin, an easy laugh, a companionable nudge of shoulders, and no name, just warmth, until he walked into Daphne's home.
Black goo, a maniacal, sadistic declaration of his best friend's death, a trench coat soaked in darkened water and crusted with blood: a frayed feeling, sinking that felt like drowning with him and never really stopped with him gone.
Desperate to change the subject, Castiel blurts, "It wasn't you I chose, Dean, I do know that now." and regrets it, warily, when Dean winces.
Dean smiles, though, voice dry. "Wow, Cas, harsher than I'd expect from you. Didn't know you had it in you."
Cas gives him a blank look. "It was humanity."
Dean's smile fades, his ears ringing with his own voice, This is simple, Cas! "Ah, yeah. Right."
Hesitantly, unsure whether he should, Castiel adds, "At first, that is."
Dean wasn't expecting that, Castiel thinks, as his eyebrow rises abruptly.
Castiel's fingers clench into a fist, instinctually, remembering.
Were Dean less demonic, he'd blush. He sure as hell can't keep eye contact, not with that out there. They haven't talked about it much since Metatron. Bygones being bygones with everything gone to shit, as usual.
"You left, though." It's mumbled, and it's been said, but Dean still isn't sure he wants Cas to hear it.
(He does, of course. Fucking angels.)
"Family doesn't always give you a choice," Castiel quietly reminds him, and Dean stares in the direction of Sam's bedroom, picturing all the times there's been no other option but the one that hurts, that destroys, to save him.
"Got it," he says with a slow nod.
That might've been the end of it, but it's not. Castiel's smile is sad when Dean looks at him.
"Not the whole picture, you don't. I wasn't just leaving you, Dean. I was recovering. From choosing."
Dean scoffs, but it's not whole-hearted. "C'mon, Cas, we're Team Free Will."
And Castiel isn't wrong, when he gestures to Dean. "Our choices are not often free, Dean, look at you."
Fair point, touché, all that, but. "Still, humanity or dicks with wings, it ain't hard."
Now Castiel won't meet his eyes, even when Dean's trying. "It is, when you're not built for it. When they can make you their marionette."
Castiel can feel the air change, but he doesn't see Dean freeze, only feels his wide-eyed stare. "So...it really wasn't you."
Without looking at him, Castiel snatches the bottle and takes a long gulp.
"No," he says, gruff, "it wasn't." He drinks even more, staring at Dean's scuffed boots on the table, wincing visibly as he speaks.
"Thousands, Dean, she made me kill thousands of you. Even then, I fought, and I wasn't allowed control of my body."
Dean's reeling. "You weren't--she didn't suggest jack shit. She made you."
Finally, Castiel looks at him, his face anguished. "And I begged her to stop. You must believe me, Dean, I wouldn't have done it, myself."
That was not in question anymore, not since Tessa and the angel army Cas gave up. Cas could've done it, then, would've been more than right to, but he hadn't. He couldn't. Monster or not, he couldn't.
Dean stares off into the distance, as Cas pleads with dewy-eyed sincerity, thinking of all the times he's seen Power of Love in action, all the times he's made a face at the hero being broken out of mind control like that. His own eyes are green, and his lips tilt up involuntarily.
"So that time, you did do it all for me," he says, looking at Cas again, and Cas nods, seriously, wiping his mouth and handing back the bottle.
"And several after." No, I can't. They're both thinking it, then.
But then. And Dean wouldn't ask, not without the confidence of already being a monster. Before he turned into a black-eyed bastard, he wouldn't have ever pushed like this.
"So...Meg or me, then. Say she wasn't dead. Demon versus demon, would it be all for me still?"
Cas's eyes squint, and Dean feels fond of that, of his voice, filled with confusion. It's always unnerving that he still can.
He's nonchalant. "Well, you dug her smoke, right? Wanted to be her pizza man or whatever."
Cas's mouth twists. Interesting. "Not as such."
They stare at each other, and Dean tries again, "But her pretty pain, though, right?"
Castiel's stare sharpens, but he can't figure out what Dean's thinking--why he's asking. "She's no comparison," he says, firmly.
Dean rolls his eyes, waves a hand while the other lifts the bottle. "Yeah, I know, 's not like I played sexy nurse for you ever, I get it."
No matter what Dean is thinking, Castiel can't do much but glare. "Dean."
Before Dean can take a drink, Castiel grabs the bottle back and downs the last of it (at least this one). His jaw is tight, as he swallows the somewhat bitter molecules. "Have you not yet grasped this? No one. compares."
Dean's boots clunk as his eyes go black and his body recoils, twitching too overtly for even Castiel to miss. "What do you...like how, Cas?"
Castiel licks his lips, a habit his dry mouth does not require anymore, and then just says it, no matter the consequences.
"She was my caretaker, but you are always my first choice. Heaven, angels, Meg, Nora, Daphne. No one compares."
Dean swallows, hard (though he doesn't need it either), and starts somewhat frantically opening another bottle. He regrets asking, feeling all tied up inside at Castiel's words.
Castiel can see Dean's hands shaking. "You don't have to return the sentiment, Dean. Just believe it, that's all I ask."
The bottle's open, then, finally--despite Dean forgetting they could both open it easily with their respective supernatural abilities, he managed.
He takes a long, long drink, and exhales loudly, then stops, deliberating.
(At least Castiel guesses that's what he's doing.)
"So, what about that time in Maine, then?" he asks, full of audible curiosity.
And Castiel remembers immediately. Kismet or what, buddy? "Well, since you asked--"
This goes on for the rest of the night. Neither of them have to sleep (though Castiel, in a bizarre turn of events, is closest to having to now), so when Sam wakes up and goes to pour himself orange juice, they're still there, intent, focus on nothing but their thirst for each other's truths.
It's the first time in years--in ever, likely--that one has said "Tell me how you felt about it." and the other has answered, "When? I'll tell you, as much as I know, whatever you ask." and Sam can hear the honesty.
Sam smiles, satisfied, despite all there is left to do, for the moment, and when his glass is empty, he walks quietly back to bed.
Dean's "You're kidding me, Cas, no way--" echoes, follows him down the stairs, and he chuckles, as Cas responds in kind.
