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Entry tags:
SPN fic: Out of the Sun | Dean, Castiel | PG-13
Title: Out of the Sun
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: All of season 5, vaguely.
Wordcount: ~2,800
Genre: Gen, angst
Characters/pairings: Dean, Castiel, John
Contents/warnings/kinks: Permanent injury (blindness), unrequited one-sided Dean/Castiel, time travel, non-linear and experimental structure
Beta'd by:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
callowyn, zeitheist
A/N: Written to the prompt East of the Sun and West of the Moon for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
dc_everafter. This wasn't originally the story I set out to tell, but it's the story that wanted to be told. Concrit is very much appreciated!
Disclaimer: SPN and its characters do not belong to me.
Summary: Castiel changes everything to save Dean. Dean would much rather he hadn't.
Morning had never been Dean's favorite time of day. When he was younger he'd thought it was too bright, too quiet, too early. When he got a little older, the dislike had changed its tenor toward too hungover.
What a joke, he realized later, once mornings had become too dark, too quiet, and still too damn early.
*
The last thing Dean ever saw with his own two eyes was Castiel.
He remembered seeing specks of light, so bright that they made everything else look submerged in shadows. He remembered thinking that they looked like dust motes, floating lazily in the sunlight.
He remembered not knowing what he was looking at.
On Dean's good days, he doesn't blame himself too much for that, because come on, seriously? But on his bad days the self-flagellation comes as if on its own, raking its claws anew over Dean's soul, reminding him that he should have known.
A room with no doors and no windows, Castiel telling him to keep his eyes shut.
Just a peek, Dean remembered. What Castiel didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Wouldn't hurt Dean either. Right?
Dean should've known, should've listened for once in his goddamned life.
He was lucky to still have his eyes, Castiel had said once Dean had stopped screaming, thumbs rubbing Dean's tears from his cheekbones. To still be breathing.
Dean had taken in a deep gulp of air and said hoarsely, You should've warned me.
Castiel replied, I did. You've never listened to me, Dean. But sometimes ... sometimes I wish you did.
*
The first time Dean met Castiel, he hadn't been too impressed with him. "Look, man, I'm not the guy you're looking for," he told him and tried to shake off the offending hand that had somehow creeped out to hold him by the arm, between elbow and shoulder, digging into his skin.
"You can't lie to me," Castiel said.
Dean thought there was pity in his voice, and tried tugging his arm away more forcefully, but Castiel's hand on him wouldn't budge. His grip didn't get any tighter, either. It was as if Dean hadn't moved at all, had accepted this stranger's hold on him like it belonged there.
"Let go of me," Dean said. Castiel looked down at where his fingers surrounded Dean's arm like he was surprised at them. Or that Dean even minded. But he let go, much to Dean's relief, even though he didn't back away. "Who the hell are you?"
"My name is Castiel," he said. He paused and considered Dean with a seriousness that put wrinkles in his forehead. "I need your help."
"Okay," Dean allowed, and was about to say, Now hold on a minute and let me get this straight, but Castiel apparently took it as agreement, because his hand snaked back to Dean's arm, and the next moment Dean wasn't in New Orleans anymore.
*
"When I said 'okay'," Dean would say later, dryly, "I didn't actually agree to help you."
There would be silence from his right, and if Dean didn't know better he would've thought Castiel was gone, but he could sense the faint heat radiating through their clothes.
To that, Castiel would reply after some time, "... oh."
*
Dean thought he could hear his phone ringing as Castiel whisked him away.
*
Dean would've preferred going to Jericho with John than New Orleans. New Orleans in October freaked him out a little, the way it stayed hot and dry while the rest of the country was cooling down and turning to fall. Or maybe it was simply that the ghost he was about to go after wasn't much to his taste, but it was going through victims a little too fast.
"Oh, come on," Dean said when he took the file. "A drowning ghost? Can't ghosts be a little more creative? What happened to setting people on fire or cutting them up, huh?"
John arched his eyebrows and barked out his laughter. "Any other demands?"
Dean considered the question, and answered with his most serious expression, "Lower gas prices."
John laughed again, shook his head. "Amen." He clapped Dean on the back and hefted his duffel bag up to his shoulder. "Don't die, you hear? And call me every couple of days. Let me know you're still breathing."
"Yessir," said Dean. "Same to you."
"Will do," John called out as he got into his truck, and waved goodbye to Dean when he got out of the parking lot.
Dean stayed in the same place for a couple more minutes, staring off into the distance, before getting into his car and starting on the road for Louisiana.
*
He stumbled back a step, and then another when Castiel let go of his hand.
Castiel's face was set in a hard line. He told Dean, "Stay here," and disappeared.
"The fuck?" Dean said into the silence.
*
In a place with no windows there is no way to tell the time, and in a place with no doors there is no way to go outside.
... not unless you had some power tools at your disposal, but Dean didn't have those. He had a couple of switchblades tucked into his boots, his car keys, wallet and a pocket knife in his pockets. He could use the switchblades to scratch at the walls, but that would take him weeks. Months. Years, even, he decided once he knocked on it in an attempt to discover how thick the walls were.
Dean didn't have years, and he didn't think his blades would survive digging into the solid stone beneath the wooden paneling.
The room had no windows, no doors, not even an air vent. He'd checked every inch, moving the heavy oak table at the center of the room, pushing the king-sized bed away from the wall.
The 'bathroom' in the corner was nothing more than a toilet and a sink hidden behind a half-sized wall that looked more like the railing of a balcony than a fucking bathroom. There was even a small shower at the corner of it, though the shower head only reached Dean's hips. But never mind that.
He tried getting to the pipes to see where they went. That would be a weak spot in the walls that Dean could exploit.
There were no pipes.
Finally, he gave up, stood sweating and exhausted in the middle of the room, and waited for Castiel to return.
Son of a fucking bitch.
*
Castiel returned not long after Dean's sweat had cooled off. He appeared a foot away from Dean's face, holding Dean's cellphone with distaste.
"Your father wants to speak with you," he said and handed the phone over to Dean. "Be quick. It isn't safe."
Dean accepted the phone in silence, but when Castiel's hand touched his he recoiled back. "What the hell are you?" he bit out.
"That's for later," Castiel said and gestured at the phone with his chin. "Talk."
"Dean?" It was John's voice coming from the cellphone, weak and tinny but unmistakable. "Dean, you there?"
Dean slapped the phone against the side of his face, said, "Dad," and was surprised at how comforting he found his old man's voice. "I--"
"Thank fuck," John croaked in his ear. "Dean, where are you? What happened? I tried to warn you--"
"You knew?" Dean asked.
"That he was going to try something, yeah, but not how fast he'd be. Dean, I need to know where you are." A pause. John swallowed, hard. "I need to know you're fine."
"Just peachy," Dean said, all too aware of the way Castiel was looking at him.
"Are you hurt?"
"Pissed off."
"I'm going to get you," John said.
Dean tried to smile. "Not if I get out by myself first."
"You do that," John said shortly. "But stay safe."
"Dad, I--" don't know what he is, he wanted to say, but Castiel had already taken the phone from his hand -- "Hey!" Dean exclaimed -- and said into the speaker,
"I'll see you tomorrow."
With that he hung up, considered the phone with deliberation that made Dean uneasy, and crushed Dean's cellphone in his fist. The pieces disappeared -- Dean didn't know where.
"That." Dean said. He worked his throat. "That was my phone you just broke."
Castiel said, "I know." And then: "We need to talk, Dean."
*
Castiel's words had been simple: Don't look while I strengthen the wards.
Why? Dean asked.
It might kill you.
Dean repeated him, slowly: Looking might kill me.
Yes.
I think I'll take the chance, thanks.
Castiel said: You assume I'm willing to take that risk.
He put his hand to Dean's temple, and his blue, blue eyes (wrinkled at the edges) filled Dean's vision. He woke up hours later, alone.
*
His eyes were burning in their sockets; they felt like they were melting. He could hear his own screams, but he couldn't control them. He brought his hands up to his face, but couldn't stand to touch his skin.
The pain lasted forever. It didn't relent, it didn't stop. Somebody was touching his cheeks, the pad of a thumb, and it hurt so much that Dean jerked his face away. But the hand was insistent and was joined by another, and Dean thought he could hear his name in the distance, taste it in the air every time he inhaled.
His throat hurt. He was going hoarse.
It didn't matter. It was just a blip.
"Stop fighting me, Dean!" he heard far off in the distance. The hands tightened around his face, held his head in place. Dean shook his head harder. Whimpered.
The pain receded. It didn't vanish, not completely, and even its echoes were torturous, but at least he'd stopped screaming.
"Dean," Castiel said in front of him. Dean felt the breath of his name on his face. His thumbs rubbed at his cheeks, and Dean realized he was wiping away something wet. Tears? Blood?
He couldn't tell.
"Let me see your eyes," Castiel urged him. When Dean didn't react, he said, "Dean!"
"Let go," Dean managed to gasp out.
"Open your eyes!"
Dean tried. Spots of light danced behind his eyelids.
Castiel didn't say anything, after, but he didn't let him go, either.
*
You can't hunt blind.
He'd tried. Earned that scar across his chest from a knife gone wrong. After that, John had pulled him aside and told him he'd better sit this one out.
At least Sam had chosen to quit hunting.
*
The night of that first conversation they had, Dean had a dream.
But he didn't remember either going to bed or going to sleep.
Daylight. A playground. He was sitting on a bench. There were trees behind him and grass around him and under his feet. A stretch of dirt below the equipment. To soften a possible fall, he guessed.
It would almost have been peaceful, had Castiel not been sitting on a bench next to his.
*
"If you want to kill me," said Dean, "I suggest a knife. Much quicker than boredom."
"I'm not going to kill you," Castiel said.
Dean gestured at the room with his arms, spreading them wide. "What do you want?"
Castiel replied, "I want you safe."
"You've got a funny way of showing it."
"I can't protect you when you're hunting."
Dean said, "I can protect myself."
"The way you could protect yourself from me?" Castiel said with an infuriating calm. "The moment my brothers learn that I am here, they will come after you."
"Your brothers? What kind of fucked-up family do you come from?"
"Are you trying to say that your family is perfect?"
Dean scoffed.
"Do you have any idea what I've done -- what I've given -- to keep you and your brother safe from outside influence?"
Dean straightened so quickly that his spine popped. "What have you done to Sam?"
A sharp intake of breath. It unnerved Dean more than he'd admit: it was a reminder that Castiel almost never breathed. "Nothing," Castiel said, with more emotion than Dean had seen so far. "He's much easier to protect than you. If you'd stayed in one place instead of moving around all over the country, you would never have known I exist."
Castiel's mouth curled. For someone whose plans had been ruined, Dean thought, he seemed remarkably bothered by the idea.
*
What would you do, if you could save these people? Castiel asked him. He was looking at the children in the playground, not at Dean, and he was speaking slowly, haltingly. If you were the only one who could, but at a great personal cost?
*
Specks of light in his eyes, twirling around each other, floating lazily in the air.
Pain.
Hands on his face.
"Dean, open your eyes!"
Dean didn't remember falling asleep, but he remembered waking up to darkness.
"Castiel?" he said loudly and felt his way to the edge of the bed. He received no reply. Swung his legs over to the floor, and stood up.
He remembered not knowing where to place his feet.
*
"You have to go," Castiel told him suddenly. Dean startled, made a quarter of a circle to face where he thought Castiel was standing. "I've been found out. They're coming."
"Where?" Dean said. "Who's coming?"
"We only have a few minutes. Tell your father he'll find Azazel in the warehouse." A brief hesitation: Dean had learned to recognize those moments by the sharp, uncharacteristic intake of air that Castiel did not need. He almost stepped back when he felt Castiel's fingertips at his temple. "Dean, I didn't intend for any of this to happen. I ... want you to know that."
Yeah, well. Shit happened.
The next few seconds were the most disorienting Dean had ever experienced, both before losing his sight and after: the ground disappeared under his feet and there was nothing he could hold on to. It wasn't that the ground was shaking; there was no ground.
When he moved his feet to try and find some sort of surface to stand on, he was surprised to find one a beat later than he expected. Dean fully expected to go down on his ass, but somebody caught him.
Dean didn't need to see to be able to recognize his dad. The recognition was in John's smell, the sure, familiar way his hands kept Dean upright, and the silence. John's silences didn't sound like anybody else's.
"How did you manage to get away?" John asked.
Dean said, confused, "I didn't. He sent me here."
"Nice of him," John remarked.
"He tries," Dean said without thinking, then clamped his mouth shut. "He said to tell you you'll find Azazel in the warehouse."
John's hold tightened around him. "Good," he said harshly.
"Dad?" Dean asked.
"That's what killed your mother. A demon. His name is Azazel."
Dean frowned, pulled himself away from John in order to get some air. "How do you know that?"
"Castiel helped me track him down. And now that I know where he is, I'm going to finish this. You coming with, Dean?" John's voice grew distant, and there were footsteps that Dean could detect but not follow.
"Uh, Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"I would, but--"
*
Dean stared at the playground's brightly-colored equipment. "What is this place anyway?"
"Your head," said Castiel. "A dream."
"-- I don't know what game you're playing at," Dean said, about to get up from the bench and leave. "But I've got to tell you, whatever you're doing, it isn't working."
He would've left if Castiel had so much as glanced at him, but he didn't. His eyes were fixed on the children on the swings. He said:
"If you could stop your brother from going to Stanford, would you?"
Dean fumbled for words. "How did you--"
"What if you could stop your mother from dying?"
"I don't know what the hell you are, or who -- how do you know about them?"
"I know much about you," Castiel said, finally meeting his gaze. "I'm trying to help you, Dean."
"That's real helpful, thanks," Dean managed. "Feel free to start making sense anytime you like."
"The best method to stop something is to assure it never begins in the first place."
"Try again."
Castiel's mouth quirked in a smile. "I am."
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: All of season 5, vaguely.
Wordcount: ~2,800
Genre: Gen, angst
Characters/pairings: Dean, Castiel, John
Contents/warnings/kinks: Permanent injury (blindness), unrequited one-sided Dean/Castiel, time travel, non-linear and experimental structure
Beta'd by:
callowyn, zeitheistA/N: Written to the prompt East of the Sun and West of the Moon for
dc_everafter. This wasn't originally the story I set out to tell, but it's the story that wanted to be told. Concrit is very much appreciated!Disclaimer: SPN and its characters do not belong to me.
Summary: Castiel changes everything to save Dean. Dean would much rather he hadn't.
An individual human existence should be like a river: small at first, narrowly contained within its banks, and rushing passionately past rocks and over waterfalls. -Bertrand Russell
Morning had never been Dean's favorite time of day. When he was younger he'd thought it was too bright, too quiet, too early. When he got a little older, the dislike had changed its tenor toward too hungover.
What a joke, he realized later, once mornings had become too dark, too quiet, and still too damn early.
*
The last thing Dean ever saw with his own two eyes was Castiel.
He remembered seeing specks of light, so bright that they made everything else look submerged in shadows. He remembered thinking that they looked like dust motes, floating lazily in the sunlight.
He remembered not knowing what he was looking at.
On Dean's good days, he doesn't blame himself too much for that, because come on, seriously? But on his bad days the self-flagellation comes as if on its own, raking its claws anew over Dean's soul, reminding him that he should have known.
A room with no doors and no windows, Castiel telling him to keep his eyes shut.
Just a peek, Dean remembered. What Castiel didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Wouldn't hurt Dean either. Right?
Dean should've known, should've listened for once in his goddamned life.
He was lucky to still have his eyes, Castiel had said once Dean had stopped screaming, thumbs rubbing Dean's tears from his cheekbones. To still be breathing.
Dean had taken in a deep gulp of air and said hoarsely, You should've warned me.
Castiel replied, I did. You've never listened to me, Dean. But sometimes ... sometimes I wish you did.
*
The first time Dean met Castiel, he hadn't been too impressed with him. "Look, man, I'm not the guy you're looking for," he told him and tried to shake off the offending hand that had somehow creeped out to hold him by the arm, between elbow and shoulder, digging into his skin.
"You can't lie to me," Castiel said.
Dean thought there was pity in his voice, and tried tugging his arm away more forcefully, but Castiel's hand on him wouldn't budge. His grip didn't get any tighter, either. It was as if Dean hadn't moved at all, had accepted this stranger's hold on him like it belonged there.
"Let go of me," Dean said. Castiel looked down at where his fingers surrounded Dean's arm like he was surprised at them. Or that Dean even minded. But he let go, much to Dean's relief, even though he didn't back away. "Who the hell are you?"
"My name is Castiel," he said. He paused and considered Dean with a seriousness that put wrinkles in his forehead. "I need your help."
"Okay," Dean allowed, and was about to say, Now hold on a minute and let me get this straight, but Castiel apparently took it as agreement, because his hand snaked back to Dean's arm, and the next moment Dean wasn't in New Orleans anymore.
*
"When I said 'okay'," Dean would say later, dryly, "I didn't actually agree to help you."
There would be silence from his right, and if Dean didn't know better he would've thought Castiel was gone, but he could sense the faint heat radiating through their clothes.
To that, Castiel would reply after some time, "... oh."
*
Dean thought he could hear his phone ringing as Castiel whisked him away.
*
Dean would've preferred going to Jericho with John than New Orleans. New Orleans in October freaked him out a little, the way it stayed hot and dry while the rest of the country was cooling down and turning to fall. Or maybe it was simply that the ghost he was about to go after wasn't much to his taste, but it was going through victims a little too fast.
"Oh, come on," Dean said when he took the file. "A drowning ghost? Can't ghosts be a little more creative? What happened to setting people on fire or cutting them up, huh?"
John arched his eyebrows and barked out his laughter. "Any other demands?"
Dean considered the question, and answered with his most serious expression, "Lower gas prices."
John laughed again, shook his head. "Amen." He clapped Dean on the back and hefted his duffel bag up to his shoulder. "Don't die, you hear? And call me every couple of days. Let me know you're still breathing."
"Yessir," said Dean. "Same to you."
"Will do," John called out as he got into his truck, and waved goodbye to Dean when he got out of the parking lot.
Dean stayed in the same place for a couple more minutes, staring off into the distance, before getting into his car and starting on the road for Louisiana.
*
He stumbled back a step, and then another when Castiel let go of his hand.
Castiel's face was set in a hard line. He told Dean, "Stay here," and disappeared.
"The fuck?" Dean said into the silence.
*
In a place with no windows there is no way to tell the time, and in a place with no doors there is no way to go outside.
... not unless you had some power tools at your disposal, but Dean didn't have those. He had a couple of switchblades tucked into his boots, his car keys, wallet and a pocket knife in his pockets. He could use the switchblades to scratch at the walls, but that would take him weeks. Months. Years, even, he decided once he knocked on it in an attempt to discover how thick the walls were.
Dean didn't have years, and he didn't think his blades would survive digging into the solid stone beneath the wooden paneling.
The room had no windows, no doors, not even an air vent. He'd checked every inch, moving the heavy oak table at the center of the room, pushing the king-sized bed away from the wall.
The 'bathroom' in the corner was nothing more than a toilet and a sink hidden behind a half-sized wall that looked more like the railing of a balcony than a fucking bathroom. There was even a small shower at the corner of it, though the shower head only reached Dean's hips. But never mind that.
He tried getting to the pipes to see where they went. That would be a weak spot in the walls that Dean could exploit.
There were no pipes.
Finally, he gave up, stood sweating and exhausted in the middle of the room, and waited for Castiel to return.
Son of a fucking bitch.
*
Castiel returned not long after Dean's sweat had cooled off. He appeared a foot away from Dean's face, holding Dean's cellphone with distaste.
"Your father wants to speak with you," he said and handed the phone over to Dean. "Be quick. It isn't safe."
Dean accepted the phone in silence, but when Castiel's hand touched his he recoiled back. "What the hell are you?" he bit out.
"That's for later," Castiel said and gestured at the phone with his chin. "Talk."
"Dean?" It was John's voice coming from the cellphone, weak and tinny but unmistakable. "Dean, you there?"
Dean slapped the phone against the side of his face, said, "Dad," and was surprised at how comforting he found his old man's voice. "I--"
"Thank fuck," John croaked in his ear. "Dean, where are you? What happened? I tried to warn you--"
"You knew?" Dean asked.
"That he was going to try something, yeah, but not how fast he'd be. Dean, I need to know where you are." A pause. John swallowed, hard. "I need to know you're fine."
"Just peachy," Dean said, all too aware of the way Castiel was looking at him.
"Are you hurt?"
"Pissed off."
"I'm going to get you," John said.
Dean tried to smile. "Not if I get out by myself first."
"You do that," John said shortly. "But stay safe."
"Dad, I--" don't know what he is, he wanted to say, but Castiel had already taken the phone from his hand -- "Hey!" Dean exclaimed -- and said into the speaker,
"I'll see you tomorrow."
With that he hung up, considered the phone with deliberation that made Dean uneasy, and crushed Dean's cellphone in his fist. The pieces disappeared -- Dean didn't know where.
"That." Dean said. He worked his throat. "That was my phone you just broke."
Castiel said, "I know." And then: "We need to talk, Dean."
*
Castiel's words had been simple: Don't look while I strengthen the wards.
Why? Dean asked.
It might kill you.
Dean repeated him, slowly: Looking might kill me.
Yes.
I think I'll take the chance, thanks.
Castiel said: You assume I'm willing to take that risk.
He put his hand to Dean's temple, and his blue, blue eyes (wrinkled at the edges) filled Dean's vision. He woke up hours later, alone.
*
His eyes were burning in their sockets; they felt like they were melting. He could hear his own screams, but he couldn't control them. He brought his hands up to his face, but couldn't stand to touch his skin.
The pain lasted forever. It didn't relent, it didn't stop. Somebody was touching his cheeks, the pad of a thumb, and it hurt so much that Dean jerked his face away. But the hand was insistent and was joined by another, and Dean thought he could hear his name in the distance, taste it in the air every time he inhaled.
His throat hurt. He was going hoarse.
It didn't matter. It was just a blip.
"Stop fighting me, Dean!" he heard far off in the distance. The hands tightened around his face, held his head in place. Dean shook his head harder. Whimpered.
The pain receded. It didn't vanish, not completely, and even its echoes were torturous, but at least he'd stopped screaming.
"Dean," Castiel said in front of him. Dean felt the breath of his name on his face. His thumbs rubbed at his cheeks, and Dean realized he was wiping away something wet. Tears? Blood?
He couldn't tell.
"Let me see your eyes," Castiel urged him. When Dean didn't react, he said, "Dean!"
"Let go," Dean managed to gasp out.
"Open your eyes!"
Dean tried. Spots of light danced behind his eyelids.
Castiel didn't say anything, after, but he didn't let him go, either.
*
You can't hunt blind.
He'd tried. Earned that scar across his chest from a knife gone wrong. After that, John had pulled him aside and told him he'd better sit this one out.
At least Sam had chosen to quit hunting.
*
The night of that first conversation they had, Dean had a dream.
But he didn't remember either going to bed or going to sleep.
Daylight. A playground. He was sitting on a bench. There were trees behind him and grass around him and under his feet. A stretch of dirt below the equipment. To soften a possible fall, he guessed.
It would almost have been peaceful, had Castiel not been sitting on a bench next to his.
*
"If you want to kill me," said Dean, "I suggest a knife. Much quicker than boredom."
"I'm not going to kill you," Castiel said.
Dean gestured at the room with his arms, spreading them wide. "What do you want?"
Castiel replied, "I want you safe."
"You've got a funny way of showing it."
"I can't protect you when you're hunting."
Dean said, "I can protect myself."
"The way you could protect yourself from me?" Castiel said with an infuriating calm. "The moment my brothers learn that I am here, they will come after you."
"Your brothers? What kind of fucked-up family do you come from?"
"Are you trying to say that your family is perfect?"
Dean scoffed.
"Do you have any idea what I've done -- what I've given -- to keep you and your brother safe from outside influence?"
Dean straightened so quickly that his spine popped. "What have you done to Sam?"
A sharp intake of breath. It unnerved Dean more than he'd admit: it was a reminder that Castiel almost never breathed. "Nothing," Castiel said, with more emotion than Dean had seen so far. "He's much easier to protect than you. If you'd stayed in one place instead of moving around all over the country, you would never have known I exist."
Castiel's mouth curled. For someone whose plans had been ruined, Dean thought, he seemed remarkably bothered by the idea.
*
What would you do, if you could save these people? Castiel asked him. He was looking at the children in the playground, not at Dean, and he was speaking slowly, haltingly. If you were the only one who could, but at a great personal cost?
*
Specks of light in his eyes, twirling around each other, floating lazily in the air.
Pain.
Hands on his face.
"Dean, open your eyes!"
Dean didn't remember falling asleep, but he remembered waking up to darkness.
"Castiel?" he said loudly and felt his way to the edge of the bed. He received no reply. Swung his legs over to the floor, and stood up.
He remembered not knowing where to place his feet.
*
"You have to go," Castiel told him suddenly. Dean startled, made a quarter of a circle to face where he thought Castiel was standing. "I've been found out. They're coming."
"Where?" Dean said. "Who's coming?"
"We only have a few minutes. Tell your father he'll find Azazel in the warehouse." A brief hesitation: Dean had learned to recognize those moments by the sharp, uncharacteristic intake of air that Castiel did not need. He almost stepped back when he felt Castiel's fingertips at his temple. "Dean, I didn't intend for any of this to happen. I ... want you to know that."
Yeah, well. Shit happened.
The next few seconds were the most disorienting Dean had ever experienced, both before losing his sight and after: the ground disappeared under his feet and there was nothing he could hold on to. It wasn't that the ground was shaking; there was no ground.
When he moved his feet to try and find some sort of surface to stand on, he was surprised to find one a beat later than he expected. Dean fully expected to go down on his ass, but somebody caught him.
Dean didn't need to see to be able to recognize his dad. The recognition was in John's smell, the sure, familiar way his hands kept Dean upright, and the silence. John's silences didn't sound like anybody else's.
"How did you manage to get away?" John asked.
Dean said, confused, "I didn't. He sent me here."
"Nice of him," John remarked.
"He tries," Dean said without thinking, then clamped his mouth shut. "He said to tell you you'll find Azazel in the warehouse."
John's hold tightened around him. "Good," he said harshly.
"Dad?" Dean asked.
"That's what killed your mother. A demon. His name is Azazel."
Dean frowned, pulled himself away from John in order to get some air. "How do you know that?"
"Castiel helped me track him down. And now that I know where he is, I'm going to finish this. You coming with, Dean?" John's voice grew distant, and there were footsteps that Dean could detect but not follow.
"Uh, Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"I would, but--"
*
Dean stared at the playground's brightly-colored equipment. "What is this place anyway?"
"Your head," said Castiel. "A dream."
"-- I don't know what game you're playing at," Dean said, about to get up from the bench and leave. "But I've got to tell you, whatever you're doing, it isn't working."
He would've left if Castiel had so much as glanced at him, but he didn't. His eyes were fixed on the children on the swings. He said:
"If you could stop your brother from going to Stanford, would you?"
Dean fumbled for words. "How did you--"
"What if you could stop your mother from dying?"
"I don't know what the hell you are, or who -- how do you know about them?"
"I know much about you," Castiel said, finally meeting his gaze. "I'm trying to help you, Dean."
"That's real helpful, thanks," Dean managed. "Feel free to start making sense anytime you like."
"The best method to stop something is to assure it never begins in the first place."
"Try again."
Castiel's mouth quirked in a smile. "I am."