— I see now that it’s a punishment resurrection. It’s worse every time.

Dean and Sam are dead.

They’ve been dead for seven years now.

Castiel should’ve died seven years ago. He should’ve died before that. The bottom line is that… they won’t let him.

Each death had been spaced apart, significantly, the first three times. And for the first two, he’d thought they were… blessings.  He thought he was meant to live, he’d thought that He had brought him back, he thought that He wanted him to fight, continue fighting, help the Winchesters, prevent the world from burning.

He sees now that he was wrong.

He saw, the third time, that it was a punishment resurrection. The second was worse than the first, and the third was worse from the second…

In seven years, he saw that it just got worse and worse. He barely bothered with anything but memories, now. He’d tried to follow the Winchesters numerous times. He belonged with them and they were in Heaven but…

Heaven sure could hold a grudge.

After a hundred years, Castiel stops. He just stops. He sits down with a computer— they’ve progressed, a lot, over the years. Castiel hadn’t noticed. It takes him two weeks to familiarize himself with the device— and writes. He writes of everything he can remember. He tells war stories from his times of a soldier in Heaven. He writes of the evolution of human kind, writes down everything he can think of until he makes it to the hunt that killed the Winchester brothers, where he draws a blank.

It takes him months to write about it, and when he does it’s terribly vague.

After that, he writes of the loss it had been. He writes of how terrible every resurrection was, he writes of his fury toward his brothers and sisters, he describes the gaping hole of loneliness he feels in his chest. He writes of his regrets, of his fears, of his love and his hate.

His book is published.

It’s marked as a work of fiction.

Castiel attempts again to dispose of himself.

He wakes the next morning no physically different than he had been, his frustration and his anger and his loneliness growing.

Castiel lives until he’s the last man on Earth.

And he lives longer.

He’s given up, at this point. And his only thought is to wonder if Dean and Sam still remember him. Still remember what he’s done and what he was. He wonders if Dean still remembers that he was like a brother to him. He wonders if Sam still remembers the hug that he’d refused to give. He wonders if Sam regrets that. He wonders if Dean regrets the way their relationship tore apart as much as the angel does.

He knows that, even if they did remember him, they don’t regret anything. Heaven is of peace, and few thoughts draw any sort of negative emotion. He knows, at least, that Dean and Sam are happy.

And after a while, that becomes enough.

Dean pushes the door to the bar open a little too roughly, unfazed by the cacophony of sound— chatter and loud music. Sam follows him in— looking exasperated— and the angel trails behind both of them. Castiel looks over the room slowly, eyes lingering over the bar before he looks to Dean, following him across the room to an empty booth and sliding in next to the older Winchester. The angel wrinkles his nose as he notes with distaste how the leather of the bench seat was slightly sticky with something the angel can’t identify. Wiping his hands on his slacks, Castiel looks between the brothers.

“It’s all a bunch of bullshit, Sam. Parallel universes? There’s no such thing. It’s like… black holes, and the Bermuda Triangle, or whatever.” Dean looks up from his little brother’s face as a woman strides up to their table— dressed in a surprisingly decent black shirt with the bar’s logo on it and ripped jeans, which Castiel supposes earns the bar some merit. Dean gives their order— after eyeing the woman over slowly— and looks back to his brother, crossing his arms in front of him on the table.

Sam raises an eyebrow at his older brother, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the table as well. “Dude, the Bermuda Triangle is real, the whole wormhole thing is the theory. Black holes are real, too.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. This parallel universe crap is still a bunch of… crap.” Dean nods to the woman when she walks back, setting three beers in front of them.

Castiel looks over the room again, eyes skating right over a man near the bar, turned toward the trio with his eyes locked on Dean, smirking. The angel drops his gaze again, oddly pleased by the realization that Dean ordered a third drink for him. The angel glances between the brothers, slowly raising his arms up onto the table and crossing them in front of him. Neither of the brothers seem to notice his blatant mimicry. “Mason Clark seems to think that parallel universes are real,” Castiel points out, cocking his head to the side and pulling one arm from the other to curl his fingers around the neck of a bottle, claiming it as his.

“Yeah, well, Mason Clark is in his first year of college majoring in Costume Design or some crap. He was probably drunk,” Dean raises his bottle of beer to his lips, taking a long drink of it. “Or high.”

Cas angles his head to the side, tugging his own bottle closer to him and— although he has little interest in alcohol at the moment— takes a small sip from the bottle. Cas gives Dean a questioning look, but says nothing. Sam, on the other hand, rolls his eyes and breathes an exasperated sigh. “We should at least check it out, Dean. We’ve heard crazier. Remember? Dancing aliens? Giant reptiles in the sewers?”

Dean gives his brother a meaningful sort of look. “You think it’s Gabriel?”

Cas shakes his head, quickly interrupting. “Gabriel would definitely be trying to lie low right now. We’ve just encountered him, and he’d walked away with emotional injuries. He’ll be licking his wounds, right now.”

Sam gives Cas something of a questioning tilt of his head, looking thoughtful for a moment before nodding slowly. “That sounds like him, actually.”

Dean looks between the two before rolling his eyes. “What, then?”

“Well…” Cas presses the rim of his beer bottle to his lips, slouching forward onto his one arm on the table— the other holding the bottle up to his mouth, he speaks around the darkly colored glass slowly. “Maybe you weren’t far off.”

“You think it might be another angel?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow and eyeing over the press of Cas’ lips to the glass before looking back up to the angel’s eyes.

Cas shakes his head, taking a sip from the bottle before setting it back down, not very interested in the beverage. “Frightening a wayward Costume Design major would be a waste of their time.”

“You think it might be an actual trickster?” Sam furrowed his eyebrows. “Don’t you think that’s a little much for them?”

“No, not at all. Gabriel gave himself away by placing you in an alternate reality of his own design. Dropping someone into an actual parallel universe is entirely possible, though.”

Dean breathes a slow sigh. “Yeah, okay. Whatever. We’ll work this out in the morning.” Sam brings his until now untouched drink to his lips, downing the entire bottle as Dean stood before standing himself. Cas quickly mimics him and walks after the two brothers, again completely overlooking the man watching them from the bar.

[…]

“Dean.”

The older Winchester grumbles as he feels firm, gentle hand on his shoulder, attempting to shake him awake. It feels like he’s been sleeping on the ground all night; the bed underneath him is genuinely uncomfortable. More insistently, Cas grips his shoulder a little harder and shook more roughly, “Dean.”

Dean groans, raising a hand to swat Cas’ away, pulling his other arm back slowly to lift himself up onto his elbow, Dean blinks his eyes open slowly, turning his head to meet the angel’s eyes— far too close for comfort, as usual, kneeling at his side. “What, Cas?”

Cas raises an eyebrow at Dean slowly and giving him this look. “Look around you, Dean.”

Oh, and that would be why he felt like he was sleeping on the ground. He was. He’d woken up in the middle of the forest. “Cas, where the hell…?”

The angel, having stood and stepped away from Dean to nudge Sam awake, casually slid his hands into his pockets, eyes dragging over their surroundings slowly. “I don’t know.”

Dean huffs, shaking his head and holding his hand out to Cas. “What, your angel GPS broken?”

“Quite the opposite,” Cas replies, grasping Dean’s hand and pulling him up with ease with no help from Dean, tugging him a little too close once he was up— chest to chest. The angel continues glancing around their surroundings for a moment before angling his head slightly upward to blink at Dean slowly. “I’m unfamiliar with the territory.”

Dean hesitates, staying where he was for a moment before taking a deliberate step backward and grasping Sam’s hand— which he’d lifted for Dean to help him up— and pulling him up with a bit less ease than his angelic friend. “What d’you mean ‘unfamiliar with the territory?” Sam asks politely, his voice slurring slightly in his sleepy daze as he looks around, crowding a tad closer to his brother and the angel but keeping a decent distance.

“I mean to say that it appears we ourselves have been dropped into an parallel universe.” The angel says, his tone casual as he continues to look around the forest slowly— though Dean sees nothing of particular interest among the trees.

Dean stares at Cas for a moment before shaking his head slowly, giving a mirthless sort of laugh. “Very funny, Cas. Take us back, now,” Dean tilts his head up to look through the leaves at the starry sky. “It’s the middle of the night.”

Cas fixes a glare on Dean, one eye narrowing slowly. “I’m no jester, Dean. This is no jape. The world around us is entirely different.”

Dean shifts from foot to foot, placing his hands on his hips. “Is that so?”

Cas looks to Sam, watching him sway precariously on his feet before stretching out an arm to support him easily with a hand on his shoulder. The angel looks back to Dean. “The air around us is filled with magic, as far as I can tell, this entire universe is covered in it. I don’t even need the Host to support my power here. I suppose you could say that I’m… a “fully charged” angel here.” Castiel shifts his grip on Sam’s arm slightly before continuing. “Which may not be a necessarily good thing, considering that would imply that the God here is… unpredictable and cruel, and we may not be entirely safe here…” Cas bobs his head in an uncertain sort of inner debate. “Then again, that wouldn’t really matter, seeing as i’m fully powered here—”

“Okay, okay,” Dean cuts in. “I get it. New universe, super-charged angel. Magic, all that. That’s wonderful, that means you can get us back, right? I mean, we kind of have a world to save, back home.”

Cas shakes his head, “I’m afraid not. That’s terribly unsafe. Halfway through the trip all of the magic would be stripped from me and I would be powerless again. I’m afraid that we would… probably either be stuck somewhere else, or we would cease to exist.” Castiel shrugs, wrinkling his nose slightly. “We’ll have to wait for Bobby to discover that we’re missing.”

Dean sighs, watching his brother carefully as he rubs at his eyes and continues trying to wake himself up fully. “For all that you’re a powered up badass again,” Dean tosses a sarcastic smirk in the angel’s direction. “You’re one useless angel.”

Cas bares his teeth in a snarl, taking a measured step into Dean’s space. “I’m far from—”

The angel is interrupted by a gunshot ringing through the air. Each now immediately awakened by the sound, the three men stare off in the direction of the sound before glancing at each other quickly. Dean is the first to take off running, sprinting toward the sound, working his legs as fast as possible. Sam shoots off after him, taking long fast-paced, effective sides. Castiel unfurls his wings, departing with a beat of them and landing at where the trees recede, landing in a flutter of feathers and glancing down either side of the street.

The angel sets off toward the phone booth, hearing the click of Dean and Sam readying their guns— just in case— which they were fortunate enough to still possess, though the two guns, pick-locks, and switch-blades were the only weapons the Winchesters still possessed. The angel surveys the area quietly after reaching the phonebooth— standing in the pool of blood in front of it— and scans the bushes. The fact that they’re in a parallel universe shouldn’t matter, Castiel should still be able to sense all of God’s creations. He senses none other than the man laying dead in the phone booth and himself— Sam and Dean cloaked to him by his own hand. They were alone, as far as he could tell.

Castiel eyed over the dead man slowly. Short black hair, glasses, a sharp, fox-like sort of face shape. The angel crouched, trench-coat dragging in the blood and fingertips stained by the red as he supported himself with a light hand to the ground. Cas shifted his gaze from the man to the ground, as his fingers grazed something, and plucked a small, square picture from the puddle of blood. With a thought, the blood was cleared to show a family of three. The man— a large, pleasant smile on his features and an arm around a woman with short hair and kind eyes. An energetic little girl in the woman’s arms.

Dean sucks in a sharp breath, voice pained over Castiel’s shoulder as the older hunter crouched to examine the picture. “He had a family…”

“He did,” Castiel replies simply, trying to project as much regret into his voice as possible— it doesn’t really work, he still sounds somewhat emotionless. Telling himself he’ll give it some practice, the angel stands, handing the picture back to Dean before— supporting himself with an arm on the phone booth’s door— pressing two fingers to the man’s forehead. The bullet disappears and the man’s wounds close up. The blood vanishes.

The man takes a sharp breath and Castiel almost smiles as Dean jump slightly behind him. Castiel pulls away, removing his arm from the phone booth and slipping both hands into the pockets of his trench coat. “Hello.”

The man’s eyes— green, a lovely color as far as eyes go— go straight to the angel, naturally narrowed but stretched wide in surprise and fright. The man is quick— for someone who’s only just come back to life— and there’s only a few moments between when their eyes meet and when there’s a knife lodged in Castiel’s forehead.

The angel tilts his head, eyeing the man over slowly for a moment before he raises a hand to pull the knife from his forehead, turning it in his hand to hold the knife by the blade, handing it back. “I’ve found that resurrecting someone usually warrants that reaction.”

Dean clears his throat behind him, Castiel ignores him.

“You…” The man seems to debate what question he wants to ask before he swallows thickly and continues speaking. “What are you?”

“I’m an angel of the Lord,” Castiel replies easily.

“An… angel,” the man replies slowly, and it occurs to Castiel that he doesn’t know his name. Narrowing his eyes, he searches the man’s expression— as if it might hold the answer to his unspoken question— before he slowly sinks back down into a crouch, them hem of his coat dragging along the now-clean ground and leaving a smear of blood.

Castiel doesn’t even begin to consider that what the man had said might be a sort of question. He stares at the man for another moment— not seeming to realize that he’s staring— before uneasily beginning his question, almost embarrassed to ask the man’s name. He’s never had to ask someone’s name, before. It’s always been supplied for him, and he’s never dealt with someone he didn’t already know the name of before the initial, in person meeting. “May I ask your name?” He decides to phrase his question politely. Dean and Sam stay silent, behind him, but he can feel their stares on his neck— the way his vessel’s hair prickles slightly at the feeling of being watched— and he can tell that the man before him is regarding them carefully while he doesn’t take his eyes off of them.

Castiel takes pride in how— evidently— he appears trustworthy. The man stares back silently, appearing strongly unnerved by his gaze (which Castiel finds to be a side-effect of his own perhaps-penetrating stare, but doesn’t know how to remedy) but, after a moment of hesitation, he replies favorably with: “Lieutenant-Colonel Maes Hughes.”

Finding a common trait that they’re both soldiers— something he’d discovered in Dean, Sam, and Bobby as well— Castiel finds a new sort of respect in the man and offers an almost warm expression, though he doesn’t smile. Maes doesn’t look comforted, so Castiel assumes that his emotions— what little amount of them he possesses— are something you pick up on over time. (Castiel finds a sort of warmth in himself when he realizes that Dean and Sam recognize his shift in emotions easily at the best of times.) Castiel nods once. “Maes Hughes,” he acknowledges, standing and half-turning to partially face Dean, he holds out a hand toward the hunter. Dean raises an eyebrow but— with a prompting partial curl of Castiel’s fingertips— raises his hand to place Maes’ family photo in the angel’s hand. Shifting the picture around so that the edge can be held between Cas’ index finger and thumb, Castiel turns to hand it to Maes. “My name is Castiel,” the angel gestures toward Sam, and then Dean. “Sam and Dean Winchester.”

Maes stands, taking the picture with a slightly shaking hand and surveying his surroundings from behind somewhat crooked glasses before looking back up to Castiel, glancing over to the brothers. “What… what are they?”

Dean snorts. “That’s kind of rude. And, coming from me, that’s saying something.”

Sam glances at his brother, throwing him a quick, effective “bitchface” (so Dean calls it) before looking back to Maes, pulling a naturally kind and earnest ‘Yes, we know that you just died and came back and, we know, we know, the supernatural experience is horrible’ sort of face as he responded. “My brother and I are human. Cas is the only…”

“Freak,” Dean suggests with a grin. Castiel slowly turns his head to look at him, narrowing one eye and furrowing his eyebrows slightly in an overly confused expression. Dean winked at his angelic friend before looking back to Maes, who watched the exchange with a mix of amusement and suspicion.

Maes, for whatever reason, decides to ignore the humor in this exchange after that small flicker of amusement. His face looks just a little more… tragic, afterward, Castiel realizes. Although his expression had only reverted back to how it had been before, it had somehow shifted. Castiel realizes, after a moment’s contemplation, that this is what human enlightenment is like. After you realize what exactly is different about what you’re looking at, it can never be the same; it’s changed forever.

“What did you…” Maes shifts, pausing for a half second. If he were acting, Castiel would have thought that he’d paused for a sort of dramatic effect most writers and actors believed humans stumbled upon naturally for the same purpose. Castiel knows it to be a moment in which someone has to process exactly what they’re asking, and process what’s going on around him. It is natural, but it’s not for dramatic effect. It’s to let the depth of trauma sink in. “What did you do to me?”

And that, Castiel supposed, would be why he needed that pause, why he was traumatized. Whoever had murdered him, earlier, had been unnatural. Whoever had taken his life was not human— likely not even an animal. Castiel tilted his head at the man slowly before looking toward Sam and Dean. They didn’t seem to find this nearly as meaningful as he did— yet— but Castiel was not bothered by that. He turned back to Maes. “I’ve brought you back. Likely, the action was due to a selfish need for answers as to what is going on around us, but it also might have been due to the whimper in Dean’s voice when he realized that you had a family…” Cas pauses for a second, ignoring Dean’s noise of protest behind him— ignoring the heat that only he, other than Dean, could feel as the man’s face flushed— before amending his answer. “Don’t hold it against Dean that he might have not felt much before discovering your photo in the pool of blood that had previously been where I stand,” Castiel gestured toward the photo, still held in Maes’ hand. “He has seen a lot of death and violence. Blood is a part of his daily life.” Castiel blinks slowly at the soldier in front of him. “Their life,” he corrects, licking his lips and keeping the our life his mind shouts at him to himself.

Maes wets his lips, shifting his gaze between all three men before dropping his slightly raised chin to his chest, looking down at the photo in his hand, holding it a little tighter. “Thank you,” he says, and the sound of his voice is a little broken.

“You’re welcome,” Castiel says, wetting his own lips and looking down at the picture, too. It’s a nice picture, something Castiel hadn’t noticed when he’d first analyzed it. “I assume that you would like to see them— after what has occurred here— but I’m afraid that I must advise against it.”

Maes raises his head quickly, fast enough to slightly daze the newly-revived man. He blinks quickly to clear his head and opens his mouth to protest before, after a thoughtful moment, he simply breathes: “Why?”

Maes is a wise man, Castiel realizes with a bit of indirect pride in humanity; or, at least, this man’s particular category of ‘humanity.’ “It’s fairly evident that you’re a target. Someone, or a group of people, had wanted to kill you for some reason. You having asked what I did you clearly pointed out that this was not a random sort of murder. I’m confident that you going back to your family would get you killed again, and it would likely get them killed, as well. It would be better to get this all sorted out before you can return to your family.”

Maes takes this information surprisingly well. Castiel infers that the reason would be that it would be better to postpone his reunion with his family than see them immediately, and have them killed. The man nods once.

Dean’s hand comes down on Castiel’s shoulder, patting him over the material of his trench-coat. “Good job, Cas, well handled.” The angel feels a sort of warm swell in his chest, he is given the illusion that his body feels lighter than it had before, but it couldn’t have possibly changed. Castiel bobs his head in a single nod, his lips tugging at one corner into a sort of smile as he looks slightly-up at Dean.

“Thank you, Dean.”

Maes eyes them carefully, calculating, analyzing, before Sam clears his throat. “All right, well,” Sam licks his lips and glances around the surrounding area. “Talking in the place you were just murdered is obviously kind of unsafe, so… Cas, would you mind moving us somewhere?”

Castiel looks back toward the two other men, and Dean withdraws his hand (the light feeling and the warm swell in Castiel’s chest remain). “Of course,” Castiel nods, looking to Maes. “I’m afraid flying blind would be unwise. I’m unfamiliar with the territory. Do you know of anywhere we could safely take you? And would you happen to have a map of some sort on your person?” The angel slides his hands from his pockets to hang by his sides instead.

Maes murmurs some sort of agreement, carefully tucking the photo of his family into a pocket in his jacket— military issued, Castiel would hypothesize— and withdrawing a small book. He flicks through the pages before coming upon a folded piece of paper. Tucking the rest of the book back into his pocket, he unfolds the paper to reveal an unfamiliar map. Sam and Dean shift to Castiel’s sides— Dean taking Castiel’s left and Sam taking his right— and all four men huddle around the page slightly, the three tallest tilting their heads a bit to better see.

Hughes’ finger skims over the page, just lightly brushing it, before it lands at a northern point in the circular country depicted on the slightly-yellowed paper. “There, I’d…” Maes swallows thickly. “I’d be safest there.” Castiel knows that he doesn’t find this statement to be completely true, and the angel would venture a guess that the place he feels safest would be with his family. Castiel sees that in Sam, Dean, and Bobby as well— but Castiel hasn’t felt that for several long months now. Even before he’d lost that security, his family had at a point attempted— and succeeded— to torture him into submission.

“And… where are we?” the question feels awkward, foolish perhaps, as it stumbles off of the angel’s tongue.

Maes’ finger drags a straight line from one dot to another, Castiel nods and spreads his wings out— invisible to the normal eye— and with a flutter of feathers he’s off, dragging the other three men along with him.

Castiel is always the last to go to bed. Staying up in his room with the door open at midnight with a fresh, hot cup of coffee in his hand. Dean walks by his door every night on the way to bed, peeking in to find him leaning back in his chair with a clipboard balanced against his knees and a cup of coffee on his desk. It’s something of a planned meeting every night. Cas looks up as Dean pokes his head into his space, gives a wave of his hand. Dean shoots him a grin and leaves. Cas sleeps in later than everyone else, too. The house of hunters usually wake up early, Sam— the earliest— at six. Dean usually rises around seven, and Bobby usually pulls himself out of bed at around seven thirty. The former angel— who had, at first, stayed up for a full three days simply because he wasn’t comfortable with sleep to begin with— usually only stumbled down the stairs at nine, sporting half-lidded eyes, a frown, and hair that was more messed up than usual. The angel usually ignored them for at least half an hour, a cup of coffee in his hand and earbuds in his ears, an iPod tucked into the pocket of his baggy, plaid pajama pants.

Dean noticed that Cas usually closes his door when he goes to bed, and in the morning he passes it without much thought. This morning, it’s seven fifteen and Dean hesitates outside the door before approaching it and pushing it open.

After Cas fell and things calmed down a bit— settling into what hunting was like when John had been alive and Sam was at Stanford— the four had settled down in Bobby’s house, taking up the rooms that there seemed to be too many of. Cas had his room, the first as you come up the stairs, Dean’s was the second, and Sam was deepest into the upper floor. Bobby brushed the three of them off and grumbled something about staying downstairs, because two men and one powerless angel upstairs was bound to turn into something like having three teenagers.

Dean took that and paraphrased it into, “I don’t want to hear whatever you three get up to up there, from Star Wars marathons to fighting over who gets the bathroom in the morning.”

Sam was either downstairs or outside, running, at this point. Dean took comfort in the fact that Cas and him were the only two up here— even though that sort of comfort was unnecessary.

Usually when Cas slept— not that Dean watched him often— he would be curled up with all of the blankets on his bed tucked around him, rolled up in them. He would often be drooling on his own arm or hugging a pillow. Or both. Now, he was clutching at his pillow rather desperately, hands fisted in it and brow furrowed tightly. Dean watched for a moment, his own eyebrows furrowing in concern and confusion before a telling whimper came from Cas’ slightly parted lips.

Dean was rushing— walking briskly— to Cas’ bedside, sitting down on the side of the bed and placing a tentative hand on Cas’ shoulder, wary of the man lashing out as he woke up, like a frightened cat. Dean was near-instantly reassured as Cas leaned into his touch slightly. Upon further inspection, there was a sweat broken out over Cas’ neck and forehead. Dean shook the former angel by the shoulder.

“Cas. Hey, man, wake up.”

Cas blinked rapidly as he woke up, seeming to awaken fully— which is saying something, as he was usually asleep on his feet for a whole hour after waking up— before he looked up at Dean. The hunter almost blushed as he realized that Cas relaxed almost completely just at the sight of Dean. Castiel murmured his name quietly, swallowing thickly.

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says, clearing his throat a bit awkwardly and shifting slightly, scooting a bit closer to offer Cas’ spot within his personal bubble. The fallen angel shuffles closer, accepting it without seeming to realize. Dean fought the urge to pull him into a hug. “You okay?”

Cas seems to debate the question for a moment, shifting uncomfortably before nodding slowly, avoiding Dean’s eyes and instead rather intently eyeing his bicep.

“Don’t you dare lie to me,” Dean warns, though there’s minimal threat behind his growl.

“It was just…” Cas shifts uncomfortably onto his back, shifting closer to Dean’s knee— pulled up onto the bed— just enough to press his side against it. “Unpleasant… figment of my imagination.” Cas says ‘figment of my imagination’ like he’s not completely sure, jaw clenched as he examined the ceiling before he looked back over to Dean.

“You had a nightmare,” Dean says after a moment, he’d already known this, but he was trying to coax out of Cas what he’d dreamed about, trying to make him talk about it. Despite what some people with frequent nightmares say— him being one of those people— talking did help sometimes. “Tell me about it.” Dean says it as a demand, an order, because Cas responds well to that.

“I… I’m not sure if I want to,” Cas replies quietly, shrinking back into his metaphorical shell. And fuck, hell of a time for the guy to grow a spine.

Dean sits there, hesitant to move, but he shakes his head and grunts out an angry fine when Cas refuses to look at him. The former angel looks up, then, eyebrows furrowing at Dean’s anger. He seems worried and upset, and his shoulders are still shaking, but at this point it’s too late. Dean stands and makes his way toward Cas’ door, partially looking over his shoulder. “Sam’s probably already done with breakfast, and if you’re not down in half an hour i’m eating yours.”

Sam asks why he looks so angry, Dean ignores him and begins shoveling his portion of the scrambled eggs, bacon, and cheese mixture Sam had cooked up a few minutes ago into his mouth. Bobby sits at his side, raising an eyebrow at him over his coffee mug but not saying anything. Cas comes downstairs after fifteen minutes, earbuds in his ears, tense— he relaxes upon the sight of the brothers slightly and shifts his grip on the clipboard and pencil in his hand before moving to take his seat between Dean and where Sam would sit. The former angel glances at his cup of coffee and glances up to see Sam stirring up the next batch— which he’s aware would be his, since Bobby and Dean already have their food and Sam insisted on getting everyone else their food before cooking for himself— before shifting in his chair a bit, leaning back and propping the clipboard on the edge of the table.

After breakfast— when Sam and Cas went out for their routine run (and, fuck, when did they become so domestic that they have a routine)— Dean crept into the angel’s room to find out what he’d been curiously sketching on that clipboard when he was supposed to be eating and—

Dean breathes out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, after staring at the picture for a moment. It was Cas, trailing his fingers over the hood of the impala with this broken expression on his face. What was shocking, though, were the details. The impala was rusted, beaten, and the world around the angel was burning. The land was grey, devoid of any grass or anything green. The sky was covered in smoke, and on the horizon there was only flame.

Dean picked up on the message fairly easily. Dean and Sam were dead, long moved on— probably in Heaven— and the only thing Cas had to remind him of them was the impala, which was— as far as Dean could tell— slowly wasting away at all. If such a thing was possible. From what Dean could infer, he was confined to Earth, doomed to be alone forever.

dream dictionary: Alone - To dream that you are alone indicates feelings of rejection. You may be feeling that no one understands you.

The former angel is, at times, unbelievably childish. He has this unbound sort of curiosity that has him pawing through books in Bobby’s library at night, stealing them away and hiding them in his room until someone asks where they’ve gone. He likes curling up in bed with hot chocolate and a book, he likes watching birds outside of his window.

Bobby’s bookcase looks emptier than usual, books on the sides slumping against other books or fallen. A huge empty space where it had once been filled. Dean analyzes the bookcase, trying to imagine what’s missing. All of the important books are there, the research books, the novels, the good stuff. Something’s missing that Dean had never known was there.

Dean’s mind conjures a thick book with a golden spine and raised patterns over the cover, but he can’t think for the life of him what it was called or what it was about. Having the idea in his head, he creeps up the creaky stairs quietly and pushes Cas’ door open slowly. It’s early in the morning, only six-thirty, so Cas is still in bed. The angel is curled up in the center— not even taking up half of the bed— with layers of blankets pulled around his frame and his hair messily spread out over his pillow. He’s snoring softly and, from what Dean can see, drooling.

Dean’s lips tug into a small smile before he starts searching the room quietly, starting at Cas’ desk.

You’d think, as a former warrior of God, he wouldn’t find a need to have anything on his desk, nothing being important enough to put there. Cas was a very active person and he seemed to be busy all the time. Dean is surprised to find that he has notebook paper strewn over the desk’s surface, littered with short stories in girly, script-y handwriting and little doodles of drawings. Dean huffs a small laugh and pushes those papers aside, surprised to see detailed pictures of other things. A view over the ocean from a cliff and a detailed, lonely beach with a pier over the water, a vacant chair at the end of the pier, looking out.

Shocked, Dean lets his gaze linger over the paper as he sets it down over the doodles and short stories, looking to the next few, fingers spreading them out slowly.

The first is a picture of Dean’s back as he trails his fingers over the hood of the impala. It’s accurate down to the ring Dean usually wears on his finger. It’s a picture from a week ago, Dean knows, because he remembers doing this. Glancing toward Cas’ window— where the sill was slightly extended and could be used as a drawing table— Dean could see that every move he’d made that day was being tracked by Cas’ eyes, and that he was drawing him as he watched him— something Dean hadn’t been aware of at the time. Looking back down, Dean blinks at the picture slowly and almost blushes. Pushing it away and swallowing around a small lump in his throat, he continues looking through pictures. Most of them look as though they were pictures taken from Cas’ window, while others— ones that weren’t dated in the corner— seemed to be drawn simply from Cas’ imagination. He seemed to like drawing water, trees, and bridges a lot.

Dean gathers all of the papers in a pile before spreading them back out as they were.

Tackling Cas’ bookcase next, he finds copies of romance novels, poetry books, Shakespeare, and a few more classics on the shelves. None of the books were golden with raised patterns on the cover. Dean moves on.

Dean finds an empty mug on Cas’ bedside table, a plain one that he’s seen the former angel carry around often. Looking inside of it, Dean finds that it’s empty save for a small puddle at the bottom— that one last sip that you can never seem to get rid of— colored light brown. Hot chocolate, now cold. There’s a lamp on the bedside table, too, as well as an unplugged alarm clock. Dean opens the drawer to find blank paper, a few pencils, some quarters, and an unopened tube of lube and napkins pushed to the back— left over from when Dean had used this room at one point.

Shaking his head and grinning, Dean shut the drawer slowly, quietly, and half-turned to look at Cas. He hadn’t stirred at all for all of Dean’s rummaging, earbuds in his ears— the wires trailing down under the blankets to where Cas no doubt held onto the iPod Sam had handed down to him ages ago (he’d needed an “upgrade”, or whatever, and offered the music player to the former angel). Dean’s eyes trailed over him slowly before he looked to the three other pillows propped up against the headboard, eyes catching on the corner of a book peaking out from behind one. Golden with raised patterns over the area of the spine visible. Glancing at Cas again, Dean reached out to hold the corner between two fingers, pulling it out slowly and turning it over, dragging his eyes from Cas’ closed eyes to the cover of the book.

It’s a book of fairy tales. Cas had stolen a book of classic fairy tales from Bobby’s bookshelf and hid it under his pillow, like it was some sort of private, secretive thing.

Dean finds himself smiling, a real, genuine smile, and replacing the book where he’d found it before leaving the room.

He’ll let him off the hook, this time.

He assumes that it would be considered sad, to some degree. The Winchesters likely wouldn’t find it so, but a middle-aged mother with a toddler on her hip might. Maybe that’s a little unfair toward the brothers— and Castiel would really like to think otherwise— but to be honest, Cas really doesn’t expect much sympathy from the two if any.

Castiel doesn’t know what it’s like to be hugged, or to give a hug. Embracing is unfamiliar.

He’s been in a person’s arms before, without a doubt. Cupid— for instance— had hugged him, but it was suffocating and uncomfortable and— by a cherub’s standards— nothing more than an overly zealous greeting. He’d fallen into other people’s arms before, as far as he’d been aware at the moment, but the support of two arms holding him up as he bled over rugs and hardwood floors offered no comfort and he had been partially unconscious at the time. Chastity had… nearly, embraced him. Rubbed over him and attempted to disrobe him, peppering kisses over his collarbone, hanging onto him. None of her actions had counted, or would they ever. They meant nothing.

The angel had… attempted to correct the issue, though those weren’t his motives at the moment. He’d meant to welcome Sam back to his awareness, congratulate him on the reclaiming of his soul. Sam had… rejected him, in a sense, called him— or, rather, the situation; though Castiel took it both ways— awkward. Castiel, while he held no grudge against the man, had kept his distance from the younger hunter after that. Castiel still offered comfort, still offered his friendship to Sam— and Sam took it, willingly— but physical affection of any sort had been prohibited, evidently.

Castiel had thought Sam the most accepting of any sort of physical touch. He was certainly the most kind— when he desired to be, which was often— and would offer his ear to any— or most of— Castiel’s problems, likely enough, but…

Castiel was… hesitant to approach Bobby in search of physical comfort. The man seemed to be the least likely candidate for receiving such a thing. Castiel was, often enough, made to believe that Bobby only considered Sam and Dean to be an actual part of the family— or the sort of broken relationship the three of them shared which seemed heavily familial. Castiel accepted that, respected it, kept his distance. He wasn’t welcome in that triangular union of love and respect for each other, and he never tried to impress himself within that bond. There would be no point.

On that note, Castiel almost feels guilty for falling; becoming so helpless and almost unable to leave. He feels claustrophobic— trapped; unable to escape— almost, he feels as though he’s a bother. The three of them pick up on this easily enough, and subtly try to convince him otherwise by including him in their daily activities, but that does nothing for him; it doesn’t ease the uneasy clench over his heart.

Dean… Dean is different, in so many ways. He’s easy to get close to, and in most cases stay close to. Dean doesn’t seem to mind the warmth of Castiel by his side, or the feeling of the angel watching the world over his shoulder, hovering, breathing down his neck. Castiel is… perplexed, by how much Dean seems to… not care, but he greedily accepts the idea and stays close. Castiel never dares to creep closer, never dares to take that extra step and press against Dean’s back, press his lips to the sun-kissed strands of hair and soft skin of Dean’s neck— Castiel quickly dismisses those thoughts, Sam asks why he’s blushing in these situations. Castiel evades the question skillfully.

This, obviously, explains Castiel’s problem well enough. Castiel doesn’t plan to act on anything, doesn’t plan to move from the close proximity he’d managed to claim at Dean’s side. The angel doesn’t bother to tell any of the three about this, doesn’t plan to tell anyone about this. Doesn’t plan, even, to question his brothers on the matter. Even if they’d be willing to speak with him, if he knew where they were, he’s fairly sure he wouldn’t have the… courage, to ask such a question.

Castiel supposes that he’s lonely. The angel contemplates the idea of catching Dean— or Sam, or Bobby— at a vulnerable moment, wonders if it would be worth the risk to wrap his arms around someone’s neck, or to pull someone into an embrace and hold them around the waist. The angel plays with the idea of finding other friends, human friends, and maybe…

Castiel dismisses those ideas, too. Tosses them away and doesn’t give them a second thought. While he’s not content the way he is, he’ll stay the way he is. What he has is better than nothing.

“What do you remember?”

That was the thing, though, he didn’t. He barely had enough sense, instinct— he supposed— to come here. To be wrapped in this odd, bright orange blanket and sat down in an office. Phones rang outside, and people rushed from what point to another on the other side of the glass doors.

He remembered one thing.

“Dean.”

“Is that your name?” The man asked, raising an eyebrow. He— he had no name for himself, nothing to call the dark hair and blue eyes— let his gaze wander down to the name tag on this man’s suit, to view the badge. ‘Sioux Falls Police Department’, ‘Mason Clark’.

He shook his head. “No.” It wasn’t his name.

“… Can you tell me your name?”

“No,” he responded calmly, blinking wide blue eyes.

“So…” The man licked his lips, eyebrows furrowed. “You have a name, but you don’t know your name. How do you know that… ‘Dean’ isn’t your name?”

“I have black hair,” the man points out, shifting where he’s sitting. He feels vulnerable, naked, he knows that he’s used to wearing clothes. That he’s used to wearing layers. “And blue eyes.”

Mason nods slowly. “And… Dean doesn’t?”

The man shakes his head slowly. “He doesn’t.”

“Can you tell me what ‘Dean’ looks like?”

“I can.”

There’s a moment of silence between the two.

“Would you?”

“Of course.”

Another moment of silence.

Mason brings in an artist and tells him to describe Dean. 

He can’t remember his own name. Or how he knows Dean, or what Dean is to him, but he manages to recall every detail of Dean. Recounting every physical trait he has before delving into his personality, starting to describe how he acts and the exact things to say to make him smile.

The sketch artist— Emily, he learns by glancing at her own name tag. He wonders why he doesn’t have a name tag. That would make things much easier— and Mason exchange a glance. Emily had stopped drawing— she’d stopped drawing when he’d started describing Dean’s personality— and they were both watching him with raised eyebrows.

He didn’t know any limits, and he didn’t interpret their body language as a sign to stop. Speaking of this man— Dean— was comforting, so he kept recounting everything he knew about Dean. Everything that seemed important. Everything from his appearance to his personality, ticking through everything he knew of that would make the man smile— but never coming up with any other people, though he knew that there were other people— or anything that could be helpful in finding Dean, like a job or a place of residence.

“Dean Winchester,” He finally says, just as a woman walks through the doors, holding up a stack of papers. This woman seems to forget immediately what she’d been about to ask, and fixes her attention on him.

“Excuse me?” She says, and he furrows his eyebrows at this response before— after a moment— interpreting it as a request to repeat what he’s said.

“Dean Winchester,” he repeats, tilting his head at the woman. He studies her badge. ‘Jody Mills’.

“You recognize that name, Jody?” Mason asks, leaning back against his desk.

“Yeah… Yeah, I do. I know where to find him—” He blocks out everything after that, his heart jumping and a smile spreading across his features. He feels a strong flare of emotion in his chest, something he recognizes as ‘hope’.

A half hour later and he is being urged into Jody’s car. The woman starts it with a flick of her wrist, twisting the keys in the ignition before pulling out of her parking spot, turning to look in the back window and turning the wheel with one hand. The man watches, fascinated, and pulls his blanket tighter around him.

“So, remind me how you know Dean?” Jody asks, keeping her eyes on the road as she heads toward the edge of their town.

“I don’t know,” he says, looking out the window and watching the clouds. He feels… free, relieved. Ignorant. He isn’t bothered by not knowing.

“Do you… remember anything?”

“Just Dean,” He replies, turning to study Jody’s features. After a few minutes, she seems bothered by it. He turns his gaze to the road instead.

They arrive at a building, a length of time later, with a sign that reads ‘Singer Salvage Yard’. He feels safe here.

Jody leads him out of the car and guides him to the front door of the house. She knocks on the door.

They wait for a few minutes, Castiel tilts his head at the twitch of curtains behind the window of the door, and the door is pulled open.

Green eyes, bright green, but old. Freckles scattered over his nose and cheeks and… God, they’re everywhere. Short, light brown hair. A square jaw. Full, bow-shaped lips.

He’s beautiful.

“… Cas?”

Cas. Cas. That sounds right. Blue eyes, black hair. Cas. That’s his name. Cas’ mouth spreads into a wide grin, his eyes crinkle at the corners, and he speaks over Jody’s voice, affection spreading over his tone. “Dean.”

The first time Dean even gets a clue that Cas might have feelings for him— like… feelings, feelings— came in a good five years after they met.

In seventh grade, Castiel was tiny and shy, and mostly kept to himself. Dean sprung conversation on him and— by the end of the week— convinced him to come over and play video-games at his house. Year after year, they both got their share of fitness and filled out. Dean— who wanted absolutely nothing to do with sports— was eventually convinced into going into football by Cas. It turned out to be pretty fun, actually, and Dean got pretty good at it. Castiel— also wanting nothing to do with sports— was convinced by Sam, Dean’s little brother, to try out for track.

Dean, who had never seen Castiel run in his life— he always seemed to stride quickly with purpose when he needed too— was genuinely surprised to see his friend flying down a red dirt road and skillfully springing over hurtles, seeming almost graceful.

It was no surprise to Dean that Castiel was quick, but he never expected him to be strong, too. Dean had been pushing him around since he met him, and Cas was always fairly pliant.

However, they rarely talked during the summers— despite living so close— and Dean had no idea what Cas did in those three months.

He only found out in that first year of high school when Cas, seemingly out of nowhere, immediately checked off ‘ROTC’— which was, basically, a military training/discipline class.

 ”Dude, ROTC?”

Castiel tilted his head in that curious, somewhat naive way of his. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been going to military camps over the summer for years now,” Castiel says, as if Dean had already known. “It was kind of expected.”

“Wow, who did you piss off?”

“Uh… what?”

“No one goes to military camps voluntarily. What’d you do to piss your parents off?”

“That’s… exactly what I did, Dean.”

After that, the subject had kind of been dropped.

Dean— despite all of the shit he’d put his friend through— had never, ever seen Castiel angry. Well, he’d seen him angry, but not angry.

That changed when Sam’s first year of high school rolled around.

Sam, of course, could hold his own. Dean had taught him how to punch his first year of middle school, and they’d never had any problems.

As a fourteen year old, though, Sam was really kind of… tiny. Sam— in the view of other high school kids that had too much time on their hands and a mean spirit— was an easy target. Small, nerdy (seriously, who gets excited over algebra?).

His first day, in fact, Sam had a senior crowding him against the lockers.

Castiel and Dean were walking by at the time, and Cas caught sight of it before anything happened— easily recognizing one of the school’s trouble makers.

Cas stepped in, shoving his way between the two and shoving Zachariah Adler away from the younger Winchester. “Leave him be.”

Zachariah turned his attention to Castiel easily, making the switch without missing a beat. “Or what, Milton? You gonna get your boyfriend to beat me up?”

Dean was about to step in and do just that— ignoring the boyfriend comment easily; they got that a lot with how much time they spent together— when Castiel flipped the tables easily, crowding into Zachariah’s space. “I need to do no such thing,” the teenager growled back, curling his fists in Zachariah’s collar. “And you’d better show me some damn respect before I take care of you myself.”

Zachariah spit in his face.

Time seemed to freeze for a moment, the entire hallway pausing to watch the two.

Castiel swung Zachariah around before decking him in the jaw. Dean had thought that watching Castiel punch someone might be humorous— he’d never seen it happen before— but Zachariah crumpled to his knees, falling back onto his back and scrambling away. He obviously hadn’t expected that to hurt just as much as it did. Castiel paid no mind to his bruised knuckles, stepping up to Zachariah’s feet only to glare down at him, nose wrinkling in a snarl. Dean noticed the change in tone immediately as Castiel growled low, seeming almost like a feral, big, wild cat— in comparison to Dean’s usual vision of Castiel, some sort of cute, fluffy kitten— as he spoke. “Don’t let this happen again.”

Zachariah actually murmured out a ‘yes, sir’ before he turned and scrambles away, fleeing down the hall.

Castiel watched him leave, posture rigid, until he was out of sight. Turning on the brothers— who were watching with a sort of awe-filled horror— he brought his fist up to rub at the back of his hand, posture returning to the completely relaxed, graceful, light, warm Cas that they usually saw.

“Are you alright, Sam?”

The younger Winchester stuttered for a moment at being addressed before shaking himself out of it. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Uh…”

“What the hell was that?”

Dean glanced down as Sam elbowed his side, looking back up after a moment to Cas and realizing that Cas just decked someone for being disrespectful and he’d just blurted out the first thing that came to mind— rather rudely.

Castiel tilted his head at Dean’s somewhat panicked expression before he answered slowly, calmly. “Um… that was me… dealing with someone…?” He answered hesitantly, as if afraid of Dean’s disapproval, and that’s when it hit him.

Of course, Dean was rude and disrespectful to Cas constantly. Pushing him around, teasing him, degrading him daily in a… friendly manner.

And Cas put up with it, because he liked Dean.

Dean had frequently called Balthazar— another one of Cas’ close friends, one of which Dean didn’t particularly like— Cas’ boyfriend. Every time Cas brought up Balthazar’s name, even once, Dean would immediately respond with, “What? Your boyfriend?”

And Cas just decked some guy for it.

Dean doesn’t exactly know what brought him to the conclusion, but…

Holy… crap, Cas was in love with him.

It was rare when Gabriel broke down, but when he did it was… loud. Gabriel was downstairs with Anna, and even from up here in his attic room, Castiel could hear him crying. Trying to speak through his tears. Anna shushing him.

Castiel wanted to cover his ears, put in his headphones and turn up the music to a deafening volume. He wanted Dean’s… loud, old, rock music to fill up his ears and take him away to green eyes and freckles.

He just wanted it to stop.

Castiel never cried along to his brother’s sobs, just listened.

Gabriel took care of them. Both Castiel and Anna. From any outsider’s view, in public, he would be an unfit parent. It was all candy and practical jokes. Anna and Castiel would both disagree there, though, because Gabriel… Gabriel was a good mother, in a sense. Although he was their older brother, and none of the three had actually seen their parents in years.

Castiel could barely hear the conversation, but the moment he heard Anna’s voice he stilled. It was calming, and cheery, and it screamed everything’s going to be okay.

Castiel dropped his gaze to the pillow he’d pulled into his lap for comfort. The pillow that Dean doesn’t know is covered with one of his old AC/DC shirts.

I’m tired of pretending everything’s okay.

And that. That was when Castiel broke down. In seconds he was in tears, pulling his legs up and sobbing into Dean’s shirt, hugging the pillow to his face.

The moment his phone started ringing, Cas moved to silence it, clapping his hand over the device and pulling it towards him, glancing at the caller ID and…

“Sam?”

Cas really had no idea why he’d answered it. Especially when his voice was deeper and broken, obviously wrecked.

“Cas?”

It was obvious that Sam knew, too.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Holy… Are you okay?” Sam sounds alarmed, and of course he would. Neither Sam nor his brother have seen or heard Castiel cry before.

Castiel sniffled, beyond trying to hide it. “Yes, I’m… well… No, I’m not okay. I’ll recover, though.”

“Re… Recover? Are you hurt? What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing, Sam, it’s only—”

“Dean and I are coming over.”

Cas sighed, resigned. “Don’t come through the front door. It would probably be best to climb through my window. I’ll leave it open.”

—

“… Is that my shirt?”

And of course, those are the first words out of Dean’s mouth. Castiel simply nods, keeping the pillow tucked to his chest. Dean gives him a strange look, but doesn’t say anything else in the matter, searching Cas’ expression.

“Have you been crying?”

Castiel nods again.

“Why—” Cas stops him by holding up a hand and pointing to his ear. Dean falls silent and both him and his little brother are obviously listening intently.

Anna is still trying to calm Gabriel down, downstairs. And through the thin walls, all three boys can hear Gabe’s hiccups of sobs.

Sam looks as if he might cry, too, eyebrows furrowed. “Why… why is Gabriel crying?”

“There is a lot of stress coupled with raising two teenagers,” Cas says, scooting back on his bed and giving the brothers room to quietly step over the creaky floorboards and climb onto Castiel’s bed next to him.

“Why… why are you crying?” Dean asks, still unfamiliar with the redness of Cas’ eyes and the choked quality to his voice. Castiel contemplates telling him before just pulling his pillow closer to himself and laying his cheek on it.

Both brothers still, only just seeming to notice the soothing tone that Anna’s taken, downstairs, listening to her words quietly.

Sam is the first to speak. “You’re… tired of pretending that everything’s okay?”

Cas’ lip curls in a bit, pathetically, and he turns his head to bury his face back in his pillow, making a small sound of verification before sobbing, shoulders shaking.

Dean rubs a hand over his shoulders, scooting closer and tentatively hugging him. Sam hovers awkwardly from the other side of the bed before joining his brother, wrapping his arms around both of them.

Castiel honestly doesn’t know how he’s managed to gain such wonderful friends.

The three of them curl up in Cas’ bed, initially just for a more comfortable comforting experience, but eventually they all fall asleep. Dean wraps his arms around Castiel from behind, and the oldest teenager is sure that Dean will complain in the morning, while Sam curls up at Cas’ front, taking comfort in which he doesn’t need from the smell of his brother in Cas’ makeshift pillowcase.

“Well look,” Uriel said dryly from Dean’s side, “if it isn’t queer boy.”

And okay, Dean was a little— actually, no. He was very shocked.

And Castiel— the new kid, across the room with the school trickster; who he’d easily befriended— heard it too. The blue-eyed boy slowly fixed his attention on Uriel, raising an eyebrow. “Excuse me,” he said politely, just as dryly, “what?”

Soon enough— after a few more provoking, verbal prods from Uriel— Castiel had forgotten his— since he’d arrived— legendary manners, and cracked his knuckles against Uriel’s jaw.

Uriel promptly tackled him, and the small crowd was easily expecting Castiel to be  thoroughly wrecked.

Dean, and half of the crowd, found himself pleasantly surprised.

Castiel flipped them both over, digging his knees into Uriel’s ribs, and wrapped a long-fingered hand around Uriel’s throat. “You’d be careful as to what you say,” Cas says, voice dropping deeper still than his usual ridiculously growl-y voice. “It could get you killed one day.”

A good portion of the school began referring to Castiel as ‘Clark Kent’ or ‘Superman’.

He didn’t get it.

(oh god I don’t even know. I just jumped onto this account to write something and look what happened. It’s not even really destiel, is it?)

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