pieces (Destiel)

Personal Space

Takes place after 4x16, On the Head of a Pin

+

Dean called from a rundown motel room in Vinton, Iowa that smelled of mildew and stale cigarette smoke. Castiel’s vessel registered faint notes of both as his wings closed behind him and stirred the air around his face. It was not a pleasing combination.

The room was dimly lit, nearly indistinguishable from any other motel room the Winchesters rented. One of the room’s two lights had burned out. A metal box under the window rattled and expelled heat. The walls were deep green; the color was darker along the floor from years of grime. Affixed to the inside of the door was a crooked diagram indicating which direction to walk in the event of fire. Someone had burned a cigarette hole into it.

The beds were draped in floral spreads, tangles of purple and red flowers that seemed incongruous with the otherwise ugly space. Dean sat on the edge of the bed closest to the door, bent over his knees. It was possibly due to exhaustion or possibly frustration—Castiel did not understand enough of human behavior to know which. Sam was not in the room. Castiel heard the shower running and divined his location. He straightened and kept his arms at his sides.

“Hello, Dean,” he said.

“Think you can get these damned flashbacks to stop?” Dean asked. His voice was rough. He motioned to his head and didn’t meet Castiel’s eyes.

Castiel stilled. His thoughts drifted to Alastair, to blood bubbling up from his throat, to a vial of holy water clenched in Dean’s fist just weeks ago. “I regret what you had to do,” he offered. He did regret it, even though Dean’s involvement had been necessary.

“Can you do anything or not?” Dean asked darkly.

Castiel could not remove the burden Dean would face, could not erase the role he must play in the apocalypse, but he could give him this: a few moments of peace. He approached and stood before Dean’s knees, touching the five fingers of his vessel’s right hand to five points along Dean’s temple and cheek. Dean winced.

He had not touched Dean like this since Hell, since Castiel raised and reshaped him, stitched the torn fragments of his soul back together. It had been only months, but Dean’s face already carried so much more than the weight of Hell. His soul was young and luminous, one of the most beautiful Castiel had ever seen. Soon it would be fractured, irrevocably altered when Michael assumed his rightful vessel.

He concentrated on Dean’s pain until it was his own, until it bled from Dean’s soul into his grace, and he observed Dean’s facial muscles visibly relax.

“Thanks,” Dean mumbled and exhaled through parted lips.

“It isn’t permanent,” Castiel explained, “but it will provide temporary relief.”

He dropped his hand from Dean’s face but remained standing before him. There was dirt along Dean’s hairline, dried blood caked beneath his fingernails and smeared claw-like across his face. Beneath the blood were shadows underneath Dean’s eyes. They were not bruises, likely signs of fatigue. Castiel wondered when Dean had last slept.

“There’s this thing called personal space,” Dean groused. He gripped his hands together tightly on his lap. “Ever heard of it?”

Castiel frowned and blinked, then dropped his eyes to his feet, noting that he stood mere inches from Dean’s legs, looming over him. Dean had asked a question, but the anger in his tone struck Castiel as a command rather than an inquiry. Castiel was standing too close by human norms. He immediately backed up until the back of his knees touched the opposite bed, but he didn’t sit. He pulled up into his shoulders and stared down at Dean.