The Year of Redemption

Chapter 53: War Paint

Dean wanted to scream, to cry, to fight. He yearned to take out his emotion somehow, but there was nothing that could do justice to how he felt, there was nothing that could ease it, could make it disappear, save for one single being.

So he just drank. And he went about the mundane daily routines of the house – cleaning, washing, sweeping, picking up, chopping wood, fixing something, anything – doing whatever he could just for the sake of doing something.

He knew he was just trying to keep himself busy until Cas came back. It seemed like every minute, every second, he was waiting, hoping, straining to hear a certain flutter, a "Hello, Dean," a sudden movement in the corner of his eye. For days he waited, and he ran out of things to do.

So he drank more. And he didn't sleep – he couldn't. He was on edge all the time, waiting, listening, hoping.

He felt jumpy, like some delusional person who was always seeing things, always waiting for a certain crazy occurrence to happen. Sometimes, he just sat in the armchair staring at his hand, which would shake sporadically despite all his attempts to control it. It could have been the alcohol, or the insomnia creeping up on him, but Dean knew it wasn't either of those things – it was his own uneasiness, his single-minded restlessness asserting itself over his body, trying to convince his mind that no part of him would be ok until Cas returned.

Which was pathetic, he knew. But the feeling still nagged at him, day in and day out. And he worried – constantly. He prayed the angel would keep his promise – that he would stay safe. Dean wasn't entirely sure what was going on up there in Heaven, but he was sure of one thing – war wasn't safe, ever. He wished there was some way of helping Cas. But all he could do was wait.

It had been nearly three days – 68 hours. It was mid-afternoon. Dean had just gotten out of the shower and walked to the bedroom to change. He strolled into the living room in fresh clothes, but still feeling like shit. His eyes were glazed over, and he was intent on just plopping down in the armchair and finishing off some half-drunk beer on the end table while he tried to exert some sort of control over his quivering hands.

But he stopped in his tracks well before he made it to the chair. His glazed eyes snapped back into focus almost instantaneously. Castiel was there, sitting on the couch, as if he hadn't even left at all. Dean's breath caught in his throat, and he couldn't say anything. But as he stared at the angel harder, the bright, joyful look on his face quickly fell.

Cas wasn't his usual lighthearted self. He looked beaten down, defeated. Dean walked over to the couch tentatively. "Cas, what's the matter?" he asked anxiously, sitting down by the angel and turning towards him. He raised a hand to place it on Castiel's shoulder, but thought twice and lowered it back to the couch again.

The angel looked up at Dean, his eyes devoid of emotion, devoid of all life almost. "Some of Raphael's followers ambushed one of our hideouts three days ago," Cas stated. "We were just informed of the incident. Most of the angels were able to defend themselves and escape." Castiel's voice grew small, feeble almost. "I lost two of my brothers," he choked out.

Dean's eyes widened. It hit a little too close to home. He could only imagine Cas's pain. The hunter didn't know what to say, what to do except just be there for the angel.

Three days ago, he thought. Cas had been with him three days ago. If Cas had been in Heaven instead... Dean didn't dare finish the thought. He just sat there silently, not moving, not thinking at all. He wanted to reach out to Cas, to hold him and comfort him, but somehow, the angel seemed distant, almost like he just wanted to be left alone.

After what seemed like forever, Dean asked, "When are you going back?"

"A little later," Cas replied indifferently. Dean nodded. He wasn't sure what he'd wanted Cas to say in response, he just had to know.