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[ Dean is making this brief for a variety of reasons. But he sadly doesn't care enough to make this anything but video - audio and text just seem like far too much effort, and so Dean can be seen boozing it up with a half empty bottle of whiskey he received from the gods.

Someone's been drunk a lot lately.

Big fuckin' deal. ]

So, I kind of happen to have an angel buddy who's in need of a lay. Anyone want to lend a hand?

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[ Well you are the one who introduced him to pornography.

But the sharpness of the words makes Castiel pause, because it wasn't easy for him to open up enough to actually ask these questions either, and the callousness of the response, even if Dean is drunk, freezes the entire line of questioning right there.

A second later, Dean doesn't have to worry about being the one who runs away, because Castiel does it for him--flees, the way that he hasn't in almost two months, the video distorting and going out like the signal's physically been ripped apart. ]

[ As Cas goes, so does Dean.

What he wants most of all, is his goddamn car. He wants to jump in behind the wheel and escape, crank the windows open and feel the breeze, wants to watch the asphalt roll away beneath the tires. He wants to feel scenery crammed into his back pockets and he wants to hide behind the sloping hills of anywhere but here, but there is no escape, no car, no hiding. There's only this damn cave, and there's only his feet, and so he lifts his bottle and he goes.

And he walks.

He doesn't walk terribly far; it's more like a wavering, drunken meandering. He's not wasted enough to find himself lost, but he's drunk enough not to care where his feet taking him, letting himself follow the line of the river at a slow gait instead. It's the trickling movement of water that he can walk beside that he's sure will save him, that will make all of this alright, but even when it does, Dean tells himself that it heals all ills. It will be alright, he thinks, it will go back to normal. It will even out, slide back to where it's meant to be.

But he walks, and that's the important part, swigging back whiskey and trying not to care about the pain beneath his ribs. ]

[ Castiel goes to the highest point in the city, perched on the roof of spire one, and he stays there. He stays for hours, just hiding, all by himself, and when finally he does deign to creep back, he goes back to the apartment, expecting to find Dean passed out on his bed with the empty bottle beside him.

But that's not where he is. He's not anywhere in the apartment, and suddenly Castiel sees images of Dean blundering drunkenly into the path of a troll, unable to defend himself, looking for a fight in order to make himself feel better and finding himself crushed under that power, or paralyzed again, being eaten alive. Every image is worse than the last, and Castiel rushes out into the caves blindly, without looking anywhere else for him first. He scours the dark places, ignorant of his own fear of them, not even thinking about it, until he's lost and disoriented, and the caves spit him back out.

His heart beating in his throat, it's only then that he feels Dean's presence in the city, like a beacon of light, and a moment later a frenzied, terrified angel is tumbling onto the grass beside him, wide eyes and frantic.

He's alive. Thank God. He's alive.

He'd been so afraid. So afraid. Blood streaks his shoulder, left over from a creature he fell upon blindly in the dark. ]

Dean.

Edited 2016-08-04 20:32 (UTC)

[ Dean isn't expecting company.

Not because he doesn't want it, but just... because he didn't think it would appear quite so suddenly, not the way Cas always does. In the fashion of now you see him, now you don't. One moment Dean is alone and the next Cas is there, seemingly stumbling blindly towards him, looking as if he'd just gotten into a fight with a who-knows-what. Dean isn't sure but he stands there for a few seconds, brow furrowed, going from questioning to concerned in the blink of an eye. He doesn't know if Cas is at death's door or if he just looks a bit scruffy, but he drops his booze, forgotten and capped, making his way over to immediately clasp his fingers to Cas' shoulders.

This he knows: this panic. This you cannot die on me worry. This feeling he's familiar with, at home with, and it doesn't feel foreign and pointed the way everything else does within his chest. ]

Cas, you good?

Dean.

[ He repeats the word again, almost automatically, and then he lunges forward all at once, throws his arms around Dean's shoulders and hugs him bone crushingly tight. The panic inside him is humming underneath the surface like a roaring tide of worry beating up against a dam, and it throws itself over the top, crashing down as he holds onto Dean, onto the reality of him, the fact that he's okay. His relief. ]

I thought--I thought you'd gone into the caves. I went looking for you. You could have gotten yourself killed, and it would have been my fault. I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry.

Hey, hey- woah-

[ Dean's not expecting the bone crushing hug. It seemingly comes out of nowhere and maybe it's the booze or maybe it's the fact that he hasn't caught up yet with Cas' worries - he's not sure. But either way, it doesn't really matter because Cas is clamping tight and Dean can do nothing but pull him close and settle his chin to the angel's shoulder, as if he needs the extra bout of reassurance, despite it all. Despite his confusion, his anger, his beleaguered self confidence, this is still Cas, and Cas still needs his comfort too.

Clapping a hand to his back, Dean holds him snug, huffing a stern breath, one that's ever present and full of warm intent. ]

It's okay. We're good, i'm good, it's fine. Wouldn't have even been your fault, you hear me?

[ It's too bad if he didn't expect it, he's got it now. A fierce and unyielding hug, pressed tight against him, resisting any urge to encourage him to back away. All Castiel wants is to hold him and remind himself that Dean is solid and real and not at all dead. He'd been so afraid, working himself up over hours, and now he's found Dean in one piece the relief will take more than a minute to subside into something more manageable.

So he squeezes again, knowing Dean can take it, and closes his eyes tight, burying his face into his shoulder. ]

I ran away, and when I came back you were gone. That's not... How can you trust that I'll always be there if I'm not?--if I'm not there when you need me?

[ Dean is all here, all present and accounted for. He's not bloodied in the slightest; perhaps a bit less drunk than he'd like to be but he's whole. He didn't even consider hitting the caves, a rarity for him only that in he isn't hiding in violence this time and is instead trying to hide in the movement of his feet. It's the best he could do, the best he could be, trying so hard not to always be the monster he's turned into. It hasn't helped in the slightest that he feels as if he's been written upon by the Gods, made even more marked, and so he's turned a different way, hopeless all the same.

Dispelling the urge to push away from fear of what this is becoming between them, Dean holds back in turn and swallows hard at Cas' words. They're strong and painful, something that digs in hard beneath his ribs and makes him wonder just where the truth is in what he's saying. Just how much he'd be inclined to believe in exactly what Cas has made known, that Dean only trusts in Cas because he is always there. That when he is needed, Cas can almost always be found.

And yet he's still here. That's the point, isn't it? Cas is always here. Always around the corner.

Always seemingly, just out of reach of how Dean needs him most. ]

You're here now, aren't you?

[ Slowly, Castiel releases his tight death grip, the grip that's meant to make up for the fact that he let Dean out of his sight at all. His eyes slip downwards, ashamed of himself, of his reaction, and as they drop away so do his hands. His fears prickle into place again; his doubt and guilt, his echoing concern for Dean. He's here, he's safe, but Castiel feels like there's still some part of him that's broken and knowing that, placing it against his new knowledge that his affection for Dean isn't just that, that it's so much more; so much that he doesn't yet understand... Being broken isn't good enough any more. Running away isn't good enough any more. He loves Dean, and he feels utterly helpless, trapped inside this fractured version of himself that can't possibly deliver on all the things he wants to.

His expression pinches for a moment, in his own misery, his fingers curling around the outside of the pockets of his coat. He squeezes the fabric roughly, and then looks up with desperately miserable eyes. ]

What if I'm not good enough?

[ Dean watches slow and unsure as Cas begins to peel himself away, the grip turning inward and infinitely more afraid. Dean isn't drunk enough or stupid enough to miss out on at least part of it, part of this and Cas' reaction, to be so oblivious as to not see that there is something more buried beneath it all but Dean doesn't know how to access. He doesn't know how to be a part of what this is and only feels distant, as if he isn't allowed to partake. As if this can't be an aspect of himself he somehow knows so well.

This moment isn't his to have, it's not a part of him, and yet he so desperately wants to know how to feel more within it. All he can access is the fact that he's lost, that he doesn't understand, that he somehow feels as if some part of him has gone irreversibly tight. It hurts - it's what he knows, that it hurts, and Dean can do nothing to give more of himself when he doesn't even know what he has left of himself to offer.

Lifting his hands as if in offering, Dean's fingers fall to Cas' throat, almost as if to throttle him, but instead are only there to offer the chance to hold his gaze. Dean isn't looking away either, despite the terror behind his eyes, the look that he's too lost within himself to even know what he's supposed to be looking for. ]

Cas, you are always enough. You've always been enough, you always will be.

[ It's really stunning to him, truly. This is the first moment since his eyes had caught Dean's the other night, that they've actually looked each other right in the eye. With the way that Dean had acted the morning after, and this whole charade on the network, their video conversation with averted gazes, from different rooms, Castiel has felt like everything had gone back to a slightly more horrible version of normal. But suddenly, they're feet away from each other again, and Dean is looking right at him, and there's no escape from the intensity of that gaze, the frightened green that pierces his own fear and anchors him to the ground.

And when Dean tells him that he's enough, that he always will be, the words alone echo far deeper sentiment than I need you or I love you, and yet they encompass those as well. Enough means so much more, is infinite in its meaning, the resolution of safety and purpose and guardianship, love and honor and brotherhood. It's intimate, and it's personal, and it has far more meaning than any single divine command that Castiel has ever received. No angel has ever told him that he's enough, no superior. No one has ever reassured him in his uncertainty, or commended him in his actions; not even his own Father.

But from Dean it means everything. It is a kaleidoscope of meaning crystallized into a single word. Enough. Good enough was all he ever wanted to be.

His own long pause says "I needed to hear that, and I love you too." But he looks into Dean's eyes and he doesn't say the words, he just feels them, reaches his hands up and curls them gently around Dean's wrists, wordlessly. ]

Edited 2016-08-05 00:07 (UTC)

[ Dean thought he would be pitted against even more resistance, more of Cas' pushback and refusal to be a part of the words Dean even attempts to say. Most of the things he spits into the air mean nothing, are trivial at best and often lost to the fine air of the surround, but what he gives to Cas is sometimes so different. What he gives has meaning, holds truth and honesty that he offers to no one but Sam at times and even that comes in an entirely different form. Dean says brothers and all he means is love, but not even Dean understands the difference between his love for Sam and his love for Cas. All he knows is that it's love, that it's importance and need, that it's necessity and a dire fear of separation that he can't hide himself away from.

Fingers curl around his wrists and Dean feels an urge well in his chest to tip his cheek against them, to hold them closer and press fingertips to his lips in comfort. It's an urge that all but reaches in the pit of his gut and wrenches upwards, leaves him cold and hot and once and he nearly stumbles back with it, fearful and needy at once. It's horror and need and fear and want all wrapped up into one and Dean feels himself go numb, feels himself stark and wide open, as if Cas has peeled him back without even meaning to. Dean has to wonder if he's been seen, as if Cas could look into his hollowed pits and see everything the way he's always been able, and yet they stand and Dean doesn't know what to do.

His tongue feels too thick and he's too drunk and he's too stupid, and he's too much of a failure to find himself in this. Dean knows he's a mess and one that shouldn't be handed into the middle of this and while he wants, he's ashamed of it. Terrified. Lost. Confused. Heartbroken. He is a rainbow palette of feelings all dripping together and cannot find himself in the mess of paints and Dean licks his lips and stares for seconds longer before he tries, strokes a thumb against Cas' pulse and just tries. ]

You're enough for me.

[ The thing is, Dean doesn't know what he's trying for, and while he wants to pull back his hands, Cas' are curled too firm around his own. He can't escape and yet he's rooted right where he wants to be. Right back to where he always turns to, every single time. ]

[ Castiel didn't have to read Dean's thoughts to feel it. He didn't even try. It poured out of him in the look that he was given, in the way that Dean held him, in the very stance that his body took. It was unyielding, and terrifying in its own way, but not so much that Castiel couldn't warmly and wholly embrace it. The feeling that he was seeing in Dean's eyes was something he wanted. It was something he craved more than he had anything else. The way Dean's fingers curl into his skin, the soft stroke of a thumb across the thundering unsteadiness of his pulse, soothing, pulling him back from the terrifying edge...

Those final words. If they weren't a declaration of love then nothing else was. It was all he wanted, all he wanted, and surely it was all Dean wanted too, a realization, however momentary and however doused in alcohol, that Castiel held all the attributes that he had never granted a single other person to have. Unconditional love; to love and be loved for everything that he was, fair and flawed, no matter what, even if he wasn't there, just because he tried; because it was enough.

He was enough.

His head tipped very slightly over to the left, tipped toward the hand that offered him the most comfort, and Castiel closed his eyes for a moment, breathed in and exhaled, an expression of utter and absolute contentment settling into place. His shoulders relaxed, and then his hands slid up higher, fingers curling into Dean's palms before he led them away from his skin. ]

Let's go home.

[ Cas had been enough since the very beginning, since the first moment. Cas was more than enough, more than could be counted or observed, could be held close. Not that Dean didn't want to hold him close - he did - but all the things Cas was to Dean could not be quantified in any way. And perhaps that's where Dean went so wrong; he was trying too hard to make sense of it, to put words to something he couldn't simplify in a way he understood. He wanted an explanation, wanted to know and to see through it, to look through the panes of his life and come out on the other side of something he could comprehend. But there was none of that, there was nothing to see when he looked through but Cas, nothing that was there to understand.

And yet he was trying so damn hard. Trying to see where this came from, why he'd refused it so hard before, why he couldn't see into the face of a man he'd never seen before. When that man was always him.

Dean watched carefully as Cas' head tipped towards his hand and he exhaled low, quiet and nervous, feeling oddly skittish and nervous, his heart fluttering hard in his chest. It was only when his hands were lifted away that he curled his fingers into nervous fists, stretched them out, curled them again against Cas' own, trying to adjust to the way he felt within his own skin and feeling nothing but left out of his own intuition. He was so lost, so wanting, so needy that he hated himself for it and he let his hands drop, nodding after only a second and lifting his chin to look back towards the point of the spires in the distance. ]

We got nowhere else to go, Cas.

[ It almost leaned towards helpless, Dean sounding lost even in the cavern of his words, the worry etched within his features. Dean just wanted something to make sense, wanted to be able to understand himself again and stop straining so hard to make sense of a language so seemingly distant that scrambled in his mind.

Finally pulling his hands back the rest of the way, Dean let them slide back to his side, and only managed to feel that much emptier as his palms smoothed against his jeans, desperate for a handhold once again. ] Lead the way.

Edited 2016-08-05 01:05 (UTC)

[ Dean's anxiety practically hummed off him, under that confused undercurrent of need. It was loud, like electrostatic, and when Castiel responded to his touches the way that - well, the way that a lover might - that anxiety sort of screamed into the abyss like nervous feedback, as though to say i'm scared i'm scared i'm scared. But if anything, Dean seemed almost more frightened when they let go of each other, when he had to choose where to put his hands again. The angel tried to smile at him reassuringly, tried to compel the feeling of nothing has changed, just the same as he had the other night, but they both knew that it would be a lie.

And so he stepped around Dean carefully, went to fetch the bottle that had tumbled on the ground, and returned to his friend's side, letting his fingers brush against Dean's shoulder. It was the slightest warning, before they found themselves back in their apartment, and Castiel released him once more, as though they hadn't been touching at all.

Touch seemed to be the trigger here, the spring on the door of a tiger cage from which all hell would break loose if they let it, and as much as Cas wanted - and he did want, even if he didn't know specifically what that would lead to - he also knew that he couldn't piece Dean back together if it all went wrong. He wouldn't even know how to start. He reached for the front of Dean's jacket, as he had the previous night, to help him out of it, still holding his whiskey in the other. ]

Bed, [ he insisted. ] Without me, this time.

[ Dean didn't want his worries to be so loud. He didn't want any part of him to be loud - that was what the booze was for. To soften the blows of every inch, to take him down incrementally, notch by notch. He was meant to be hidden inside of himself, furiously silent within his fears and dampened until there was nothing left. Because he was always so much, always too much, always a rampant wash of fear and need and desire all bundled up and left shouting for something more. Dean was always fighting for the things he lost, his innards always screaming for it, and this was no different. He just wished Cas couldn't see as much as he could, wished he didn't look as hard.

But his palms suddenly felt empty and his fingers suddenly felt as if they enclosing around nothing but air and he swallowed, looked down at the grass under his feet an wondered why there was always such loss. He didn't have long to contemplate though before Cas was returning with his liquor and tapping his shoulder. Dean looked up abruptly, halfway figuring Cas would say something, but instead they were transported in an instant and his stomach swam, the sudden snap-of-finger movement enough to make the world sway precariously.

Dean grumbled low in his throat and rubbed his nose, adjusting, irritable, trying to settle himself as he took a step and sighed, heading for the couch.

Cas stopped him in his tracks though, fingers for his jacket, and Dean just about batted him off- ] Dude, i'm not incompetent. [ But it was soft and Dean wasn't frustrated enough to make the words any harder than they needed to be. There was still something about being helped when he was sure his internal world was crumbling, and yet he wanted to hide, was desperate for it. He wriggled his shoulders, tried to make the whole process a smooth one, and did his best to ignore the idea of a bed with or without Cas. Because that wasn't important, it didn't matter, it meant nothing. But ducking his face only proved his measured confusion, his irritability of the unknown, of the fact that he knew that he wanted he just couldn't find a way to grasp for it. ]

You've still got the couch.

Where I will be, if you need me.

[ The words were firm, and so were Castiel's hands, lifting the coat off Dean's shoulders and folding it over his arm. He handed him the bottle of alcohol, but his expression softened as he did it. The night after their game of Twister, Dean hadn't touched a single drop after going to bed, and he doubted this night would be any different.

Any physical contact he made was brief and utilitarian, but it still sang of his undying affection, love measured in small touches and the will to protect Dean, enshroud him in his winged safety. Something had changed. Dean saw him, because Castiel couldn't hide it, and whatever was seen in him, Dean had started to look into himself for its twin. If he hadn't found something there, then they wouldn't still be talking. Cas would have been banished from the apartment with an angel sigil, or something far worse. Dean would at least be asking: "What the fuck is going on with you, man?"

His eyes flicked up again.

And he was wrong. Dean didn't need his mother. He just needed something, someone, a reason to make the fight worth it. ]

Okay?

[ Dean felt like a weed, a desperate one, reaching for any ounce of affection being offered. Felt like he was twining rampantly and without restraint, as if he was seconds away from being cut down all over again. He was his own terrors, his own fears flying free and there was something traumatic about that, something he wanted to shun away, to ignore and hide beneath. He wasn't supposed to want this, he wasn't supposed to want any of this and he was desperate to get away just as badly as he wanted to sink beneath, to take it for his very own.

But it was wrong, wasn't it? It wasn't him? Right? Dean didn't know, couldn't comprehend, couldn't figure it the hell out and it left him feeling empty and confused, peeled back and disregarded, like he was picking up the remnants of whatever he could find just so he could hold it close while he tried to sleep.

Cas took his jacket and gave him back his booze and all Dean could do was stare at it like it was meant to be an offering that didn't quite fit. He just didn't want to drink anymore and his stomach near automatically soured before he glanced back up at Cas, expression tinged with apology, regret, all the things he was trying to remove from his palms just so he didn't have to feel them for another moment. Dean hurt and he was chasing it down, running after the pain and holding tight because it was what he knew, it was what made sense. Made more sense than this, at least. ]

Okay.

[ Except Dean didn't want to go to bed, and even as he stared off towards his bedroom, his nose wrinkled in distaste of the idea of sleeping, of caving to this. He was still fully functional, still ready for more, still ready for something he couldn't pinpoint, but he forced himself despite it all, tried to navigate around Cas with his own fingers left ruffling his hair this time. ]

Dean--

[ It was sort of automatic, a whim that made him reach out across Dean's path, so that he caught the other man across the hips with his arm. Castiel tilted his head in toward his shoulder as he swung back into Dean's field of view, looking him right in the eye. ]

About our conversation, earlier.

[ It was hard not to bite his lip, or slow down. Castiel didn't want to delay Dean getting to bed, but he felt like it was important to get these words out, for there to be absolutely no question between them. The last time, Dean had gone to bed thinking that he needed to fix Cas, and look at where that had led them? He couldn't let that happen this time, and so he forced himself to keep on speaking, drove through the words. ]

My...problems with my autonomic control aren't yours to worry about, or advise me on. As are the issues of my love life, or lack of it. If I wish to court anyone, I will do so, but unless I elect to involve you on my own terms, you have no responsibility to...to lend yourself in any way toward my happiness, gratuitous or otherwise.

Um. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I don't... [ Don't say it, Cas. ] I don't need you to lend me a hand any more. With my masturbatory issues.

[ Dean froze upon contact, distracted wholly by the arm around his waist, staring down at it as if it was doing by far more than just keeping him from walking forward. If anything, Dean was by far more distanced by that than Cas' words, his expression, his anything, just staring at the precarious gesture as if he could make it mean more than what it already did. It didn't help matters that he could have walked around, could have pried Cas' hand away, could have done anything to navigate himself from the situation because he just could have, but he stayed put like he'd been rooted to the spot, just staring.

Just listening.

And no, the words did not help.

Cas managed to speak and Dean refused to look up. He acted as if he was being punished, head hung, gaze cast down low, still staring at Cas' arm as if it might reach up and smack him to further impress upon the point his words were trying to make. That it wasn't Dean's business who Cas fucked - it wasn't - and that it wasn't Dean's business to find him someone to fuck - it wasn't. Dean knew that, in some regard, but he also felt a taut responsibility to distance himself in every way imaginable. If he could put someone else in his place perhaps it wouldn't hurt as much, if he could fill that gap with the idea of another body, then maybe that body wouldn't be his own. He didn't know, but he wanted to shove someone into Cas' arms that wasn't the shadow of himself and he wanted it to make sense. He wanted to give Cas someone so he didn't have to give himself into the idea of potential failure, of loss and demise, and he blinked hard, trying to forget, trying not to feel. ]

I got it.

[ Dean lifted a hand to try to quash any more words, fingers spread as if he could capture the wisps of words in invisible webbing. He could feel his heart crashing, could feel a steady ache that he couldn't parse, and he still managed to clear his throat and try to look neutral. Try to look like he wasn't dying somewhere dank on the inside. ]

I'll keep my hands out of it.

Okay. Okay, thank you.

[ His hand stayed in place for just a moment, fingers curled in, and then Castiel turned his body away, opening up like the turning door in a stadium to give Dean room to step past him. He felt like he'd lost something, in some way, as Dean stepped away, but retreating was the best option all things considered, having the space of a wall and a door between them was wise, even if it wouldn't last for long.

Castiel would wait until he heard Dean's breathing settle into sleep, and then he'd be back in there, in the corner, watching him sleep through until morning. It was a bad habit that was even harder to break now he knew why he was doing it. ]

Goodnight. [ He called after him, before retreating to the couch, making out like that was where he planned to stay. ]

Yeah.

[ Dean didn't offer more than that because he couldn't, because the words wouldn't come. They hurt too much, ached somewhere strange and misplaced and Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, nervous and unsure. He felt lost, like he'd done something not only wrong but idiotic, as if he couldn't find where he was meant to be in any of his decisions. Had he just been drunk, stupid, unsure, trying too hard? That was it, wasn't it? That he wanted something for Cas that he couldn't have himself - he was trying to help a friend. He was trying to help.

Cas moved away and so Dean moved in tandem, walked away and felt the feet stretch between them, the pull and tug of their existence constantly caught between what was supposed to be and what wasn't and Dean refused to glance over his shoulder as he made his way to his bedroom and tripped the door halfway shut behind him. It felt wrong to close it entirely, felt strange to cut Cas off, and so he didn't, instead simply toppling into bed, stuffing a pillow beneath his cheek and turning his face away from everything he could deign to see. He hid from it all, hid from himself, and refused to come unwound even now. Instead he bound himself tighter, strained muscles and squeezed his eyes shut tight and refused to see anything in the darkness of it, refused to see what he told himself wasn't there.

And eventually he fell asleep. It took awhile but it always did, pent up on energy and nerves and his own failures streaking across his mind until there was none of him left, until that was all of him that was there to begin with. ]

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