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An angel walked into a bar. Now what does he say? He goes up to the bartender and asks; “Have you seen a man? Dark brown hair, green eyes of the color of the forest reflecting in a river, about this tall.” he raised his hand to indicate the height.
The bartender shakes his head, looks to the side. The angel knows right then and there that the man knows something that he won’t tell. He tilts his head, feels his grace, clenches his fist. Someone comes up behind him. He feels the cold of a body without a soul.
“C’mon, Castiel, let me handle it.”
He turns. Sam stands there, eyes locked on the barteneder with a small smile that is entirely fake. He would know, for he knows the way a soul lights up when happy, the way it goes chilly when threatening, when in power.
Dean’s soul would practicaly sing when he was happy. It doesn’t do it often, and it certaintly isn’t doing that now, wherever he is, and it’s making his blood boil, and he doesn’t know how to do human.
So he nods, walks outside, and then disappears, he does it best.
He ‘zaps’ to the hotel, sits down on the bed Dean always chooses; the one closest to the door yet most hidden from the view of whoever enters at the same time.
He wonders if it’s because Dean wants to not be known before he knows that someone is there, yet on the other hand, he rarely wakes till there’s someone by his bed.
He would sleep and in the morning his hair would be ruffled and he adored it and he didn’t know what to do with that.
He didn’t do human, couldn’t be human, isn’t human at all, and yet here he is, sitting at the bed Dean would’ve chosen, wishing for a lead, and both mad at himself and absolutely terrified at the same time. He might be a little sick, on one hand wishing he never branded Dean’s ribs against the angels (against himself) on another wishing he could just go and find him. Just go up, soar a little, slow down the time, and know where he is.
Feel the tug at his soul the way it always tugs when he’s near.
The way it sings when he’s far, the way he pleads-
And isn’t that the most worrisome thought; if Dean would’ve been alone, or knew that he could get to him, wouldn’t he have called?
Wouldn’t he have already called him? Doesn’t he know, that whatever happends he will always try to be there?
Sam tried to tell him, it didn’t work, he keeps sitting at the bed Dean would’ve chosen.
Sam comes in himself a few hours later, or perhaps minutes, time is still a tricky thing when you don’t feel the passage.
He looks tired yet also completely fine, and it’s a thing he’s getting used to.
There came a time where it would’ve scared him but now he’s not human, and he’ll never be human, and he can’t become human, not now. Not ever. He’s an angel of the Lord, no matter how bad of one.
Now Sam looks fine while tired and Castiel doesn’t flinch anymore.
Now Sam comes in, tells him what he learned and Castiel stayes still.
Now Sam walks by him, tells him he might know where Dean is and Castiel is gone.
It was a trap.
Of course it was a trap.
Enochian symbols trapping him in the same room that Dean is.
Dean looked quite unimpressed, first words out of his mouth being in a hushed tone “Damn it, Cas.”, which would’ve been amusing if not for the fact he was beaten and tied to a chair.
He walked over, reached to brush the ruffled hair into some semblance of shape, and healed the cuts and bruises all over Dean.
The cut on his cheek healed in a moment, and he ignored the way he could feel the enochian symbols trapping him, draining him faster. Ignored the way how much it hurt just to try and kept going until he knew that Dean was healed.
There was a chuckle behind him. He felt the hot air from hell, and didn’t bother turning to know it was a demon.
Before him the man gave him a look that was pleading.
He ignored it, turned around and lightly tipped his head to the side, mouth pressed in a line.
Dean had said it was threatening sometimes.
Alluring others.
The demon lurched, it didn’t stop Castiel.
The demon stopped on the hilt of his blade.
He watched as the demon’s soul flickered out of this plane into purgatory.
He ignored the taste of blood mixing with grace in his mouth.
Turning to Dean he walked over and used the very same blade to cut the ropes.
Dean took the blade from his hands, his blade, made from his grace, to try and rid of the paint making up the enochian.
“There’s no point, it has to be done in blood.” he whispered when he started getting frustrated when his plan didn’t work. Turning he gave him a glare.
‘Adorable’ he thought to himself, ‘the way your soul sings.’
Then something faltered both in the soul and in the face of the man and the world tilted on its axis as he couldn’t keep standing anymore.
He wasn't consious by the time he hit the floor.