Work Text:
There’s a book at the foot of the bed. It lies open, the first page prominently visible. Your name is Castiel Novak, it says. So is mine.
– – –
It took a year.
A full year of searching and researching and re-searching. A full year of late nights amid dusty Men of Letters books and empty bottles trying to find something --- anything --- that held even the slightest possibility of being useful. A full year of Sam and Eileen whispering behind their hands and casting worried, sympathetic looks. A full year of sleepless nights spent in the bunker’s dungeon, a bottle of something not strong enough in one hand, the other laid gently atop a blood-stained jacket that hadn’t been worn or washed since That Day. (Sometimes, those nights featured a laptop, too, and a video recording that Sam didn’t know about. A video of confessions and deals and black ooze that took away something --- someone --- too important for him to stay gone. It was only pulled out on nights when self-recrimination and motivation were needed in equal measure.)
A full year of no Cas.
But eventually, Dean found it. Amidst kicking himself for how very long it had taken him, he found a solution --- the solution --- in one of those self-same dusty Men of Letters books. It wasn’t obvious --- he’d already searched every index for how to rescue my angelic-best-friend-but-wait-maybe-there’s-more from the Empty enough times to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that that wasn’t answered explicitly anywhere in the library --- but his scouring had turned up a remote-action Grace-removal spell that just might work. Indeed, it was well-nigh trivial compared to some of the other spells he’d come across; the hardest part might just have been convincing Sam that it really had a chance of working and wasn’t just a desperate long-shot that would accomplish nothing but getting their (Dean’s) hopes up.
And it had worked. One year to the day since Cas had made the fatal mistake of loving Dean Winchester and paid the ultimate, inevitable price, he was tumbling out of the Empty, spat out like so much human refuse. Which, from the Empty’s perspective, was unfortunately true since… well. Without his Grace, Cas was human. (Dean felt guilty for that --- of course he did --- since it was his own damn fault. It was like Sam had said in the kitchen so long ago: he was just too selfish to not move heaven and earth --- sometimes literally --- to save someone important to him, no matter the cost. And it was like he himself had said on the bridge not long before that: he was poison, and anyone who made the choice to get close to him would never be the same. It was just Cas’ turn to pay the price. Again.)
The mixed semi-blessing of Cas losing his Grace meant that he’d left the Empty, yeah, but also that he didn’t have any of his angelic healing either; he’d quite literally fallen onto Dean the second he’d reappeared, and the combination of lack of sleep and energy loss on Dean’s side from casting the damn spell meant that he almost fell down, too. As it was, he barely managed to lower the unconscious, human Cas to the ground before half-collapsing far less gently right next to him.
Lying there, one arm pinned awkwardly under Cas, heartbeat battering in his chest from some combination of fear, excitement, and definitely-unhealthy exhaustion, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He wanted nothing more than to fall into their normal near-death routine --- what did it say about them and their lifestyles that they even had one of those? --- to feel for a pulse and touch in a way they only rarely did unless something were really wrong, Cas’ name spilling from his lips as though imbuing it with enough faith and (dare he say it?) love would be enough to bring the angel back from the brink of whatever threatened to take him away again. The memory of Sam reading a (stolen, though he hadn’t known that then) copy of Peter Pan floated to mind and he couldn’t stop an inane bubble of laughter from clawing its way out of his chest; that was his strategy, after all: clap his hands like the wind-up toy monkey he was and proclaim I do believe in Cas, I do believe in Cas, I do believe in Cas as many times as he could, all condensed into, “Cas!” because he was too much of a damn coward to say any of it aloud.
But he couldn’t fall into that routine. Not then. Not when he was the reason, from the beginning to the end, for Cas lying there, senseless, on that floor. He couldn’t even bring himself to touch Cas --- not beyond the incidental, accidental contact caused by Cas landing on him --- until Sam galumphed over and helped them both up; then it was a mad scramble to the infirmary because Cas wasn’t waking up and Cas had to wake up and that overrode everything.
In the end there was nothing to do. Or, at any rate, nothing either brother knew to do. There were no open wounds to close with whiskey and dental floss, no obvious signs of trauma to address. All they had was an ex-angel who refused to wake up and no way of fixing that.
They stayed there for hours, just the two of them, Sam reading a book from somewhere in the bunker and pretending not to notice that Dean had given up even the facade of reading his in favour of watching Cas for the slightest flicker of movement. Sam threw in the towel at midnight --- it wasn’t like he was going to catch anything that Dean would manage to miss --- and headed back to his room; Dean passed out in his chair at some point just before three in the morning.
When he woke up, Cas was gone.
– – –
The second page is mostly empty. You can’t remember, but you wrote this. Try it out. Beneath it, there is a list of the same name, over and over. It’s in the same handwriting each time, neat and precise, Castiel Novak in tidy capitals.
The man in Castiel Novak’s bed picks up the pen beside the book and dutifully writes the name at the bottom of the list, sceptical that the handwriting will match.
It does.
– – –
A man woke up in a bed.
It wasn’t a bed he recognized, but something screamed hospital, even though he wasn’t sure why. It was neatly made, the corners of a thin sheet tight and uniform around a mattress of some kind. The headboard was white metal, paint trying to flake off in places, and the entire room smelled thinly of once-strong antiseptic. It wasn’t comfortable, per se, but it wasn’t exactly uncomfortable either.
He was wearing clothing, though not anything remotely like pyjamas; rather, his trench coat was stiff beneath him when he tried to sit up, and it was only through awkward flailing that he worked his way upright without choking himself on the blue tie lying loosely just beneath an askew collar. He reached his hand into the pockets of his coat and pants, feeling for something that might give him some clue of where or who he was --- he probably should have been a touch more concerned that he seemed to have lost his memory, but he’d only just noticed it, really --- and he was gratified when his fingers closed around a glossy identification card.
With a few short, sharp tugging motions, he managed to pull it out and eye the name and picture printed there. Castiel Novak, it read. It felt right in a lot of ways, like something that belonged. He was Castiel, which meant that the photo beside that name --- all dark hair and camera-directed glowering --- was his face.
Huh. He’d thought it would look a touch more familiar than it did.
There was another man in the room, asleep in a chair with the same metal-rail backing as the bed Castiel was occupying, the entire thing looking uncomfortable as Hell. (Why his instinct was towards a capital letter instead of a lowercase one was a mystery, but he could roll with it. Everything was a mystery at this point.) He was hunched over awkwardly, shoulders curled slightly as his head lolled, one hand twitching restlessly against the smooth sheets of the bed where it lay. His wasn’t a restful sleep by any means, and the dark circles under his eyes suggested that it wasn’t the first bad night, or the second, or even the third. Distantly, Castiel felt a slight flare of sympathy.
And yet it remained a distant sensation because, slight commiseration aside, Castiel was in a hospital room he didn’t recognize, in a building that looked neither familiar nor like an actual hospital, with a stranger he, by definition, didn’t recognize hovering beside him. Yeah, maybe he should’ve known where he was and who he was with, and maybe he’d just happened to lose his memory, and maybe everything had a perfectly normal explanation. Or maybe things weren’t normal, and maybe he’d been kidnapped or something. Hell, maybe the stranger was his kidnapper.
Either way, it was natural to push himself off the bed and to his feet, moving as silently as he could. (Oddly, he wasn’t feeling any especial desire to leave. If he had been kidnapped --- or something like it --- he’d have anticipated adrenaline. Fear. Frenetic energy demanding that he get the Hell out. Certainly not complete and utter apathy about leaving. But, regardless, his memories were clearly not intact and he had to move, had to figure himself out before he trusted anyone.)
Evidently, it wasn’t quietly enough. The slightest whisper of slick trench coat against mattress, the barest squeak of shoe against tile, and the stranger shifted. It wasn’t much --- or, at least, not enough that he woke up --- but his head shifted from lolling against one shoulder to lolling against the other. The hand lying awkwardly across the sheets convulsed twice, the cloth underneath crumpling into wrinkles that didn’t match the pragmatic cleanliness of the rest of the room. For a second --- just a second --- his eyelids fluttered as if trying to open, as if wanting to wake up; for the same second, his lips fell open with a gentle hiss of air --- more of a sigh than anything --- that brought with it a name. “Cas,” he breathed. And then all motion ceased, his attempt to wake thwarted as sleep dragged him unwillingly back under, and the room returned to silent stillness.
Castiel picked his way out of the room as slowly and carefully as he could, glad when the stranger didn’t move again. (If his eyes lingered a little too long on the flannel-clad arm stretching across white hospital cloth, on the way the hand looked almost painfully empty, on the way Castiel wasn’t quite sure why he cared about a man he didn’t even know, then that mattered only to his own head. There certainly wasn’t anyone else there to care.) The stairs were, quite possibly, the hardest part to navigate without making any noise, but he managed to climb them, relying too-heavily on the banister.
He glanced back at the stranger one more time from the door, then turned and walked away.
The rest of the building was sprawling and gigantic, a great, spidery behemoth in floor-plan form. Castiel simply wandered around, passing room after room --- the library, the kitchen, the dining room, the… was that a tennis court? --- until he finally reached a door that looked as if it might lead outside.
Thankfully, it did, and it wasn’t long before the thick doors swung shut behind him with a resounding thud that felt final. (The sound wrenched something in the pit of his stomach, like it was very, very wrong, like he didn’t want those doors to close unless he were safely inside… But he pushed it aside. There wasn’t anything he could do about it then anyway. And it wasn’t like he actually knew the place well. Or at all. Or beyond just having woken up there.) The air was chilly, but not cold, with just enough warmth that merely gathering his coat around him beneath crossed arms was enough to stave off any unpleasantness, and the stars twinkled merrily overhead.
He tightened the press of his arms against his chest, glad when the coat pulled closer to him and preserved just that little bit more heat, and started to walk. He didn’t know where he was going, but he didn’t know whence he was leaving either, so that was alright. He’d just… go. Find a place. Figure out what the Hell was going on in the life of Castiel Novak and piece himself together.
He walked away from those doors and didn’t look back.
– – –
The third page --- after that confusing list of too-similar, too-familiar names (or, rather, the same name) --- is just text, from start to finish.
I’m beginning this account on the tenth of November. I cannot recall the past, not in any sense of the word; nor can I give any account of how I find myself in the present. What information I have to share has been gathered from the detritus of a motel room I cannot recall booking in a state I cannot recall entering (much less its name) with the few belongings I find littered around the place.
– – –
A man woke up in a bed.
It wasn’t a bed he recognized, but something screamed motel, even though he wasn’t sure why. It had once been neatly made, the corners pressed neatly against the mattress, but shifting had rendered it slightly untucked. The headboard was, surprisingly, solid wood, well-varnished for a motel room (though the man wasn’t sure how he even had a sense of what motel-room headboards were supposed to look like). Despite that neatness, the room as a whole smelled musty, and there was a stain creeping steadily down the wall. It wasn’t nice, per se, but it wasn’t exactly a dump either, and it was comfortable enough.
He was wearing clothing, though not anything remotely like pyjamas; rather, his coat was long and stiff beneath him as he tried to sit up. Only awkward bits of flailing brought him upright without choking on the blue tie he wore, collar already askew. He reached his hand into the pockets of his coat and pants, feeling for something that might give him some clue of where or who he was --- he really should have been a touch more concerned that he couldn’t remember anything, but he’d only just happened to notice it --- and he felt a flare of contentment when his fingers finally closed around a smooth, laminated card.
It took an awkward amount of tugging to pull the card out, but he managed to eye the name and picture printed there nonetheless. Castiel Novak, it said, and something about the name felt right. Like something that belonged. He was Castiel, so the photo printed just to one side of the name --- all dark hair and camera-directed glowering --- was his face.
There was a stack of papers strewn haphazardly across a desk against one wall. One was a newspaper. 10 November, read the top line. Castiel couldn’t remember what date he’d thought it was --- what date he thought it should have been --- but that date didn’t feel right. More awkward shuffling ensued, but then he was sitting on one end of the bed with the documents on his lap, fingers flipping through the other papers. Who knew: maybe he could learn something about himself, or where he was, or who he was.
– – –
As I wrote previously, your name --- my name --- is Castiel Novak. It says so on a piece of identification, which you’ll find in the right pocket of the trench coat you’re wearing, and the image matches the face you’ll see in the mirror. I cannot --- and thus, I suspect, you cannot --- judge the accuracy of this information for myself, from my own memories; when I try, it affords merely a blank space lacking any information, devoid of anything.
I have found papers, though. Papers which suggest that this is not the first time --- nor the second, or the third --- that my memory has deserted me. I shall include them in this book, should I have the space and the means. (Scrawled above it is an addendum, written in red pen instead of the black used previously. They have been added to the back, should further perusal be desired or necessitated. )
– – –
The first paper was a neatly arranged list. The handwriting was precise, neat in a way that the man --- Castiel, assuming he could trust the identification in his pocket --- couldn’t help but admire. The letters were dark and fully formed, easily legible and measured out in perfect clarity; those letters that demanded curves were fully defined and perfectly even, the is and js were perfectly dotted, and other letters featured perfect ninety degree angles that put a protractor to shame. It was beautiful penmanship, Castiel decided: the type he’d very much like to have.
When he picked up the pencil, he did have it. He kept reading.
Beneath the header --- an equally simple, equally precise The Past As I Know It --- and in the same perfect handwriting as the earlier sections, there was written a schedule. Or, rather, not a schedule, but a list of times and locations and summaries. 1600 hours, Springfield, one said. The final entries were in a different ink; the first read: 0600 hours, arrived in Wichita. Previous location unknown. Purpose for visit… unknown. The second: 0500, bus station. Purchased a ticket from a broker by the name of Stan. Paid for with cash, source unknown, destination Wichita. Purpose remains unknown.
On and on the list went, the list spread randomly across being arranged in chronological order or throwing progression out the window and jumping around. The trail spiralled in on itself, morning events blending into evening events and then back again, all the way to the day before. It was an attempt, Castiel realized, at ascertaining what precisely had happened in his uncertain past; quite clearly, his ability to retain memories had been deeply impaired by something or other, but he couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten into the bed he was sitting, much less how to deal with said memory loss.
He flipped onwards.
The next document on the stack wasn’t a single document, but several: receipts tossed into a manilla folder closed only by a rusted paper-clip, some from gas stations, others grocery stores, still others from simple pharmacy chains. They were mostly arranged in chronological order, the first dated earliest --- 8 November --- but some were tucked in haphazardly, with varying degrees of crumpling. It was a bit overwhelming, actually, and the folder found itself quickly closed and discarded.
It was quickly retrieved, however, upon observing a line of writing on the cover he hadn’t previously noticed. The words felt vaguely out of place --- not only were they written directly on the manilla folder, but each entry save one had been marked out by a single line --- but Castiel read through them anyway. The earliest read Springfield; the latest read Wichita. He spared a moment to register that he should really organize the papers, but it was a passing fancy because he had a bit more on his mind for the moment.
Castiel wasn’t sure what was going on, but he wasn’t stupid. He could tell that he was retracing his own steps, that he’d been in some place called Springfield and gotten to another place called Wichita, but he didn’t exactly know where those were, how far apart they were, or even why he’d been in either. He’d have to try to figure it out, and it sounded like Wichita, Somewhere, was the best place to start.
– – –
I’m still trying to put together the details, but anything I discover will be attached in the pages ahead. With any luck, answers will be forthcoming.
The rest of the page was blank.
– – –
A man woke up on a sofa.
It wasn’t a sofa he recognized, but something screamed home, even though he wasn’t sure why. It was a rather ugly sofa, actually --- garish, lurid flowers stretching across a thick, starched fabric --- but it felt familiar in a way he couldn’t identify. He had a sheet and a blanket, both on the thinner side but not uncomfortable thanks to the warmth lingering in the air, and he shifted underneath them as he looked around at the surprisingly familiar --- and yet vaguely alien --- room around him.
He was wearing clothing, though not anything remotely like pyjamas; rather, his coat was long and stiff beneath him as he tried to sit up. Only awkward bits of flailing brought him upright without choking on the blue tie he wore, collar already askew. He reached his hand into the pockets of his coat and pants, feeling for something that might give him some clue of where or who he was --- he probably should’ve been concerned that he couldn’t remember anything, but it was a recent discovery --- and he felt a flare of contentment when his fingers finally closed around a smooth, laminated card.
It took an awkward amount of tugging to pull the card out, but he managed to eye the name and picture printed there nonetheless. Castiel Novak, it said, and something about the name felt right. Like something that belonged. He was Castiel, so the photo printed just to one side of the name --- all dark hair and camera-directed glowering --- was his face.
There was a book on the coffee table at his side, and he picked it up. Your name is Castiel Novak, it said. So is mine.
– – –
It had been two months. Two months of trying to figure out where Cas had gone, why he’d just up and walked out of the bunker. Two months of being worried sick because they’d lost track of him somewhere along the way and Jack was about as radio-silent as his father. Two months of trying to find something, anything, and eventually giving up when Sam decided to jam shut Dean’s bedroom door until he slept, ate, hydrated, and finally gave up on a trail so cold it might as well have been ice. Two months of stagnating in boring, formulaic hunts before crawling into bed, a bottle of something alcoholic in hand because he had to sleep sometime and it was easier with than without.
With was the path of hangovers and dehydration and numbness. Without was the path of still more self-recrimination, memories of three words and black ooze and meaningless silences, and devastating recognition of the fact that Cas left because he couldn’t bear to stick around them (Dean) any longer. With was far more preferable.
They still hunted --- of course they did; what else was there to do? --- and Dean would be lying if he didn’t admit to watching for familiar gold cars (endearingly trashy and beautiful anyway) everywhere they went. He knew, intellectually, that even if Cas were there, he wouldn’t be in the Pimpmobile, as she’d long been lost to the tumult of the past few years, but that car had been so very Cas that he couldn’t separate the two. And anyway, it wasn’t like Dean had a more reasonable guess about what Cas would be driving, so it was at least better than nothing.
Of course, he hadn’t been expecting to walk into a random grocery store in Missouri and find himself staring at someone too familiar halfway through the bakery aisle.
“Cas,” he breathed out before he could stop himself.
Cas didn’t respond, though, still staring at a container of pie he’d had in hand since Dean turned the corner into the aisle, so he didn’t seem to register Dean’s lack of propriety on that particular statement. It also provided enough time that the overwhelming shock that had overcome Dean as soon as he registered Cas standing there faded away, supplanted by a burning anger that he knew (even if he wouldn’t admit) stemmed more from two months of fear and hurt and desperation than actual anger.
That knowledge did nothing to stop him from striding urgently forward, fumbling for words to say without any plan behind them. “Cas?”
Cas at least turned around that time, expression achingly familiar and painfully blank. He actually looked confused --- Dean couldn’t decide if it was confusion about why Dean were there in the first place, or confusion because he hadn’t expected anyone to go after him, and he wasn’t sure which implication hurt more --- head tilting in that way of his. “I’m sorry?”
“Cas, where the hell have you been? We’ve been worried sick!” It was more than Dean had meant to say, but he couldn’t pull back the words. He half-hated himself for having said them, though. Hated that he couldn’t fight back the bitterness in his tone even though he really was concerned. Hated that the only way he knew how to express concern was distorted by all those ugly emotions that had clamoured inside him for two months.
“I’m sorry, I-” Cas looked vaguely chagrined. (There was no trace of the anger Dean had been expecting, of the distaste or disgust that would surely claim his features whenever they met again, or of the harsh words he’d been expecting --- and deserved --- to have levied against him.) “Who are you?”
A niggling sense of concern made itself known. “What do you mean, Cas?” The sound he makes isn’t a laugh, isn’t a scoff, but is somehow, enigmatically, a blend of both with an essence of something else. “It’s me.” Not that Cas would find that a blessing, but, like he said… cursed or not. “It’s Dean.”
“I don’t…” Cas frowned, squinting. It wasn’t the way he usually squinted, but it was similar enough that it hurt. “I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t remember who you are.” He offered a smile, thin and sad.
“You what?” The words weren’t intentional, but punched out of him by shock and a sudden spike of concern. “You don’t…” He trailed off, lost in thought.
Eventually, he got pulled back out, Cas’ rueful shake of the head and gentle shrug of his shoulders accompanied by a quiet, “Deepest apologies.”
Dean wasn’t sure how to proceed --- wasn’t sure if Cas were lying because he wanted Dean to leave, or if it were true --- but the concern had deepened into something even more like fear and he wasn’t going to leave. “Are-” Unless that was too forward? “Not to pry, but…” He enunciated the next words precisely, pretending the formalities didn’t dig into him with each word. “Are you okay?”
Cas didn’t answer. He just squinted again --- the Cas squint that time, not the earlier one --- and asked, “You know me, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You call me ‘Cas.’”
“Do-” Dean swallowed. “Do you not go by Cas anymore?” The next words might well have been worse than anything that happened previously. “If it makes you… uncomfortable… I can stop.” He didn’t mention that he prayed the answer was no; Cas didn’t deserve to deal with his shit in that regard too, especially not given that things had apparently gone very wrong.
“No, I just-” Cas shrugged. “I didn’t know.” He must have seen a glimmer of something --- confusion, maybe --- flicker across his face. “Sorry, I should explain: my memory is… faulty. I don’t know the medical term, but I cannot recall anything prior to this morning. Judging by my own inferences, this is a regular occurrence.” He shrugged, then pulled something out of his pocket and held it out. “I’ve been going off of this ID in terms of my name; Castiel is an unusual name, but not an unpleasant one.” He paused again, looking vaguely confused. “I’ve never told anyone quite that much before. Certainly not on first meeting them. My apologies for the overloa-”
And Dean couldn’t sit there and listen to that, so he interrupted. “No, Cas- Er, Castiel… I’m glad you told me. Thank you.” He looked down at the ID, recognizing it; he’d made it for Cas --- had figured he should have some personal ID for whenever they weren’t on a case --- but he’d never envisioned it being useful in quite the manner it apparently had been. He handed it back. “Sorry to have…” He shrugged, gesturing aimlessly. “Startled you.”
Cas didn’t respond. He just did that tilting thing he did, and it felt, once again, like he was staring into Dean’s soul. “Are you okay?”
Dammit. Of course he couldn’t get lucky and escape that particular line of questioning. He smiled brightly. “‘Course!”
It was good to know that Cas’ expression of disbelief hadn’t changed. “Now why don’t I believe you?” For all it was a question, the dry tonelessness made it clear that it wasn’t fully. “Did I… Did I do something to harm you? Before…” He shrugged. “Whatever happened?”
“No!” He couldn’t stop the word. Wasn’t sure he wanted to anyway. Whatever anger he’d felt had firmly faded, nauseating concern in its place. “No, of course not. You left; we’ve just been… worried.”
“We?”
“Oh, right, yeah… Sam’s back at the motel, but we’ve been looking for you.” He caught the confusion in Cas’ eyes. “Sorry, right, you don’t remember; Sam’s my brother. You were a friend of ours.” Would it really hurt to add a little more? Surely not. “Family.”
Dean wished he could kick himself for Cas’ immediate expression of guilt? Sadness? A mix of both? “I’m sorry for anything I might have done to harm either of you.”
“Nah, man, you’re good.” Dean smiled and hoped it wasn’t as fake as it seemed. “You leaving wasn’t unexpected; we just didn’t hear from you again is all.”
“Ah.” Cas nodded. Dean could read him well enough to know he wasn’t convinced, but he was grateful that Cas didn’t seem inclined to pick it up and run with it.
“I know you don’t know us-” And damn but that was too damn painful to say. “-but we know some people who might be able to help. With your head.” Surely Jack would help if Cas were the one for whom they were asking for help. And, if not Jack, maybe… Rowena? “I mean, you don’t have to, but-”
“No, I-”
They both cut out, a brief chuckle overtaking them both. “Sorry,” Cas said.
“Nah, go on.”
“I ordinarily am not so naive as to trust a stranger…” Cas started, trailing off for long enough that the word stranger started doing its best to carve bleeding channels into Dean’s heart before continuing. “But I find myself trusting you.”
Dean couldn’t stop the probably-overbearing smile he gave then. “Awesome.”
– – –
Jack couldn’t help. Nor could Rowena. Most of their powered-up allies --- be they angelic, demonic, or something else --- weren’t around to ask for help. Sam didn’t have anything in any of his books to help with the problem, and neither of them knew enough about medicine to figure out a much more human solution. There was nothing. No sign of how to help or what was wrong or anything other than a certainty that Cas needed aid that they couldn’t provide.
Dean hated not being able to do anything, especially given the way badly concealed hope disappeared from Cas’ eyes as it became abundantly clear that, whatever getting him out of the Empty had done, there was no way to reverse it. He hated that he’d caused it in the first place. That he’d pulled Cas out, but he’d left him behind too. And he hated that Cas didn’t remember what he’d said before the Empty arrived, that he didn’t know. That Dean would never have a chance to respond. That it was highly unlikely that Cas would ever feel the same again.
Dean didn’t believe that anyone could fall in love with a stranger over the course of a single day. He knew it wasn’t possible for it to happen to him. And that had no right being as painful as it was.
He made sure Cas was settled in the bunker again --- he’d chosen the library for that purpose, easing Cas into an armchair with a blanket and one of his favourite books --- and then he left. Not far --- he couldn’t, not when he could barely let Cas out of his sight without feeling certain he was going to walk out --- but to his bedroom. He shut the door behind him, sagged onto his bed, and tried very, very hard not to break down.
– – –
Cas set the book aside a few pages after he’d started, once he realized that Dean wasn’t still there in all of his exceedingly protective gestures. He appreciated the kindness --- and he did very much enjoy the book --- but he needed to think.
He needed to think, not because he’d just had thousands of puzzle pieces about who he was dropped in his lap --- though that was true --- and not because he’d gotten to what had once been his home --- the bunker, the Winchester brothers called it --- but because, in a world of confusing uncertainty and missing memories… he somehow remembered. It wasn’t much --- certainly nothing conclusive or all-encompassing --- but something nonetheless.
He remembered Dean.
Remembered sparks and gunfire and a knife in a somehow-not-concerning combination. Remembered hunts against the supernatural. Remembered black ooze and blood and despair. Remembered two chairs and a television, gunfire in the air and deep, growling voices. Remembered conversations and looks and an easy understanding that didn’t make sense except that, somehow, it did. Remembered feeling the sun shine on his face in a basement, and remembered the stomach-dropping sensation of finally saying it.
They were fleeting glimpses, the barest sensations that rose forth from oblivion, but it was more than he remembered about anything else. It was enough to explain the odd expression of fondness he couldn’t fight back despite not fully knowing who Dean was, and the way he’d just trusted from the second they’d met. He might not have known Dean in this life, but he had faith in him anyway.
Cas was reasonably certain that was significant.
– – –
It took a while, but Cas found Dean’s room eventually. He’d gone through how to get there --- and that, at least, Cas could remember --- but Cas got the sense that he hadn’t expected any knock to actually sound on the door.
That impression was confirmed by the expression of surprise on his face when he opened the door. “Cas… hey.”
“Hello, Dean,” Cas said. It felt natural. Judging by the vaguely stricken expression on Dean’s face, that was because it was.
It took a second, but Dean eventually shifted backwards. “Want to come in?”
“Yes, thank you.” Cas stepped inside. “Can I talk to you briefly?”
“Sure, man. C’mon.” He tilted his head. “You okay?”
“Yes, thank you.” Cas repeated. “I just…” He paused, gathered himself as Dean pointedly stepped away from the still-open door. “There aren’t many things I remember.”
“I’m sor-”
Apologizing really was a default state with this one, it seemed. “That’s not the point.” Dean hushed, expression still contrite, but at least silent in the process. “But I remember you. And I remember… some things about our interactions. And…” He trailed off, knowing that this was probably the most sensitive thing he could possibly say, and he was about to say it anyway. “And I remember what I said. Back then.”
Dean swallowed harshly. “Right.” He wasn’t looking at Cas. “I know things have changed; you don’t have to worry about regretting it or anyth-”
“I don’t, though.” Cas shrugged. “Or, at least, I don’t think I do. And I’m willing to find out if I do if I have to. But I think we need to talk regardless.”
“Okay.” Dean’s eyes are intense as they fix on Cas’, like he’s evaluating for any sign of deception or fear or uncertainty. “Then let’s talk about that goodbye, huh?”
Cas nodded. Smiled. “Yes.” He turned, shutting the door that had been left so considerately — and unnecessarily — open. “Let’s.”
– – –
There’s a book at the foot of the bed. It lies open, the first page prominently visible. Your name is Castiel Novak, it says. So is mine.
The man in the bed flips through the pages, reading, absorbing. When he gets to the last, he stops, taking in a page full of writing. Whatever you do, do not forget Dean Winchester. You’ve been family for the eleven years prior to this book, and together for the time ever since. He calls you Cas. Somehow, in a world of confusing questions and uncertain identity, those words are familiar. Somehow, he remembers. Remembers the smell of whiskey and motor oil and apple pie, remembers something about cowboys, remembers smiling harder than he ever had before because of two words and the impression of flannel.
Cas kept reading, flipping past that page and skimming through three others on the same topic. The last sentence read: When you’ve finished reading this, make your way to the kitchen (just follow the sound of classic rock and the smell of coffee). He’ll be waiting there.
Cas stood, laying the book gently on the foot of the bed, and walked out of the room.