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Dean knows he’s dreaming.
He’s in the lobby of the Rooster’s Sunrise Motel again, but the colors look washed out somehow, the oranges and reds less blindingly cheerful than he remembers. The reception desk, chairs and side tables are fuzzy around the edges, marking the places where Dean can’t quite remember the details of each item’s shape, or the way it was angled.
He’s got his arms around Caitlin, hugging her goodbye, but she, too, seems just a little out of focus. Whenever Dean lets his thoughts drift too far, she’ll start to flicker in and out of existence, like a badly tuned radio signal or a vengeful ghost. Yet when she speaks, her voice sounds clear and precise, enunciating each syllable.
“Tell the truth,” she says. Her chin is resting on his shoulder, and he should be able to feel her jaw move around the words. He doesn't. “Because lies? They don’t make anything better.”
Before Dean can respond, the figure wrapped in his arms changes, grows. His fingers curl against the familiar, age-worn texture of a trench coat, feeling the shift of muscles in the place where a magnificent, broken pair of wings still blooms, just out of sight.
“Tell the truth,” Cas says, his voice vibrating through Dean’s chest, settling into the space that’s carved out just for him. “Lies don’t protect anyone. All they do is cause more pain.” Dean tries to pull back, but Cas’ grip on him is too firm.
“I’m not lying to you.” The words are spoken in Dean’s voice, but they seem to emanate from somewhere above and behind him.
“A lie by omission is still a lie,” Cas answers, the echo of each syllable sliding ghost-like along the side of Dean’s neck.
“I don’t know if I can.” Dean bunches the fabric of Cas’ coat in his hands, nuzzles into the soft hair behind Cas’ ear. “Tell you, I mean. I’ve tried before. Many times.”
“Are you scared?” Cas asks. Not accusing, not judging. Just curious.
“Always am,” Dean mumbles into the warm, thunder-and-lightning smell of Cas’ skin.
Cas’ arms wrap around him, squeezing tighter and tighter, until Dean feels like he can’t breathe.
He wakes with a start.
Bleary-eyed, he feels around the nightstand for his phone. The shape of the wood is unfamiliar, the corner too sharp. Right. He's not home yet. Sam suggested they stop at a motel along the way. Dean was none too eager to spend another night in a roach-infested, depressing shithole, but he was worn down after their fight about Jack, and tired of Sam's accusing stares in the close confines of the car.
When Dean finally locates his phone, he squints against the too-bright blue light of the screen until the clock swims into focus. Just after three a.m.
Well. Cas does sleep sometimes now, but not every night, and never more than an hour or two. Chances are, he’ll be awake.
Dean pulls on a jacket over his t-shirt and hitches up the legs of his pajama pants to slip into his boots, moving gingerly so as not to wake Sam. Still half-asleep, he stumbles outside, dropping onto a bench at the far side of the parking lot. It’s a cool night, but not uncomfortably cold, and this place is far enough from the light pollution of major cities that a dazzling canopy of constellations blinks down at him. Cas made some of those stars. Dean wishes he could remember which, and that’s what finally gets him to unlock his screen and key in the number.
As soon as the dial tone stops and he hears the whispering shuffle of fabric at the other end of the line, Dean blurts out, “Which one of the constellations did you make again?”
If Cas is thrown by this odd greeting, he doesn’t show it. “Andromeda,” he says, without hesitation.
Dean wracks his brain. “That’s the one with the chained-up princess, right? Who’s about to get eaten by a sea monster?”
“Yes. Her father lives in fear of losing his kingdom and decides to sacrifice his own child to strengthen his hold on power.” Cas exhales a mirthless chuckle down the line. “Believe me, the irony isn’t lost on me.”
“What happens to her?” Dean asks, because it’s easier just to keep talking than to think about the reason why he was calling in the first place.
“Perseus, a great hero and slayer of monsters, saves her. They marry and live happily ever after.”
For a moment, Dean says nothing. He looks up at the night sky, wishing he knew enough about astronomy to be able to find Andromeda. Are those stars even visible where he is, or at this time of year?
He’s opening his mouth to ask when Cas says, “You told Sam the truth. I assume that’s why you’re calling.”
That’s not why I’m calling. I’m calling to say the three words I should’ve said years ago. The first time we ever kissed. The first time we had sex. The first time we woke up next to each other. All those times when we went months or years without touching each other because we’re a couple of dumbasses.
Swallowing past the thought, Dean says, “I did tell him, yeah.” He tugs his jacket a little tighter around himself as a chilly breeze blows through the parking lot. “He didn’t take it too well. Was pretty upset about the idea of Jack dying, obviously, and the fact that I didn’t tell him right away. There was a lot of yelling.”
Cas doesn’t say “I told you so,” even though he did, in fact, tell Dean that the longer he put off telling Sam, the more upset Sam would be. But Cas is never petty in victory, so he says nothing, except to acknowledge Dean’s narrative with a thoughtful, rumbling hum.
Dean thinks about confessing what he told Sam: that he might be okay with Jack dying, if it means ending Chuck. But he just got done fighting with Sam about this, and he doesn’t have it in him to pick the same fight with Cas. Jack is his son, for God’s sake, or as good as. No matter what he’s done, he’ll always be that. Of course Dean doesn’t want him to die. Not if there’s any other possible outcome. It’s just that, unlike Cas and Sam, he’s not convinced there is another possible outcome.
So he doesn’t mention that part of the fight. Call it another lie by omission and add it to the ever-growing pile.
There’s a small shuffle on the other end of the line, like maybe Cas is shifting around on a chair, or lying down on a bed.
“Where are you?” Dean asks, suddenly wanting very much to calculate the exact distance separating them.
“At a motel in Arizona. I heard a rumor that I thought was worth following up on.”
More than a thousand miles away then. Too much to cover in a single night. To keep his thoughts from dwelling on that, Dean watches the toe of his boot trace a crack in the concrete at his feet. “Anything to it?”
“I'm not sure yet.” Cas makes a discontented sound. “The beds in this motel are the most uncomfortable I've ever experienced, and as you know, I've had a very, very long life.”
Dean chuckles. “Have I told you that I hate motels?”
He can hear the smile in Cas’ voice when he says, “It’s come up a time or two, yes. And for what it’s worth, I’d have to agree with your assessment.”
Dean tries to swallow, fails, tries again. “You ever think things could be different for us? You know, after?”
After Chuck and Amara are dead. After Jack...
No, he's not going there. Not now, with the stars above him and Cas' soothing, familiar voice in his ear.
For a beat or two, there’s silence, then, very softly, “I want to believe that. Very much.”
Say it now, idiot. Do it.
I love you. I’ve always loved you. When you’re gone, it takes twice as much effort to keep breathing.
“I miss you,” Cas says, still just as softly, like this moment is a delicately spun globe of glass, and anything above a whisper will shatter it.
“I miss you, too.” These are words they’ve said to each other before, and they feel right, comfortable, familiar. But what if, someday, those words aren’t enough anymore? What if a lie by omission really does cost him the thing he loves most in the world?
“Hey, Cas?”
“Yes, Dean?”
Dean leans back against the bench, eyes fixed on the sky again, searching for Andromeda. How do you find something when you don’t even know what it’s supposed to look like?
“Do you think when you choose not to tell someone… something, it counts as a lie by omission?”
Cas is silent so long, Dean removes the phone from his ear to see if the call’s disconnected. It hasn't. Eventually, Cas says, “Yes. But lies are not inherently mean-spirited. In fact, some lies are necessary. Especially lies by omission.”
“Like that one time you made a pie and I didn’t tell you that you’d mixed up the sugar and salt?”
There’s an audible intake of breath; an interesting reaction, considering Cas doesn’t technically need to breathe. “Was that the time you said you couldn’t finish your slice because you were feeling ill, and then you wouldn’t even let me try to diagnose you?”
Dean chuckles. “Yeah. That’s the one.”
“Dean,” Cas says, the single word comprising an entire lecture on the boundless folly of a Winchester. “You should have told me the truth. I was worried I’d poisoned you somehow.”
There’s an unpleasant taste in Dean’s mouth, entirely unrelated to the remembered one of salty cherry pie.
Lies? They don’t make anything better.
“Cas, I—”
I love you. You’re it for me. I’d be happy to fall asleep right here, on this damn bench, if it meant I got to keep you on the phone all night.
The words still won’t come. Instead, he says, “I’d better get back to bed.”
“Alright,” Cas says, sounding a little tired himself. “Goodnight, Dean.”
“Night.”
Cas disconnects first, and Dean keeps the phone pressed to his ear, waiting. For what, he doesn’t know.
***
Castiel slumps back against the pillows. They’re too thin, too hard to be truly comfortable, and they smell faintly of mildew.
The lamp above the table by the door casts a sad, orange glow onto his abandoned notes, sitting alongside a lopsided stack of dog-eared lore books. A red ribbon dangles from one of the books, marking a passage that gives directions on how to get to a very specific place. Few people have gone there, but Castiel knows he will have to. If the key to saving Jack exists, it’s to be found there, without a doubt.
Soon, he’ll return to the bunker with the knowledge he’s gained, but not tonight. Tonight, his strength is sapped, his grace a sluggish trickle where it once surged through him with the infinite power and patience of the cosmos. Perhaps he’ll try to sleep for an hour.
Even from his limited experience, Castiel knows that sleep won't come if he allows himself to dwell on his research, or on his worries about Jack. What he needs is a memory that will calm him.
He casts his mind back to one of his most joyful moments: two years ago, the night before they left for Dodge City. Right after he returned from…
When you finally give yourself permission to be happy and let the sun shine on your face, that’s when I’ll come. That’s when I’ll come to drag you to nothing.
The memory of the words hits him like a physical blow. He pushes back at it, only for the words to be replaced by others, heard more recently.
Do you think when you choose not to tell someone… something, it counts as a lie by omission?
“Some lies are necessary,” Castiel tells the cracked plaster of the ceiling, just as he told Dean. “Some lies are necessary,” he says again, hoping that repetition of the words will strengthen his belief in them.
Dean has never said so, but Castiel knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Dean loves him. Despite their disagreements, their frequent separations — perhaps even more because of them — they complete each other. If Dean knew what fate awaits Castiel, he would become distracted. Or worse, give up the fight against Chuck. That is not something Castiel can permit.
Once again, he thinks back to that night two years ago. The hungry, disbelieving joy in Dean’s eyes as he pulled Castiel into his room and locked the door behind them. The tremor in his hands as he cupped Castiel’s face. The shyness of his kisses at first; the way he’d almost seemed afraid that if he pushed too hard, Castiel would vanish from his embrace like so much vapor. The relief and elation in Dean’s expression when Castiel pushed back, pushed him against the wall, wanting to feel the warmth, the fact of Dean’s existence, with every fiber of his being.
Distantly, Castiel notices that the colors of Dean’s room have blurred around him, the edges of the objects dulled as memory slides into dream. He might have failed to mark the transition altogether, if not for another difference.
He remembers their lovemaking being completely silent, an encounter too frantic and fragile to permit the intrusion of such mundane things as words. But in this retelling, Dean is speaking to him. He says the words into Castiel’s collarbone, his mouth, the top of his thigh, the bony jut of his hip, the palm of his hand.
“I love you, Cas. Love you so much.”
Castiel finds himself saying the words in return, an unceasing litany of “I love yous” pressed into Dean’s skin, deep enough to mark. The happiness of hearing the words spoken between them, finally, after all this time, fills him up until he’s brimming with it, thinks he could drown the world with the joy he feels at the thought that Dean Winchester is finally, wholly his.
Castiel opens his eyes (when did he close them?), wanting to see Dean’s face as he says the words again, wanting to hear them spoken back with reckless abandon. Instead, his gaze catches on something at the other end of the room.
There’s a shadow in the corner, watching. Waiting.
Castiel is almost sure he’s still dreaming.