Follows Through Space as a Function of Time

Title: Follows Through Space as a Function of Time
Word Count: 3310
Pairing/Characters: established Sam/Dean, Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This is in the Walk 'verse, and probably won't stand alone without knowing that Dean has unconscious episodes in which he regularly walks miles and miles from his home, and Castiel is the one who fetches him back to Sam. 
In late September, Castiel found Dean in a field of wheat.
Warnings: Unbeta'd as always.
Also: This scenario was partially inspired by the heartbreaking novel The Unnamed, by Joshua Ferris.

A/N: For rivkat as part of help_somalia, an account which, weird, appears to have been purged?  And, yes, I realize the title is incredibly clunky and un-descriptive, but it is late and I am sick and it is part of the definition of "trajectory" and tickled me.  Also, there will be more in this 'verse eventually.

:::

In late September, Castiel found Dean in a field of wheat. The moon was dim and yellow and the 3am breeze rattled through the stiff stalks, setting them to a fine, rushing hiss; from afar the field moved and sounded like an ocean. Dean, lying on the cool earth at the Western edge, was a sleepy, aching burn on Castiel’s radar, like a candle in the center of a dark room, and it took little concentration to zero in on his exact location and appear at his booted feet.

“You’re late,” Dean slurred, but he was smiling despite the fact that his eyes were nearly crossed from the effort of staying awake.

“Forgive me,” Castiel said, crouching at his side. “I was detained.”

Dean’s arm was a warm, heavy weight across Castiel’s shoulders, and they’d done this enough to make it feel like second nature: Dean leaning hard on him while he made his messy way up to his feet, limbs loose, bad knee buckling, his muscles finally reneging after carrying him nearly thirty miles from home across uneven terrain. It would be easier for both of them if Castiel simply transported him from his splayed position on the ground, but Dean didn’t like to come to Sam like that – he wanted to be upright.

“Ready?” Castiel asked him. Dean’s head sagged once and then snapped up; whether a nod or a jolt out of sleep, Castiel wasn’t certain, but his feet were planted on the ground and though he was more-or-less hanging from the circle of Castiel’s arms like a limp hammock, it was about as “upright” as he was going to get tonight so there was no reason to linger.

One tug of invisible thread and the dark, sighing field disappeared around them, replaced by the bright lights of Sam and Dean’s narrow kitchen.

Sam was sitting at the table staring down a cup of coffee and doing an excellent impression of a zombie, but he jerked upward the second Castiel and Dean appeared before him. He looked wrecked – circles under his eyes, hair a mess, shoulders up around his ears, and he reached for his brother with a child’s frantic, greedy hands, pulling the solid warmth of him away from Castiel’s side without so much as a hello. It was unreasonable, Castiel thought, for Sam to be so concerned; not once had he neglected to fetch Dean and bring him home. Unreasonable, too, for him to snatch Dean away so quickly, to be so eager to touch him, when his access to Dean was constant, his touch a given.

“Hey,” Sam was saying, one arm shoring Dean up against him while his other hand skimmed across his face, cupping his night-cool cheek and thumbing at his closing eyelids. “Hey, hey man, you okay?

“He is tired,” Castiel said.

“’M tired,” Dean agreed.

“Let’s get you to the couch, huh?” Sam was already maneuvering him past Castiel and to the living room, and though Dean moved his feet willingly enough, Sam did most of the work, muscles taut and flexing under his soft, too-small t-shirt. (Dean’s shirt, Castiel saw.) He tumbled them both down onto the overstuffed cushions of the floral couch, helped Dean get his bad knee elevated and tucked a pillow behind his lolling head, brushed a smudge of dirt from the bridge of his nose. Only then did he look up to where Castiel stood at the foot of the sofa, watching.

“Thank you,” Sam said, as always. “Where did you find him?”

“Thirty miles from here. He must have been gone a long time.”

“Almost sixteen hours,” Sam said. He glanced back to Dean, who had succumbed to sleep pretty much the instant he hit the couch, but even so, Sam pitched his voice lower. “We were having lunch. On the porch. He got up to get a beer, and – just kept going. I’ve never seen it like that, Cas. I mean, he’s never just walked away from me. I followed him for a few miles, but he wouldn’t – he wouldn’t even look up.”

“Well,” Castiel said. “I’m sure it’s nothing… personal.”

“Sixteen hours,” Sam repeated. “He’s never been gone so long. It scared the shit out of me.”

“He must walk very slowly,” Castiel said, uncertain how to offer comfort. “Two miles per hour, assuming his trajectory is straight.”

“His knee’s really been bugging him,” Sam said, settling his palm on the jean-clad joint. Dean didn’t so much as twitch. “He hasn’t said anything, but I can see it’s getting worse. The doctor keeps telling him to take it easy, try and stay off his feet when he can, but how’s he supposed to do that if he walks thirty goddamn miles a week, huh?”

“I don’t know, Sam.”

Sam scrubbed his big hands across his face and tried on a smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “God, don’t listen to me. I’m just tired. Are you – can I get you something to drink? Juice?”

“I can help myself,” Castiel said. He could feel Sam’s exhaustion rolling off him in waves, and usually now would be the time that he and Sam would talk, socialize for a bit while Dean slept; a time that Castiel looked forward to greatly – but tonight he could see that talking was off the table. Sam wanted nothing more than to fall asleep beside his brother. He went into the kitchen and stood in front of the open refrigerator, staring into the cold light of it, the jumbled lines of food: roast beef, cream cheese, salsa, hot dogs, mustard, beer… How strange it would be, to rely so much on this appliance, the centerpiece of the house.

He looked at the carton of mango juice on the top shelf – his juice, there just for him – but did not feel inclined to drink any. He did not feel inclined to do much of anything. He felt… off, somehow, and the feeling was compounded by the body he inhabited – it buzzed, it was restless, there was discontent in the pit of his stomach and a tightness to his fingers that he couldn’t understand. He had the urge to try and explain his disquiet to Sam, to feel the weight of Sam’s concern shift from Dean to him; Sam would ask questions, he would lean forward, his brows would come together and he’d purse his lips in worry, and maybe he would reach out and put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder and…

No. It was the body that wanted this. The damned body, always clamoring for the attention of another body. Not Castiel himself. It was important to draw this distinction.

He closed the refrigerator and went back to the doorway of the kitchen, then stopped there, looking. Sam was still beside his brother on the couch, but now he had one of Dean’s hands in his own, and his head was bowed over it, his lips pressed dry against the scarred knuckles. He did not move. It was not a kiss. Dean slept on, insensate to the pressure of Sam’s mouth, and Sam did not look up to see Castiel there in the doorway. The body sickened, though not with disgust. The chest was overfull.

It would be better, Castiel thought, to simply disappear without disturbing them. Yet part of him wanted to call notice to himself, to clear his throat, to watch Sam drop Dean’s hand and raise his head with that guilty, caught-out look of shame. It was an unkind impulse: Castiel pushed it down, and pushed himself away.

:::

It was, by human measurements, less than a day later when Castiel again felt Dean calling to him. His prayer was less desperate than it had been the night before, was calmer, controlled, not fueled by pain or the sharp desire to be taken home, and because of this Castiel hesitated. He was not busy, strictly speaking – he had duties akin to what Dean called “paperwork,” though there was no paper, just a vast amount of energy to pull and twist and stack-up neatly. It could wait. But Dean, too, could wait. He was not in danger. There was no reason for him to call. Castiel should stay in heaven, and fulfill his duties.

Dean greeted him with a wide grin. “Hey, Cas.”

“Hello,” Castiel said. Dean was out on his front porch, a melting icepack on his knee and a beer in his hand and the two o’clock sun falling in warm dusty stripes across his face. “Why aren’t you working?”

“Sam bullied me into staying home,” Dean said, and shifted in his green plastic chair. “You want a beer? Some juice?”

“Why did you call me?”

Dean picked up his icepack, hefted it in one hand. “Sam said you took off last night without saying goodbye.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said. “It was rude of me. But I had important matters to attend to.”

“Yeah, no, it’s fine, I just – I mean, whenever I see you, I’m not exactly up for conversation, you know?” Dean colored a little. “Thought I’d say… hi. Check in. Plus, I’m twelve kinds of bored off my ass.”

“And you expect me to entertain you?”

“No. Of course not. I just—”

“I would like a beer.”

Dean blinked at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Awesome,” he said, and put a hand to the arm of his chair, levered himself carefully upwards. “You wanna come in with me for a second? I could make you a sandwich or something, if you wanted.”

“Just a beer,” Castiel said, but nevertheless followed him inside. The house was several degrees cooler than the outdoors, and all the lights were off, but the glow from the windows lit up the small rooms. Sam was right about the knee, he saw – Dean was moving with small, hitched steps, the usual easy roll of his limp transformed into something harsher, jerkier, and one of his hands trailed along the wall, ready to support himself if need be. It was hard to imagine this gait taking him thirty miles; Castiel’s own body tensed in sympathy at the thought.

“So what’ve you been up to?” Dean asked, handing off a cool bottle and grabbing another for himself, along with a stack of orange cheese slices, tomatoes, and a dish of butter.

“You wouldn’t understand me if I told you,” Castiel said.

“Try me,” Dean said, closing the fridge. He turned expectantly.

“I’d rather not waste my words,” Castiel said. He was interested to see that Dean’s mouth turned down a little, shoulders slumped: he was hurt. But Castiel was only speaking the truth – there would be no point to try and explain the work of an angel in any human tongue. So little of it took place on the human plane. So little of it had anything to do with humans, at all.

“Well,” Dean said, and took a cutting board from the drying rack. “Okay.”

“You’re making me a sandwich,” Castiel said, counting bread slices. “Or you’re going to eat two.”

“Right on the first try,” Dean said, and licked butter from his knuckles. “I’m hungry, and I don’t want to eat alone. You like grilled cheese, I know you do.”

“I said I didn’t want a sandwich.”

Dean looked at him, a rubbery slice of cheese dangling from his fingers. “Cas,” he said. “Are you okay? You seem… grumpy, or something.”

“I’m not grumpy,” Castiel said, folding his arms. “I’m uncertain why you’ve called me here. To force me to eat sandwiches?”

“No,” Dean said, “no, you don’t have to eat a sandwich.”

“Why, then?”

“I just – I just wanted some company.”

“Sam will be home shortly,” Castiel said. “Surely his company is good enough.”

The line between Dean’s brows deepened. He let out a short, sharp breath, half-sigh, half-laugh, and shook his head. “Listen,” he said. “I don’t know if you’re mad at me, or just having a bad day or what, but I see Sam all the goddamn time and I only get to see you when I’m barely-conscious and in a pretty fucking embarrassing position. So excuse me for wanting a little coherent interaction, for once. But, man, if you don’t wanna be here, don’t be here. Fly away. Nothing’s holding you back.”

Castiel didn’t move. He wanted to – he did. His skin felt too-tight, and he was rigidly, violently annoyed, though he could not say why. He wanted to get back to the dull monotony of his inexplicable work, but, too, he wanted to stay here. Right here. In the little, bright kitchen that smelled like garlic and old beer, with Dean at the counter and Sam coming home in just a few hours.

“I’m not going to leave,” he said finally. “I’ll eat your sandwich.”

Dean eyed him warily. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Castiel said.

“Drink,” Dean said, and flapped the cheese at Castiel’s unopened beer. “Guaranteed to turn your bad mood around.”

“I would have to drink approximately three hundred of these to feel anything,” Castiel said, but he twisted the cap off anyway and took a long sip. Dean watched him, strong teeth worrying at his lower lip.

“Good?” Dean asked.

“Yes,” Castiel said.

“Better be,” Dean said, and turned back to his assembly-line of bread. “It’s expensive shit – that’s what happens when you send Sam out for a beer run. Comes back with all sorts of high-priced experimental crap. This stuff’s brewed with bananas, you believe that? Good though. Gotta hand it to him.”

Castiel went and sat down at the kitchen table, the same place he’d found Sam the night before. Dean limped across the room for a frying pan, and again Castiel’s body responded to the discomfort inherent in his movements. Amazing how the human body was linked in sympathy to the mind – he felt a phantom twinge in his own, perfect knee, simply from watching Dean attempt to accommodate his damaged one.

“Does it hurt to walk?” Castiel asked.

The hard line of Dean’s shoulders went harder, but he said, “Nah. It’s like going into a black hole. I don’t feel much of anything ‘til I snap out of it.”

Castiel cleared his throat. “I meant your normal walking. Not – the walks you take.”

“Oh.” Dean turned and gave him a small, self-conscious smile. “It hurts some.”

“Are you medicated?”

“Yeah.” Butter began to sizzle in the pan, and Dean lay the sandwiches on top of it. “Actually,” he said, staring down at the stove, “I went to see the doctor this morning. That’s, uh, that’s why I’m not working.”

Castiel paused with his bottle halfway to his mouth. “Sam didn’t tell you to stay home?”

“No. Well, he did, but – I was going to anyway. Made the appointment a week or so ago.”

“Why did you lie to me on the porch?” Castiel asked, genuinely curious.

“I don’t know,” Dean said. His head was bent, and Castiel could see the knobbed ridges of his spine beneath the skin of the back of his neck.

“What did your doctor say?”

Dean poked the grilled cheese with an aimless spatula. “Not lookin’ good, I guess. She’s talking knee replacement, but – that’s not really an option for me. Takes about three months to recover, and if I walk thirty miles on a knee that just came out of surgery…” He shrugged. “Don’t want to end up down a whole leg, you know? So we’re talking about, uh, about external support, a cane or something. Just for when it’s bad.”

Castiel took a drink of his beer. It did taste something of bananas, around the edges. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Hey, not your fault. And it could be a lot worse.” Dean turned, finally, to face him, and grinned. “Could be my head they wanna replace.”

The joke was weak, even Castiel could see that. “I’m sorry it’s not in my power to heal you,” he clarified.

“Cas, that’s not something you need to apologize for,” Dean said. “Do me a favor, grab a couple of plates?”

Castiel obliged, and held them out as Dean slid the golden sandwiches from the hot pan. They smelled delicious. He regretted having tried to deny them. “Are we going back out on the porch?”

“Living room,” Dean said. “Getting chilly outside.”

Castiel followed Dean out of the kitchen, sat next to him on the faded, comfortable couch. Dean put his bad leg up on the coffee table with a low, bit-back noise of discomfort, and Castiel winced.

“Have you spoken to Sam about this yet?” Castiel asked.

“No,” Dean said, juggling the hot sandwich from hand to hand. “And don’t say anything, okay? I don’t want to worry him.”

There it was again, that jagged lighting-bolt of irritation. “Yet you don’t mind worrying me.”

“What?” Dean said. “No, I – I don’t want to worry you either, jesus, of course I don’t.”

“Why tell me, then?” Castiel said. “I am worried. You’ve succeeded in worrying me. Do you not care?”

“I do care,” Dean said, flustered, color rising in his cheeks.

“You don’t,” Castiel said. His anger was growing, red and disproportionate, and he felt powerless before it. “You want only to protect Sam. You don’t care for anyone but him. Anyone else is just – is just furniture. I am just a car to you. A limousine. I show up, I bring you home, every time, and in thanks I get – what? A sandwich? A sandwich, and complaints.”

“Cas,” Dean said, voice a little shaky, “I don’t… I’m sorry. You’re not a car, okay? How can I thank you, besides a goddamn sandwich? Just tell me, and I’ll give it to you. What do you want?”

Castiel was aware, all of a sudden, of how close they were sitting. The couch was old, and sagged in the middle, and they were nearly touching in the inward dip of it. He could feel the tension of Dean’s body, feel the confused heat of him, could feel how earnest the question was.

“What do I want?” Castiel repeated. He turned the words over in his head. He groped for the answer. Dean was right there, eyes wide and green, lips slightly parted, that deep anxious streambed between his brows, staring at Castiel, waiting for the answer.

It was the body that knew. The body that wanted. Castiel leaned forward and put his mouth on Dean’s and let the body tell him. He could feel Dean’s lips beneath his, warm and dry at first, utterly still, unresponsive, and then, dampening with Castiel’s breath, moving, fitting together like zippers, the hot press of tongue and the seal of their mouths, Dean’s hand rising and fisting itself in Castiel’s jacket and tugging as Castiel pushed closer, pulled Dean in, a hand to the back of his neck and his fingers in the short bristles there, feeling the tendons, the spine, the sweet curve of Dean’s ear, wanting to feel everything.

Then he broke away. Dean’s mouth was pink and slick and his eyes were impossibly wider, his cheeks stained with poppies of hectic color. He held tight to Castiel’s jacket, searching his face.

Castiel said, “That is what I want.”

And left Dean clutching a handful of air.

:::

But even unbodied, the place where Dean’s mouth had collided with his own was beacon-bright and earth’s-core hot. His un-mouth. His un-arms wanted to twine themselves around Dean’s shoulders, his un-fingers wanted to palm the curves of Dean’s face. His un-heart beat frantic.

The body was gone. The body remained.

Somewhere, Dean was calling for him. Somewhere, Sam was leaving work. Somewhere, somewhere, the body was waiting, ready to take him back, ready to lock him in – ready, perhaps, to bring him home.

end