SPN gen, written in 02/2010. Spoilers for Free To Be You And Me and Abandon All Hope.
Thank you to Trytings for the beta!

In which

sam, interrupted

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Unwell

Dean doesn't think about it. He's trying not to think about much of anything these days.

He just does it, because he feels like it. It would even have been satisfying, if he could have watched the shards of the bottle scatter and rain down, if he could have stood to contemplate the whiskey stain on the wall of their motel room in the deafening silence that comes after the sharp noise.

He doesn't get the chance.

Castiel appears, suddenly, in a single frame of the movie that is Dean's fucked-up life, his hand outstretched. The next frame takes them-- somewhere else. Somewhere with lots of sky and fluffy white clouds and tall grass and really high mountains. Oh, and not to forget the goats.

It only takes a moment for Dean to catch himself. "The hell, Cas?" he yells. "What did I tell you about zapping me around?"

"To mind your digestive system," Castiel says. "I did. You are fine."

It's such a typical Castiel-answer that Dean shouldn't be annoyed, or even surprised, but he is. "That's not what I told you. I told you not to mind-zap me anywhere without warning! It fucking freaks me out! It would be great if you could remember that in the future."

Castiel cocks his head. "That is not what you told me either."

That innocent look had Dean fooled for a few months, but not anymore. "Oh, so you do remember?"

"Of course," Castiel says. "I'm an angel. I have perfect memory. You told me you wanted to drive to Maine. You did not voice any preferences for future travels."

Dean opens his mouth to object, then closes it again. It's no use arguing with Castiel like this, not when he knows that Castiel is right. Being overly literal, maybe, but still right. Not to mention the fact that, theoretically, Castiel could zap him pretty much anywhere he damn well pleases, and there is jack squat Dean could do to stop him. But Dean usually avoids that line of thought.

"Okay," he says. "Fine. So I don't have to worry about indigestion this time. That's great. That's super." He takes another, more thorough, look around. Sky, clouds, mountains, grass, goats -- check. There is nothing memorable or significant about this place as far as he can see. "Those better not be demonic goats," he says.

"I don't think so," Castiel says, looking mildly puzzled. "Why would a demon want to possess a goat?"

"For the perk of having hoofs?" Dean suggests, then sighs at Castiel's even more confused expression. "Never mind. Where are we?"

"It's not important," Castiel says.

"Oh, really?" Dean asks, eyebrows raised. There Castiel goes again, being all cryptic and unnerving. He'd kind of hoped they were past this. "How is that not important? You zapped me here for a reason, and I hope it's not to milk the goats or mow the lawn." He plucks at a few stalks of grass. They reach up to his thighs. "Because that could take a while, seeing how there's a lot of ground to--"

"I want you to scream, Dean," Castiel says.

Dean falls silent and blinks.

Castiel just stands there, looking expectant.

Dean blinks again. He did not just hear what he thought he heard. Because if he did, there are only two possible explanations, and they are both about as likely as Lucifer calling off the apocalypse out of the goodness of his heart.

One, Castiel isn't himself, and evil not-Castiel is planning to do unspeakably dreadful things to Dean. Which, as plot developments go, isn't an entirely new one, except-- What creature does he even know that can carbon-copy an angel, complete with mind-zapping and everything? Not one. So-- Not likely.

Explanation number two: Castiel is coming onto him in strange and disturbing ways. Which just-- No. He is an angel of the Lord. Angels of the Lord do not go round proposing mere mortals in sleazy ways. Faith or no faith, Dean is pretty sure about that.

And yes, okay, there is a third possibility, namely that Dean has finally lost his marbles and is imagining things, but he isn't even considering that.

"Come again?" he says.

"I want you to scream," Castiel says again. He still doesn't move in threatening or suggestive ways, for which Dean is grateful. He isn't even sure which would be scarier. Not that Dean is easily scared or anything.

"Are you serious?" he asks. Up until a few weeks ago this would have been a redundant question. But Castiel has been trying his hand at humor lately, and the results are usually not identifiable as jokes, much less actually funny.

"Yes. I am."

Dean is aware that he isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but this is getting ridiculous. "You want me to scream," he repeats, still not getting it. "Why? What for?"

Castiel steps closer, a lot closer, all those stern talks about personal space apparently forgotten. "To keep you sane."

Dean doesn't physically recoil, but it takes all the self control he has, which, admittedly, isn't much at the moment. This is a topic that he isn't going to touch, not with a ten foot pole, not ever, especially not in conversation with his very own guardian angel. What is there to discuss, anyway? Sanity is relative, in the eye of the beholder, measured on a sliding scale. There is no such thing as normal. This, the way he is, it's close enough. Sane enough. He functions. If he started to ask himself why he still does, started to question the mechanics of it, that would be the end. Like-- driving a car for the first time was surprisingly easy, right up to the point when his dad started giving him instructions and explained the significance of the rev counter and how the stick shift worked. The instinctual grasp he had on the machine went out the window. The car started to jump, the gears creaked, and his dad kept wincing for the rest of the drive, feeling for his poor Impala.

"That doesn't even make sense," Dean says, keeping his voice low and firm. "And I'm fine. Either you materialize Forrest Gump's stylish lawn mower for me so I can get down to business with the field, or you take me back right now."

"No," Castiel says. "You're not fine, Dean. Far from it."

"Dammit, Cas! We are not talking about this!" He's shouting, getting right in Castiel's face, which has intimidated many a man, demon, angry spirit, or otherwise dark creature. But it doesn't seem to work on Castiel. No surprise there.

"You want me to return you to your motel room," Castiel says. It even sounds like a question. As if Dean wasn't clear before.

He points a finger. "Give the angel a cigar."

Castiel clearly doesn't understand the reference, but he seems determined not to be distracted. "To do what, Dean?" he asks. "You haven't slept in three days, and you were not going to do so tonight either. You drink alcohol in large quantities, or you copulate excessively, or both. I understand that this is designed to distract yourself, but it is clearly not working."

Dean narrows his eyes. "Have you been spying on me? You've totally been spying on me!" Sometimes he forgets that Castiel is, in some form, around most of the time. That Castiel knows things, has seen things that Dean would want to bury and un-know himself, if that were in any way possible. Whenever Dean remembers, it isn't all that comforting a thought anymore to know there is an angel watching over him. "That's sick, man," he says. "Where I come from, we call that peeping."

"I worry," Castiel says simply. He looks like he does, too.

That only makes it worse. Dean takes a deep breath, in an effort not to go and rip Castiel a new one. "Look, I appreciate the thought, Cas, but this is too much. Way too much. Give a guy some privacy. There are some things I need to deal with myself."

If anything, Castiel looks more determined. "You are not dealing with them. I may not completely understand the way human emotions work, but I do know that humans have their breaking points. There will be moments when everything is going to become too much for you to hold in. You might, for example, start throwing objects for no obvious reason."

Dean doesn't have anything to say to that.

"It's a matter of strategic importance," Castiel continues urgently. "Surely you can acknowledge that. There are going to be occasions on which the outcome of our fight against Lucifer depends entirely on your actions. You cannot afford to be-- undependable."

For a moment there, Dean just stares. The ice cold lump that poses as his stomach these days grows even colder. "Way to ease up on the pressure, Cas," he mutters.

"Yes, exactly. That’s the idea," Castiel says, nodding. "You must vent."

"Vent?" Dean repeats, frowning. Then he finally manages to connect the dots. "This is what you were going on about before? Venting, as in some kind of primal scream therapy that'll make me all whole 'n happy again? That's your plan?" He gives a laugh. "That's-- pretty funny, you know that? Why not go the whole nine yards and drag me to a shrink?"

"If that plan had any chance of succeeding, I would have followed it," Castiel says seriously.

Dean stops short at the matter-of-fact way the statement is delivered. "Well, I'm glad you didn't," he says after a moment. "Wouldn't want to steal valuable session time from nutjobs who actually need it. Now get me out of here."

Castiel is quiet for a long time, studying Dean's face, before he comes to a decision. "There is no other person around for seven point six miles. No one is going to hear you," he says and is gone with a rustle of wings.

Dean's reflexes are good, but not good enough. His fingers close around empty air where Castiel's trench coat was just a second ago. "Cas? Cas! Don't you dare leave me here! Cas! This isn't funny! This is so far from funny, it isn't even funny anymore!" And man, is he talking bullshit, or what. He does a complete three-sixty, but Castiel is nowhere to be seen. "Hey! I know you can hear me! I don't know what you expect me to do here, but I'm not gonna do it! So you can zap me right back! Castiel!"

There is no answer. Dean gives up for the moment, frustrated. He glares, which isn't the least bit satisfying, since there is nobody and nothing to glare at. "I'm not gonna do anything," he mutters.



It turns out that standing around not doing anything in the middle of a field on the side of a mountain starts to get boring after three and a half minutes.

He could start walking, but where would he even go? He could be on the other side of the world, for all he knows. Hell, he must be on the other side of the world. It's the middle of the day around here. Wherever 'here' is.

The view is pretty spectacular, though. He has to admit that. It isn't exactly a hardship, standing there looking at the skyline of mountaintops tipped with snow that is lain out in front of him, with no sign of civilization, or the oncoming destruction thereof, anywhere in sight. The wind is rustling the grass all around him, is pushing at the clouds above him, re-shaping them constantly in majestic slow motion.

If Dean didn't know he had a job to do, a devil to kill, a fucking world to save, it might have been-- peaceful. As it is, peace hasn't been in reach for a very long time. Not for Dean, anyway.

He has to get back.

"Cas?" he shouts. "Castiel!"

Once again, there is no answer.

"I hate that you can do this, you know that?" he adds, then reconsiders. "Scratch that. Your super powers are pretty damn awesome. Very handy when it comes to saving our asses and all that. But for fuck's sake, stop pushing me around like a goddamned chess piece. It sucks to be part of your crazy plans, did anyone ever tell you that? You can't plan for shit when it involves actual people. I am actual people, in case you hadn't noticed."

One of the goats stops grazing and stares at him across the field. For a moment Dean entertains the thought that the goat isn't just a goat, that it is the exact opposite of demonic, that Castiel is watching the show from a front row seat.

"What are you looking at?" he yells at the goat. It chews for a while, staring unimpressed, then goes back to grazing. It dawns on Dean that he is talking to a goat. He's done some pretty weird shit in his life. It's a job hazard. But this probably takes the cake.

"What do you think you're doing, Cas? Do I look like I need more on my plate right now? Do you have any idea how much it sucks to be me? And that's without you adding to the pile of crap, thanks very much."

He grabs a few stalks of grass with his right hand and rips at them viciously.

"I have to kill the devil. The devil! How am I supposed to do that? Not even the Colt could ice him! It's the most doomed of all possible hunts! And that's Epic Doom with capital letters. It's fucking impossible to do!"

The stalks of grass are still clutched in his fingers. He realizes that when he lifts his hand to run it through his hair. He opens his fist and lets go. And the words keep coming, exactly the way they aren't supposed to. They are supposed to be buried, to never see the light of day. He's sworn that to himself, but that doesn't seem to matter much anymore.

"All the shit we've been going through, the torture, the pain-- We buried our parents. We buried friends. Is it ever going to be over? Is it ever going to be enough?" He's screaming. Full-on top-of-his-lungs screaming, and he doesn't give a damn. "What, just kill the devil for me, pretty please, and then everything's gonna be fine and dandy?"

"What do you want from me?" he shouts, turning his face to the sky.

"I can't save the world for you!" he yells, stretching out his arms in what seems like a pathetic imitation of wings.

"Why me?" he screams so hard that it hurts, and his vision grays out at the edges.

He kind of loses track at that point. He keeps going, screaming, but the words are lost to him.



When Dean comes to, he's still in the middle of the field, flat on his back. Dark clouds have gathered above him. His throat hurts like a bitch, and the wind is cooling streaks of wetness on his cheeks. He's been crying? He can't remember starting. His hands are still gripping fistfuls of grass on either side of him, holding on so tight the stalks cut into the skin of his fingers. He releases them and lies with his palms facing the clouds.

Everything is quiet, even inside his head. He feels drained, empty, like a very thirsty vampire tapped him; not for blood, but for-- everything else.

His eyes fall shut.

"Dean," Castiel says, half an eternity later.

"You son of a bitch," Dean says weakly, not opening his eyes. His breath is still hitching a little, even as it is slowing down. Somehow he can't bring himself to care. He feels-- wrecked. "Tell me, how does this help?" His voice isn't much more than a hoarse whisper.

Castiel's only answer is a light touch on his forehead.

The sound of the wind rustling the grass turns into the hum of the air conditioning. Dean pulls the cool sheets tight around himself. The pillow is smooth under his cheek where the grass had been spiky.

"Sleep," Castiel says.

Dean does.


- end -

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