[ He's been on the lookout since meeting Sam, senses alert, eyes scanning the ferry, the pier, the beach.
There's never just one Winchester. If Sam is here, any version of him, then Dean will either not be far behind, or will be working on breaking the world to save his brother. And Castiel knows from Sam's report that even though he distinctly knows he died and ended up here, he also kept going. Kept living - and dying - alongside Sam and Dean.
It's... painful, in a strange way. To know that he's the one who lost the toin coss. Life is a web of choices, and Castiel knows better than most that there are countless universes, countless timelines, countless alternatives. There must be a version of him that never chose humanity, never chose Dean in the greenroom. There must be a version of him that revealed himself in Lisa Braeden's back yard, that told Dean of Raphael's plans and Castiel's inability to stop him.
Perhaps he's been losing the coing toss more often than he cares to think.
Still... it pains him, strangely and in ways it shouldn't, to know that Dean and Sam grew older, and he grew alongside them, not in age but in experience and emotion. He wonders if Sam is bothered that Castiel as he is here, is decidedly not the Castiel he knows. Their Castiel, with years of shared, years that are much longer and more significant from the short-lived human perspective.
Wonders, when he spots the familiar width of Dean's shoulders, if Dean will find him lacking consequently.
Castiel beats his wings before he can question it too much, before he can talk himself into avoidance. He's done Dean the dishonour of leaving too often. Right here and now, Castiel chooses to go to him rather than flee from him, as he attempted right before his death, and failed at - lost that coin toss, definitely. He chooses, then, to turn a blind eye to everything off about Dean, to ignore the suspicion at what he can dimly sense, to ignore his own guilt and self-loathing over the feeling of Dean's face breaking under his own fist, a phantsom sensation that haunts and terrifies him. He won't let it keep him away,despite his every instinct wanting to follow the cues of his guilt.
He appears out of nothing, out of the darkness, right in front of Dean, too blue eyes finding and locking onto green to the sound of rustling feathers and the soft woosh of displaced air.
The light around them goes a little more blue through the stained glass of his lantern, moving and shifting as the white-blue grace swirls within it.
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There's never just one Winchester. If Sam is here, any version of him, then Dean will either not be far behind, or will be working on breaking the world to save his brother. And Castiel knows from Sam's report that even though he distinctly knows he died and ended up here, he also kept going. Kept living - and dying - alongside Sam and Dean.
It's... painful, in a strange way. To know that he's the one who lost the toin coss. Life is a web of choices, and Castiel knows better than most that there are countless universes, countless timelines, countless alternatives. There must be a version of him that never chose humanity, never chose Dean in the greenroom. There must be a version of him that revealed himself in Lisa Braeden's back yard, that told Dean of Raphael's plans and Castiel's inability to stop him.
Perhaps he's been losing the coing toss more often than he cares to think.
Still... it pains him, strangely and in ways it shouldn't, to know that Dean and Sam grew older, and he grew alongside them, not in age but in experience and emotion. He wonders if Sam is bothered that Castiel as he is here, is decidedly not the Castiel he knows. Their Castiel, with years of shared, years that are much longer and more significant from the short-lived human perspective.
Wonders, when he spots the familiar width of Dean's shoulders, if Dean will find him lacking consequently.
Castiel beats his wings before he can question it too much, before he can talk himself into avoidance. He's done Dean the dishonour of leaving too often. Right here and now, Castiel chooses to go to him rather than flee from him, as he attempted right before his death, and failed at - lost that coin toss, definitely. He chooses, then, to turn a blind eye to everything off about Dean, to ignore the suspicion at what he can dimly sense, to ignore his own guilt and self-loathing over the feeling of Dean's face breaking under his own fist, a phantsom sensation that haunts and terrifies him. He won't let it keep him away,despite his every instinct wanting to follow the cues of his guilt.
He appears out of nothing, out of the darkness, right in front of Dean, too blue eyes finding and locking onto green to the sound of rustling feathers and the soft woosh of displaced air.
The light around them goes a little more blue through the stained glass of his lantern, moving and shifting as the white-blue grace swirls within it.
And what is there to say, except... ]
Hello, Dean.