The pet name is faint. The voice is scratchy, familiar, something Castiel hasn't heard in near enough three months. He doesn't know if he wants to hear it; time is infinite here, and he has come to a space where he doesn't have to think about the war, but that doesn't nessecarily mean he wants to think of or hear Dean Winchester.
He floats in this space. Lighter than weightless. His true form, glowing and expansive and able to manipulate to his will, simply flows here.
"Castiel."
The name comes through louder, and Castiel catches the break in the last syllable. He tightens and focuses in on the sound and Dean Winchester mutters, angry and sad and sleepy all at once, "I don't know why I'm doing this. I doubt you're even listening. But I'm doing it anyway." Castiel hears the slur on the tip of Dean's tongue; it tastes like whiskey, he thinks. "Feathery bastard."
Castiel's wings, tendrils of light here, spread out and beat softly. If Dean could percieve his true form, Castiel would show it to him. He hopes one day he might find good reason to at least expose his physical wings to Dean; the feathered things that can protect, can fly, are warm and alive and filled with blood, but he's not sure he'll ever have that reason.
"Thing is, Cas... is I wanna pray. But I can't pray to God. I know you got your faith back, got your wings back, but I can't do it. He screwed me over."
Castiel understands. Without condoning or condemning, he understands. Dean only had faith in a few things, and God was not one of them; when he started to gain faith, he lost it just as quickly. He has been in the same place - felt as though Father wasn't looking out for him after all, like it was all for nothing and that Father was useless.
"So you know what, Cas? I'm... I'm praying to you. I don't, can't have faith in what I don't know anymore. And there ain't much I know anymore. I know Bobby and me don't speak anymore. I know Sam..." There's a break, a pause, and Castiel can feel the ache in the silence. He can feel Dean reaching blindly for the whiskey bottle, spilling some across his hands as fills his glass. Blind with exhaustion and grief and physically blind with tears.
He drifts across this space and tastes the drink as it burns Dean's throat. "I know Sammy's gone. I know I can't change that. Help me, I've tried. So you know what it comes down to, Castiel. It comes down to you. You're what I got faith in now, Cas, because you're the last thing I have." He scoffs, gently, but Castiel feels that harder than the whisky. It makes his wings jerk. "You're not even here. Dunno if you're listening, either. But I'm praying to you, you... indifferent, burger-eating virgin. 'Cause I know you're real and I know you're not dead and I know that it's still okay for me to pick up the God-line and talk to you."
Castiel feels hot and cold that Dean puts his faith in him. The kind of feelings that could be placed if he was in his vessel. He thinks the hot is the warmth of love; yes, he can feel it sparking the ends of his wings. It's not the same love he feels for God. It's different. He wonders if it's the love of human coupling, or less, like the love of close friends, but he can't tell. It just flows through him much in the way he flows in this vast space. He can't place the cold.
"I did some... googling about you. I looked you up on the internet. You're the Angel of Thursday. I don't know what that means, dunno how you can be an Angel of a day but. It says that you're the Angel of Travel and New Changes, too. Now I ain't done much travelling lately, but I'm living with Lisa and Ben, and they - you gotta help me, man." Castiel's light knots when he hears the ache and the twist in Dean's voice. "I'm going through so many new changes. My brother is dead. Probably being relentlessly tortured in the cage. What I got was most likely a picnic in comparison. Said you're good for guiding people, Cas. Can you guide me?"
Castiel wants to guide Dean. He does. And Dean is asking for his help, begging for it, and the hot and cold all over is almost nothing when he can just feel Dean in all his sadness, in the drinking and he can feel, just beyond that, he can feel Dean cares for Lisa and Ben but he doesn't love them, not in the way that brings the warmth.
"Will you help me, Cas? Please?"
Castiel lets Dean's voice pull him downwards. He spirals into his host as he goes, twisting himself to fit in those limbs. His true wings flare out of his back as he hurtles to earth, spins towards where Dean is praying for him, and he lands softly without a sound in a small, dark room, where Dean is cradling his head in his hands.
"Hello, Dean," he says quietly, and Dean jumps and stares up at him like he's covered in a bright light. Which, Castiel supposes, he was a minute or two ago. Or was it a day ago, an age? Maybe a second. Time passes differently between these places.
"You came," Dean rasps, and Castiel nods. "Can you help me?"
Castiel approaches. He looks around. This place is a study. Small and dark. Whisky bottle is open on the desk, empty glass beside it. He offers, "I can listen. I believe that will be the best guidance for you tonight." He doesn't think twice about touching Dean; he lays a hand on the side of his face and Dean lets out this muffled, sad groan and tips the weight of his head into it. "Talk, Dean."
"I miss Sammy and I don't know if I can go on without him any more," Dean whispers. "I dunno if I can keep on like this. With Lisa and Ben. I care about them, but..." He looks up at Castiel, face devoid of emotion but his eyes filled with a pure, fearful honesty, "I love Sammy, Cas. I love him more than I'm ever gonna love any woman. More than I can love any substitute family. He's my home, and he's in hell." Dean looks desperate and clasps his hand over Castiel's. "Do you know what I mean when I say I love him, Cas?"
Castiel knows, yes. He'd suspected. He'd turned a blind eye. Stopping the apocalypse was more important than stopping two brothers who loved more than they should. He nods slowly. Dean grips at his hand tighter. "Am I gonna go to Hell for loving him?"
Castiel considers it. Eventually, he tells Dean the truth. What else can he do? He removes his hand slowly from beneath Dean's and says, "Yes, Dean. When you die for good, God might judge that you go to Hell." Dean's eyes slip closed. "But it won't be because of your brother. I think God has long forgiven the... percieved sin in that."
Dean asks him, doubt in his voice, "Do you really believe that?"
"Yes. Remember, He forgave me for rebelling," Castiel reminds him. "He brought me back from the dead not only intact but more powerful. I can heal with the lightest touch," he muses, hovering his fingers a breath away from the skin on Dean's face, "I can bring back the dead without having to focus. My wings are stronger than they ever were. I can move things with my mind just as easily as actually physically moving it. So..." He presses his fingers into Dean's face again. "So yes, I believe He has forgiven you."
He gestures, softly, with his hand, so that the whiskey bottle pours Dean a drink. He isn't expecting when Dean grabs him and pulls him, messily, into his lap; the whiskey bottle falls and Castiel frowns as he reaches behind Dean to upright it. He picks up the glass and offers it to Dean, but he doesn't take it, choosing instead to just grab at Castiel's waist and bunch his fists in the fabric of his clothing.
Castiel contemplates for a minute, staring into the liquid, before he downs it himself and then sets the glass down. "You can't use me to replace Sam."
Dean makes this noise that could be a sob, this wretched quiet cry that sounds like Dean's physically breaking, and sets his forehead against Castiel's chest, his arms wrapped up and around his back. He's not sure where to put his own arms at first, but eventually, he envelopes the man beneath him in his arms, pressing a chaste, sorry kiss to the top of Dean's head. He wishes it didn't have to be this way. He wishes Sam never had to die, and oh; that's what the coldness was. The warmth of the way that Castiel loves Dean, because he does love Dean, and the cold of not wanting him to suffer, the cold of wishing he could put the faith he has in God.
"It's okay," Castiel tells Dean, and he knows that's a common lie among humans, but he truly believes it is, or it will be. There will be ups and downs of Dean not having Sam anymore. Castiel is willing to take the time he needs to be Dean's Angel of New Changes, of Thursdays and Travel, to be just Dean's friend, to be what Dean needs him to be until he can start praying to God instead of him. "It will be okay."