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The Truth

Summary:

Inspired by this post by pussypopstiel.

 
Cas gets hit with a truth spell, which places him in the very real danger of revealing his true feelings for Dean. Dean thinks Cas doesn't—can't feel the same way.
The rest they say, is history.

Notes:

Shoutout to the op—their post inspired me and broke my writer's block of several months. Originally posted on my tumblr here.
Hope you enjoy 💙 💚

Work Text:

 

 

 

The spell hits Cas square in the chest.

 

He’s frozen for a moment—mouth open in an almost comical sort of way—then he goes tumbling backward, over the railing and out of sight.

 

Sam’s yell is drowned out by Dean’s own roar of fury—and he fires, three, four, five shots, until the chamber is empty.

He doesn’t even check to see if the witch is down before he’s barreling forward, screaming Cas’s name into the dark.

 

“Cas!” He yells. “CASTIEL!”

 

The water churns, bubbles spouting to the surface, and Cas’s head follows a moment later. He doesn’t look hurt, in fact, he looks like dropping fifteen feet headfirst into the water was merely a mild inconvenience. The knot of fear and worry in Dean’s throat loosens immediately, and he growls, slamming his hand on the railing.

“Dammit, Cas,” he shouts down at him. “What the hell were you thinking? Tryin’ to get yourself killed?”

Castiel blinks water out of his eyes, scowling up at him.

“Yes, Dean, I’m perfectly alright. Thank you for asking.”

 

Dean says a few choice oaths under his breath, pushing back from the railing. Let Cas fish himself out, then.

 

He walks back over to where Sam is inspecting the body of the witch, still muttering.

“Didn’t need to ventilate the guy, Dean,” Sam says dryly, before standing, wiping his forehead with his hand.

“Yeah, well.” Dean tucks away his gun in the back of his jeans. “Nothing wrong with makin’ sure.”

 

A clatter from behind them prompts both Winchesters to turn around. Climbing up and onto the bridge, looking remarkably like a drowned rat, is Cas. He’s still scowling, water dripping from his coat, collecting in puddles around him.

 

“You okay, Cas?” Sam calls. “He got you on the last one, right?”

“Yes,” Cas confirms, walking closer. Dean resolutely avoids looking at Cas, especially where his white dress shirt lies plastered to his skin. “I am intact, though. Physically.”

“Shouldn’ta rushed him like that,” Dean mutters. “I had the shot.”

“And yet the witch is dead,” Cas replies coolly. “So I’d say we accomplished the goal, hmm?”

Dean glares at him.

 

Sam clears his throat, abruptly jumping in.

“Guess we’ll never know what the spell was, then.”

He nudges the dead witch’s leg with his foot.

“If Dean hadn’t gone all Dirty Harry on him, maybe we coulda found out.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes, and leans over, grabbing the dude by the arms.

“Hey. I say, no harm, no foul. You good, Cas?”

“Yes,” Castiel replies immediately. “I’m fine.”

“Good. You get his legs.”

 

 

x

 

 

One body burning and one heated argument later, they’re back on the road to the bunker. Dean was absolutely not going to let Cas ruin Baby’s leather seats with all that water, and magical post-hunt cleanups aren't exactly on the table when your grace is fizzling and weakening with each day. Sam finally, and very sensibly, suggested Cas just change into one of their spare sets of clothes, and Dean wasn’t about to start explaining to his brother why that would be a very, very bad idea—but here they are, with Cas in the backseat, wearing one of Dean’s old pairs of jeans and a wool sweater that Sam found stuffed down in the bottom of his duffle—probably an old one of Bobby’s.

They don’t say much on the drive back home. Sam talks, occasionally, but Dean isn’t really listening. He keeps flicking his eyes up to glance at Cas in the rearview mirror, looking for any sort of magical side effect. Cas doesn’t say a word.

 

When they pull into the bunker’s garage, Sam gets out immediately, claiming his bag from the trunk and disappearing. Cas has made no move to open the door, or to leave, and Dean hasn’t either. He clears his throat.

 

The sound seems to startle Cas out of his trance. He reaches for the door, and Dean’s heart gives an anxious lurch.

 

“Cas, I—”

Cas stills, hand frozen on the door handle. Dean can’t look at him.

“You know I—I mean, what I said—”

Cas doesn’t speak. Dean sighs.

“You know it’s ‘cause I worry, alright? I worry about you.”

 

It’s a victory, just to say it, but terrifying all at once. The rest of the words stick like sand in his throat.

“I can’t lose you again, man,” he says quietly.

 

When there’s no reaction from the back seat, Dean turns to look. Cas still hasn’t moved, but his face is blank, like Dean just made a comment on the weather.

 

Embarrassment, thick and ugly, knots itself in his stomach.

“Whatever,” he mutters, turning back and wrenching the door open. “You better give me those clothes back after you wash ‘em.”

 

 

x

 

 

Dean doesn’t avoid Cas, per se. But he does give him the cold shoulder. Saying…stuff like that…it’s hard for Dean, it’s still hard, even after all these years. Shoulda known Cas wouldn’t understand. He’s an angel, after all. He doesn’t have the equipment to care, not really—not the way Dean does.

 

But some small masochistic part of him wants Cas to know he’s pissed, so back to the silent treatment it is.

 

It’s day four of Dean’s stubborn pretend-Cas-is-basically-air attitude, and he walks into the kitchen to see Sam and Cas quietly talking over their cups of coffee. Once Dean enters though, Sam stands and quickly clears out. He’s smart enough to know to not get mixed in with this nonsense.

 

Dean just grunts, and goes to the cabinet, pulling down a fresh mug. He closes the cabinet, perhaps with a little more force than is necessary, and makes a big show of clattering around with the coffee maker.

 

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

 

It’s quiet—and with all the racket Dean is making, he isn’t sure he heard him right. He turns around.

“What?”

 

Cas’s hands are clenched on his mug, his jaw tight.

“I hate it when you do that,” he says again. “It’s like you don’t want me here.”

Dean gapes at him.

“Wha—Cas, I—”

 

Then he shuts up, because, yeah, with the way he’s been acting, it’s logical for Cas to draw that conclusion. Dean has no one to blame but himself. He has no one to blame but himself for most of his problems, seems like.

“That’s not true, of course I want you here,” he blurts.

“You haven’t been acting like it,” Cas says bluntly.

 

He’s avoiding Dean’s eyes now, his shoulders rigid. Back in that stupid coat. Seven in the morning, and he’s in his trenchcoat.

Because he’s going to leave again, the traitorous part of Dean’s brain whispers.

 

“I’m—” Dean stops, taking a breath.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking down at his feet. “You’re right, Cas, I’m sorry.”

 

Cas doesn’t say anything.

Dean swallows. He’s gotta fix this.

 

“But you gotta stay, alright? Just because I’m being an ass doesn’t mean you have to go. This is your home, too.”

Cas runs a finger around the rim of his coffee cup. He’s still so hard to read, sometimes.

 

Dean sighs, then sits opposite Cas. The collar of the dead guy robe feels scratchy, stiff. Dean fidgets with his sleeve.

 

“Look. When you got hit by that witch, I had a moment where—”

He stops, trying to find the right words.

“I was scared,” he says lamely. “And I tried to tell you that. But when you just stared at me…”

Dean shifts, looking down.

“I dunno,” he mumbles. “It’s embarrassing, man.”

 

He chances a look up. Cas is quiet, like he’s carefully choosing what to say.

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed by your feelings, Dean,” he says slowly. “In fact, I appreciate you sharing them with me.”

Dean huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah?” He asks, lips quirking up into a smile. “Even though I’ve been acting like a grade-A dick about it?”

Cas laughs too.

“Yes,” he says warmly. “Despite that.”

 

He looks up at him and smiles, and maybe Dean hasn’t ruined things after all.

 

 

x

 

 

Castiel knew it was a truth spell the moment it touched him.

 

Somewhere between the incantation leaving the witch’s lips and his back hitting the frigid water of the river below them, he realized just how much trouble he was in.

 

Since the start of his relationship with the Winchesters, Castiel had developed quite the knack for untruth. Some of it was necessary, of course, when dealing with the politics of Heaven and Hell, but now—now that he’s regularly staying at the bunker, working closely with Dean—he finds his lying has taken on a different nature.

When Dean smiles at him from across a diner table. When he passes Castiel a book during research, and their fingers share the slightest brush. When Dean loses his temper with Castiel, and doesn’t talk to him for days. When Dean pulls him into the ‘Dean Cave’ and forces him to watch yet another of his favorite movies. It takes all of Castiel’s strength, every bit of willpower within him to not scream and shout the truth.

 

But he has practice. He lied to himself, for years, about what his feelings for Dean meant. But once he understood, he knew he could not act upon them. Dean is not interested in him that way, and he never will be. He cares for Castiel, certainly—but only as a friend.

 

So he hides how much he truly feels. He doesn’t push when Dean gets angry with him, he doesn’t let him know how much it hurts when Dean calls him his brother. He doesn’t let on about the yearning, aching void within him, the desire to reach out and touch.

 

But now, Castiel is in uncharted waters. The second the magic hit him, Castiel knew that it made him unable to lie—his grace was intact enough to manage that, at least. And now, every conversation with Dean is a trial, a constant worry that he might be compelled to say what he would normally never admit.

 

When Dean looked at him, confessed his worry—a rare moment of vulnerability, especially for him—Castiel didn’t dare speak. And he knew it hurt Dean, of course it did—to open up that way, and to receive nothing in return—Castiel knows all too well how that feels. But then, in the kitchen—he couldn’t help it. The words just fell from his lips, pulled from him unwillingly by the enchantment. It of course, was true—but normally Castiel would never dare to be that confrontational, so open and honest with how much Dean can wound with his words.

Dean, for his part, did not react with the aggression that Castiel expected, and instead, apologized. That, at least, eased some of the thorniness between them. They're almost back to normal—albeit Castiel's slight problem. Most days follow the usual routine, yet for Castiel it feels like a balancing act, a precarious dance of saying enough without telling too much.

 

So mostly he chooses not to speak at all.

 

He can’t tell Sam about the spell, and he most certainly cannot tell Dean. He contacts Rowena instead, and asks her for a magical antidote, but when he declines to tell her why, she informs him she can’t possibly whip something up without at least a few weeks of preparation. It will have to do. And until then, Castiel will just have to avoid revealing the truth.

 

 

“Cas, you ready to go?”

 

Castiel looks up, and Dean’s smiling at him, a bag slung over his shoulder. Crocotta, out in Wyoming. Should be a quick trip.

 

Castiel stands, fighting to keep his face carefully neutral. The spell is pulling at him, tugging, threatening to yank forward all that still lies unsaid between them.

 

Of course, and I’ll always go with you, and if I could be by your side for the rest of my days, that would be enough—

 

He clears his throat, and simply nods.

 

“Great,” Dean says, jerking his head. “Let’s head out.”

Castiel exhales, and follows.

 

 

Sam called him a bad liar, once. If only he knew.

 

 

x

 

 

“What’s taking so long?”

 

Dean cranes his neck, looking over the crowd assembled at the bar. Cas’s dark tousled head of hair is right at the front, and the bartender’s already handed him his drinks, so why—

He sees her lean forward, whispering something into Cas’s ear, before writing something on a napkin and sliding it across the bar. Cas takes it, looking nonplussed.

 

Dean feels the back of his neck grow hot. He whips back around to the bottle in front of him and attempts to drain it, even though it’s already empty. He scowls, shoving it away from him.

 

Sam raises an eyebrow.

“You alright?”

“Fine,” Dean grunts.

 

Cas finally makes his way back to their table, setting a bottle down in front of Dean.

“I’m sorry, but they ran out of the one you like," he says. "The bartender recommended this, instead.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet she did,” Dean mutters.

Cas looks at him.

“Excuse me?”

“Why dontcha go back there and chat her up a bit, Cas?” Dean says loudly. “Get her number? Except, oh wait, you already did.”

 

Cas frowns.

“I don’t—”

“Yeah, no need to hang here with us. Go ahead. Just go. Get the girl. Me ‘n Sammy’ll be fine without you.”

“What the hell is your problem?” Sam hisses out of the corner of his mouth.

 

Cas’s eyes flare, but Dean doesn’t heed the warning. He’s jealous and he’s buzzed and Cas has been acting so goddamn weird these last few weeks, ever since the witch hunt—

 

“In fact, you know what? Hope she invites you back to her place," he says nastily. "We’re leaving.”

“Dean—”

 

Dean pushes away from the table and stalks outside to the parking lot. It rained a bit earlier, and he stomps through neon-lit puddles, fumbling for Baby’s keys.

 

The bar door slams behind him, and then, Cas’s voice.

 

“Dean!”

 

 

Dean curses, but doesn’t turn around. He gets Baby’s door unlocked and is pulling it open when a hand reaches over his shoulder and slams it closed.

“Dude—”

 

He whips around, only to see Cas’s righteous fury face—eyes blazing and standing way too fucking close.

“Cas, what the hell—”

 

Cas grips his arm, growling.

“We need to talk.”

 

Dean attempts to brush him off.

“Look, just forget it, alright? It was a stupid comment, and—”

“Yes,” Cas says through gritted teeth. “It was stupid.”

 

Dean’s hackles raise. He places a hand on his chest, trying to shove him back, but Cas is solid as stone.

“Can you just—move—”

“Is this really about the bartender?” Cas asks bitingly. Dean stares at him.

“What?”

“Is it really because she gave me her number?” Cas repeats. “I didn’t ask for it and I’m not going to call her. I don’t understand why you’re acting like this.”

“I—” Dean sputters. He doesn’t understand either.

 

“It hurts my feelings,” Cas says abruptly.

 

Dean gapes at him.

“It…what?”

 

“It hurts my feelings,” Cas says again. And Christ, he does look pained—he’s got that kicked puppy look in his eyes that Sam’s so good at. Maybe Cas has been taking lessons.

 

“You get very defensive and brash when it comes to me potentially seeing—no, not even that—just being with anyone else beside you or Sam.” Cas drags a hand through his already disheveled hair, gritting his teeth. "And then, every opportunity you get, you lash out and try to hurt me."

Cas is getting worked up now, his normally calm demeanor shattered by the frustration in his voice. It sends a creeping tendril of shame up Dean’s spine, and he sobers, swallowing hard.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, dipping his head to his hand. “Fuck, Cas, I’m sorry.”

 

Cas doesn’t respond, still stubbornly silent. Dean takes a shuddering breath.

“God, that seems to be all I’m doing lately, huh? Apologizing? I guess I didn’t—I didn’t think that—”

 

He stops, because saying it out loud will make it sound even stupider.

 

“That I had feelings?” Cas finishes dryly. “Of course I do, Dean.”

“Yeah, I know, but—you’re an angel,” Dean says weakly. “It’s not the same.”

“That’s not true,” Cas says quietly.

Dean clears his throat, and it all just comes spilling out.

 

“I don’t know, it’s just, any time something like this happens, I think—I think you’re gonna realize what you’re missing, you know, stuck with me and Sam all the time, that we’re—I’m holding you back and that—Christ, you could leave, you know? You could leave.”

He stops, his chest heaving painfully. Cas is staring at him, but the anger has faded from his eyes.

“I have no intention of leaving you, Dean,” he says softly.

 

And if that doesn’t make Dean want to lose it.

 

“And then you go and say shit like that, and I just—"

Dean presses his hands to his eyes, hard enough that he sees stars.

He’s an idiot. He’s such an idiot.

 

Of course Cas has feelings. Just because he doesn’t vocalize or show his emotions all that much doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel anything—and Dean’s starting to get the sneaking suspicion that Cas feels a lot more then he lets on. Just because Dean is an open book of emotions doesn’t mean that Cas and his weird way means he feels any less.

Once again, Dean Winchester, screwing up the lives of all those closest to him. Maybe Cas should leave. Get out while he can.

 

He drops his hands, looking up at Cas, defeated.

“Why do you even stay, man?” He asks.

Cas takes a breath.

 

“If I’m always hurting you, why do you stay?” Dean whispers.

Cas’s fists are clenched, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He looks like he’s physically restraining himself, unable to respond. Dean’s temper flares.

“Huh?” He yells, throwing up his hands. “Why do you even want to be here, Cas? Why do you stay with me??”

 

Still, nothing. Dean gives up, and drops his head.

He can’t look at him, because he already knows the answer.

Duty, God, some sort of crap like that. Despite them ripping up the ending, that's always been what Cas is about. There's no other reason he would stay.

 

 

“Because I love you."

 

 

 

Dean whips his head up.

 

It couldn't—there's no way that it was Cas who said that—but there he stands, looking almost…relieved. 

“Because I love you, Dean,” he says again softly. “That’s why I stay.”

 

“You—”

Dean can’t even begin to think. Cas…Cas loves him t—

 

“It was a truth spell,” Cas says, and Dean gets abruptly yanked back to reality, because—what?

 

“When the witch hit me,” Cas continues. “That’s why I’ve been…more reluctant to speak around you. I was fearing this moment.”

He sighs, looking down. Dean’s heart clenches. This whole time, Cas has been struggling, because he thought—wait, why would he be afraid?

 

Cas clears his throat, looking away.

“I'm sorry you had to find out this way,” he says quietly. "I know that you don’t feel the same, so nothing has to change. But if you want me to leave, I will.”

 

His shoulders are slumped, and he turns, making as if to go, when Dean’s hand shoots out, clutching at his shoulder.

 

“No, Cas, wait—”

 

Cas stops. Dean tugs a little, and despite everything—Cas comes willingly. Like always.

 

Dean grips at Cas’s lapels with his other hand.

 

“Who said I don’t feel the same?” He whispers.

 

Cas’s eyes widen, looking at him with a rare, impossible hope.

"What?" He breathes.

 

Dean clutches tighter, the rough material of that dumb trench grounding in his fist, feeling like a benediction, feeling like home. 

"Just because you said it," he mumbles. "Doesn't make it true. Even with that stupid spell."

 

Cas gently moves his hand down, prising Dean's grip off his coat. Their fingers slide together, natural and easy.

 

“Dean,” Cas says slowly. “We have had a very poor understanding of each other the last few weeks.”

Dean fights the urge to laugh.

“Understatement,” he says softly.

 

Cas’s other hand, tentative, comes up to rest on Dean’s cheek. Dean pulls him closer, their foreheads pressing together. He can see every one of Cas’s lashes, every fleck of blue in his eyes.

 

“I’m going to need you to tell me exactly what you mean,” Cas murmurs.

 

Dean licks his lips.

“The truth?”

 

Cas nods.

“The truth.”

 

 

 

So Dean does.