Standing Together

Chapter 8

"Cas? Oh, thank god you're okay."

Castiel registers the voice. He registers the nickname. Some part of him knows it's Dean, and that he must be worried, and that he must want a response, but Castiel can't bring himself to give one. He just keeps staring down at his lap, at his blood-soaked hand resting carelessly on his legs.

"Cas?" Dean says again, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice. "Cas, that's you, right?"

"Don't bother," the familiar voice of Julian — Death — says. He's been the one consistent voice Castiel's heard these last few hours. Others would come and go, but he stayed. "He hasn't said anything in hours — nothing to me, nothing to the crew, nothing to the cops or the paramedics or anyone."

"Nothing?" Dean repeats. "Nothing at all?"

"Nope," Julian replies, then amends, "Well, the except for that the rest of the tour's off and he wants to pay any medical bills or funeral expenses, I guess, but I heard that through the grapevine, so I can't guarantee the accuracy there."

"Well, that sounds like him," Dean says. "Thanks for the run through."

"No problem. Now, if you've got him, I'm gonna go," Julian says. "It's late — early? — and I'm exhausted."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Dean says. "Go ahead."

As Julian walks away, Dean takes a seat on the floor in front of his fiancé, down to eye level if Castiel would just look up at him.

"Hey, Cas, it's me," he says. "It's Dean."

Castiel just stares down at his hand, still covered in dried blood.

"Will you look at me?" Dean asks. "Please? Just tell me you know I'm here. Tell me that you can hear me."

Castiel doesn't move. He can hear every word Dean is saying, but he just can't process it, can't react accordingly.

"Are you hurt?" Dean asks, keeping his voice quiet and calm, despite an underlying sense of urgency that's impossible to miss. "Is that your blood?"

He reaches to take Castiel's hand, and he instinctively pulls it back to his chest, cradling it with his other, cleaner hand.

"Cas, what's wrong?" Dean asks, sensing the panic in his reaction. "Cas? Cas, sweetie, talk to me. Please."

Sweetie? Dean never calls him sweetie. He's never used any term like that. It sounds so odd, coming from his mouth, and Castiel raises his eyes to look at the boy as if verifying that it really was Dean who said that.

"Oh, thank god," Dean breathes. "You can hear me. Cas, talk to me. Are you hurt?"

Castiel is still for a moment, then shakes his head, a small and barely perceptible movement, but enough to earn a sigh of relief from his fiancé.

"Oh, thank god," Dean whispers again. "Thank god. Nobody was able to tell me what was going on, and you weren't picking up the phone, and I didn't know if you were —" He cuts himself off, almost involuntarily, as if he can't bring himself to finish the sentence. "But you're okay. You're okay, and that's all that matters."

Castiel meets his gaze, and, in a soft voice, says, "But not everyone is."

"What?"

"People got hurt," Castiel continues. "People lost limbs. People probably lost lives." He loses focus of the world ahead of him, his eyes blurring ever so slightly, and he can see everything, but he's looking at nothing.

"But you didn't," Dean says. "You're okay. You're alive. You're not hurt. You're fine. That's what matters."

Castiel doesn't speak at first. Then, "I almost wasn't."