absence of faith

Cas likes to crochet. Or - Jimmy Novak likes to crochet. He was taught by his grandmother when he was only a boy, a woman who reiterated constantly: "idle hands are the Devil's plaything!"

He remembers everything that Jimmy went through, right up until Castiel took over. He can feel everything the man ever touched. He knows what it's like to go through human actions - to cry, to shit, to be embarrassed, to lie, to make love.

So why can't Castiel emulate those things?

Why can't he tell Dean that he loves him? Does he truly know what it is to love, or does he only know what Jimmy knew what love was?

The unbearable facets of being human are a part of Castiel's memories, but he can never replicate them. Even now, fumbling string and hook, he can't keep his stitches tight enough in a simple chain - something Jimmy picked up in an hour.

He puts the project down, and sighs, craning his neck back to rest on the couch. Dean sits across the bunker, in the library, with Sam. They're talking quietly, and while Castiel could listen in, he chooses not to; instead refocusing on his previous topic.

To Jimmy, love was something he showed through motions and words. Love was the way his heart beat hard around people he found attractive. Love was "your dress is beautiful," "I love that tie on you," "your skin is so soft." Jimmy's love was all physical, and now all memory.

Cas looks at his hands, flexes them, joint by joint. What would Dean's skin feel like? Does Dean like compliments about his tie?

Speak of the Devil, and he shall arrive. The hunter flops down onto the couch with a sigh, and the clink of two bottles. "Here," he exhales, handing Castiel a beer bottle. The angel doesn't normally drink. He holds it, the condensation from the cool glass disguising the sweat gathering in the creases of his palms; another ridiculous human biological response.

He sneaks a peek at Dean, eyes closed, besides him. The crinkles at the corner of his mouth and eyes have relaxed. He looks…older. He looks like something divine. Castiel could make a home in him - maybe he'll try Jimmy's way of love.

He places a long fingered hand on Dean's, warmth sprouting between their joined fingers as Castiel turns their clasped hands, examining. Dean, of course, is staring. "Cas, man, what are you doing?" He's uncomfortable. And a little afraid, if what Cas has learned of humans is true. A little spark of hope in the eyes, teeth clenched tight with anxiety, pulse racing with excitement.

The angel takes his chance, and leans a little closer to the hunter, loose blue tie hanging across and bridging the rest of the gap by brushing Dean's arm. "You look very handsome tonight, Dean." Cas stares right into the other man's eyes, says his words the only way he knows how: truthful, low in his throat like a secret for only the two of them.

Dean unclasps his hand from the angel's, and pulls away. He puts his half-sipped beer on the floor, silently, and walks away, without making eye contact with Cas.

It's a moment the angel plays over in his mind for every moment until the next morning. The lingering touch of Dean's fingertips across his palm, the nervous bob of his Adam's apple. The little bit of comfort in the hunter's gaze, how their hands had fit so well together. Castiel knows he doesn't require sleep - almost never has - and spends the night on the couch, thinking of the silent interaction between himself and Dean until sunrise.

The next morning, Sam makes his excuses and leaves the bunker early. Excuses, per say - really, he's going out to stock up on some materials they're running low on. This leaves Dean alone with his angel.

He shakes the thought out of his head. Not my angel. His head whispers. Just the angel. But isn't it true? That Castiel is his, and he is Castiel's? For fuck's sake, he has the man's handprint emblazoned on his shoulder for the world to see. It's not like any number of baddies over the years haven't made the point that Castiel follows him around like a dog.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself, Dean." He's staring in the mirror, holding the white sink til his knuckles match it. No, he can't keep doing this to himself. Cas doesn't love him. Cas is an angel, more like a…machine, or a wild animal. If he feels anything, it's just leftovers of Jimmy, leftovers of everything else that possessed and lived in his vessel.

The hunter exhales, letting go of the ceramic. "Castiel does not love you." He says it over and over, a mantra until the words become meaningless. “He doesn’t love you, he can’t love you, and he will never love you.” It hurts. Like the sound of the hammer striking the anvil, Dean makes sure he remembers the words throughout the day.

He passes Castiel sometimes, nods his way and says nothing. When Dean has to brush past the angel in the kitchen - too close to the same cabinet, two hands reaching for the same mug - and their skin brushes, he flinches away like the other man bit him.