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Sia - Fire Meet Gasoline Lyrics | Lyreka

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What does Sia's song Fire Meets Gasoline mean? We have the answer. Fire Meet Gasoline by Sia song meaning, lyric interpretation, video and chart position. “Fire Meet Gasoline” Video: Heidi Klum And Pedro Pascal Have A Burning Desire For Sia. April 23, - by Bradley Stern - 1 Comment.

It pervades the daily existence of singer-songwriter Sia Furler, and provided clear inspiration for the title of her latest album.

In the interim, she received treatment for her disease, became sober, and discovered the bankable power of using a simple metaphor in a pop song. What happens when one of the most successful and prolific songwriters of the past few years decides to return to the career that debilitated her emotionally and physically?

It is decidedly commercial, especially when compared to an album such as Colour the Small One. For longtime Furler fans, who have lingered around since Healing Is Difficult, the bleak lyrics will appear to be one of the few recognizable elements left over from the quirky artist they have come to know and worship.

The musically eccentric Sia of yore has all but left the building. What a formidable instrument it is though, even when it cracks at the seams. Where face paint and masks had previously shrouded her image in darkness on stage, the golden bob she presently sports has taken the theatrics to an entirely different level.

Her performance anxiety has been confronted in an unconventional way, and it has given her the strength to step out of the shadows once again and bravely take the mic. As Furler has proven time and again while promoting the track in a live setting, her voice is anything but a product of studio wizardry. There's work to be done, as usual.

There are parts of the United States that just never recovered from whatever plight they suffered through. Detroit is a barren wasteland, filled with dilapidated houses and skeletal remains of vehicles. Down south, hit with far too many hurricanes, is practically a swamp land, fetid and diseased. Towns were lost, long ago, to the marshes and the floods. Too costly to recover. Castiel notices all this, now that he is able to easily get around again.

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It makes him despair to see how terrible conditions are, while major cities continue on as usual. True, a lot of New York City has fallen prey to the inevitable climate changes and the ocean overran the coastline. But for the most part its residents live life as best they know how.

Castiel does not like the hustle of the cities, despite his solitary life now. He doesn't want to talk to any of these busy people, or find out what sort of life they lead. He misses the people he's grown to love. He misses Sam and Kevin, and even Bobby.

He misses the Dean he loved before. It was never his intention to bring anything complicated to Dean, and even though it was Dean that first leaned in, hand fisted roughly around the lapel of his coat, it was Cas that felt the guilt of it, for decades after. Dean was not of sound mind, he should never have allowed it… But what does that matter now? To deny the spark would be foolish, and yet every time he acts on his feelings he always feels worse afterwards. He tells himself it's for Dean.

It gives him some semblance of peace and Castiel can't deny him that, not when he's been chasing him for hundreds of years, trying to aid him in whatever ways he could. He just wishes he knew which Dean it was that kissed him, that aroused him, that wanted him. The monster that was always under the surface, or the righteous man he first met, that would die for him if he but asked.

He'll always wonder, but he'll never be foolish enough to ask. He'd never trust the answer. So to separate himself from Dean and all the dangerous thoughts that come with him, Castiel travels the land, in search of nothing and nobody, just a bit of distance. The world has changed so much, and at an alarming pace. Sometimes Castiel isn't even aware of what's happened.

It's incredible and frightening. He's certain Dean takes even less notice and if he is aware he certainly doesn't care one way or the other. There will always be people for him to kill, lives to destroy. The mark always wants. The blade slices through his side and he goes down. His raid doesn't exactly go as planned. Word travels fast, and when you're a demon who hears whispers of Dean and the Mark of Cain, well, it is only to be expected that this would one day happen.

He thinks there are about twelve, but there is actually close to twenty. And they aren't amateurs. They get him good with a head shot and he sees stars before he is pinned and a sharp, fiery pain has him grimacing with shock. He tries to fight it off. It's not like this is his first battle scar, but there are just too many of them. To think, he'd be one of them in a short matter of time.

But just as he is slipping into beautiful unconsciousness, a commotion starts around him and through lidded eyes he sees blinding light and hears the screech of fear.

Then it is quiet. He never passes out but he is suddenly very aware as the familiar scent of Cas envelopes him. With his remaining energy he opens his eyes and sees a fearful Cas above him.

Then a soft hand is pressed to his wound and the oh-so-familiar and unwelcome feeling of flesh being seared back together wakes him back up. Even the blood on him is gone.

He sits up, feeling brand new, and glares at Cas. Why did you help me? You'd never kill me yourself so all you had to do was wait for this. Why the hell would you spare my life? I'd rather have you hunting as a human, not as a demon. I've told you before not to meddle. You don't get a say anymore as to what happens to me. He just wants him to leave. I know you didn't follow me here. That I can't feel you? You think you're so far gone that you're not human anymore?

He knows bullshit when he smells it. Dean watches him with detachment, already thinking ahead to his next quarry. Castiel isn't really sure why he hasn't told Dean about his wings. It's not like it affects anything. Still, there's something about the knowledge that he wishes to keep private. He's peeked in on Dean a few times since he last saw him and he never likes what he sees.

It usually involves alcohol of some kind and lots of women. He's strangely not jealous. Not that he has a right to be, but he knows none of those females mean anything to Dean. They're just a diversion. Of course he realises he's probably a diversion as well.

Still, he's never caught Dean with another man. And he doesn't look at those women the same way he looks at him. He shakes the thoughts away. It's never good to think on those sorts of things and ideas. They never mean anything, anyway. If Dean gets pleasure from using Cas, then he's more than willing to help out. This flesh, it's just an image. This body is merely a way for him to communicate, to live here on earth.

If Dean admires it so much, he can do as he pleases. He'd be lying if he said he receives no pleasure from it. On the contrary, he's never felt so wanted or needed. But these are all false notions. Dean doesn't want him or need him. Maybe he never did. There are days when he itches for the Blade. It's a need he can never hope to achieve, what with Cas ruling over the First Blade like some king.

He knows Cas will never give it back to him, not without just cause. He's too righteous for that. But on those days he's practically sweating with the urge to possess it, like the mark is punishing him for losing it so easily.

Other blades work just fine, but the First Blade is like an extension of his body. He feels incomplete without it and he wants to tear everything up around him just to get what he wants.

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He never talks to Cas about it because it would be a pointless conversation. No way would Cas agree to hand it over. Never in a million years. And there's nothing Dean can threaten Cas with that he'd risk turning over the blade for. Anger overtakes him easily, and his mind goes away for a while. The other part of Dean is released to the world, seeping across the land like a plague. Ten, twenty, thirty years. Time is meaningless for an immortal being.

Castiel doesn't even know the year. He just knows he's been watching over Dean for what feels like always, and even though he can't sense the passage of time the way mortals can, he knows he is getting weary of it. Or maybe he just feels alone all the time. It would be so easy to go home. To return to the life he once used to have. But Castiel doesn't even consider heaven home anymore and hasn't for a long time.

There's nothing there for him anymore. Well, except for Sam. He misses Sam deeply. He misses the conversations they used to have, the theories and even the laughter. It's Dean he's permanently attached to, but it is Sam that he feels sorry for.

All he ever wanted to do was save his brother. His last dying thought was for Dean and he begged Castiel to watch over him. What could he say? He had already decided he wouldn't-couldn't leave Dean. So he held Sam's fragile, weathered hand and spoke softly to him, promising he would do whatever it takes. He doesn't regret it. Even when the inevitable loneliness takes over, and his mind is too tired to move forward, he still won't leave. Not after all the carnage and blood and broken bones.

Not after the bitter words thrown at him, words meant to cut, to bruise. He knows the game by now. Maybe he's just self-sacrificing. The drumming in his mind is a relentless beat, drowning out everything around him.

He hasn't slept in weeks and he doesn't even know what he looks like. Finally, he realizes, he's become one of those creatures he used to hunt long ago. Still has snatches of memories from before. Wendigos and vampires and djinns and who knows what else. He looks down at his rust-covered hands and realizes he's just like all of them. But for some reason, the horror he is expecting at the revelation never comes. People scatter when they see him, but he barely acknowledges them.

He looks for the worst parts of town and gets busy. He tells himself he's doing the world a service, ridding them of the scum and filth that inhabit it.

But he can't think that deeply, not anymore.

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He can't remember the last time he ate, but that's okay, he doesn't really need the food. He just needs to feel. His arm is on fire, burning from the inside out.

The dried up blood all over him still reeks of all the different souls he destroyed, all the poor fools that happened to get in his way. He's not even sure where he is, what state he's in. It's late evening and he's getting shady looks with each step he takes. The bar he's heading for looks older than he does and it smells just as bad. Still, if there's alcohol, he needs to be there. He's not even sure if he has anything to pay for it. He grabs the first bar stool he sees, his lone, ragged backpack plopping noisily on the floor next to his stool.

The bartender gives him a look, even as the other patrons give him a wide berth. Just bring me the bottle. He can practically hear the nervous gulp the other guy takes. Dean loves those types. Around him, some of the bigger fellas are starting to creep closer, eyes beady with anticipation. Dean smiles wider, though it comes off as anything but friendly. He doesn't even remember moving. The stool flies backwards as he practically tackles the first body to the floor, and the fists go wild.

There's chaos and noise all around. Some flee but the big ones come at him, pulling, punching, kicking. He barely feels any of it. He's crazed with blood-lust and he withdraws his blade and it feels so good in his hand he barely pauses. He's outnumbered but it hardly matters. This is what he's wanted. Even the pain is dulled by the adrenaline coursing through him. His eyes sweep the space and there is just blood. Men in leather jackets, torn to shreds, boys that probably weren't even legal enough to be in a bar, sprawled in a bloody heap.

He can practically feel his pulse throbbing loudly. And he's still not finished.

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The mark's hold is absolute now, and there's nothing to stop him. He'll hack the whole fucking town to pieces, he'll hunt down anything that moves. His thoughts don't progress further. A blinding light envelopes the entire bar, stretching to all four corners of the dingy establishment. Cas is suddenly standing in front of him, eyes blazing an unnatural blue, searing past Dean's flesh like he's looking at him for the first time. Dean stills completely and just stares. He will not be bullied, angel or no.

Look what you've become! What would Sam think? Don't you dare come here and invoke my brother's name, not to me! Not when it doesn't even mean anything.

You will not speak ill of him, Dean. You may spill blood and travel coast to coast threatening doom to everywhere you go, but you will not say another word about Sam Winchester! There is the sudden, horrifying sound of thunder clapping, so loud he nearly flinches and a light so vivid his eyes have trouble focusing, until he sees what the light all around him is reflecting.

He instinctively drops his blade, the clatter drowned out by the vision before him. The clear and unmistakable form of enormous, dark wings, spread out, splayed out across the walls and stretching to the ceiling above him.

His eyes find Cas', the ethereal light flowing from his eyes threateningly. For the first time in a very long time, Dean is truly afraid. In the back of what remains of his lucid mind, he knows he's gone too far. The image is gone almost as quickly as it arrives, and Dean is left gawking at the very familiar figure of Cas.

Dean swallows and pretends that doesn't sting. The buzzing in his head is gone, filled with emptiness and about a million other things he'd rather not think about right now. His whole body wants to sag in defeat, or relief. His eyes roam around the room and he wants to throw up. Cas, of course, can sense exactly what he's thinking.

Kill me, hack me to pieces, scatter me to the wind. There's no way I can come back from this. You have the power now. Just do it, and do it quickly, before this takes over again," he raises his arm pleadingly at Cas, whose expression flickers briefly before settling back to menacing indifference.

I can destroy you but the mark is infused with your soul. And I won't destroy that. I'll kill myself first. I can't get into heaven knowing what I've done and I can't survive another go in hell. Even though that's only what I deserve. I will have failed in my promise. Cas closes his eyes like the whole ordeal pains him. When they open, they are resolute, and Dean knows he's lost.

That everyone you've ever loved would die around you and there would be no one left. No one but me. And that I would have to watch you become this monster, this thing that I don't even recognize anymore. I can see right through you, Dean. I can see every inch of you and I can hardly imagine this is the same man that I once loved.

He heaves a heavy sigh, and it hurts everywhere. You won't kill me, and I can't stop myself from fighting. Dean's glad the bitterness is temporarily gone from the blue eyes. It's not a look he ever wants to see on Cas. He gives Cas a dubious look but the angel is completely serious.

It's not like he's never thrown a few punches at him. He's done it quite a few times, actually. But never with such an invitation. He only sees a stranger there. The old Cas he remembers has left, perhaps forever. Defeated in his purpose. Now he must deal with this Cas, this unyielding form that will stand up to Dean, no matter what. It doesn't work that way. Even as willing as Cas is, the mark doesn't respond to the invitation. And something in Cas must realize that, because before Dean can blink Cas has him practically picked up and flung across the room.

He crashes painfully into a few bar tops, bottles and glassware crunching all around him. The shock is brief, overshadowed suddenly by pure hatred. Raising himself up, scratches bleeding down his arms, he eyes the angel across the room, and the mark finally comes alive.

Ignoring the twinges of pain and torn muscle he stalks over, fists clenched. Cas doesn't budge as Dean punches him right in the jaw.

He's practically immobile and Dean can feel the delicate bones in his hand protest, but he doesn't care. He starts and he doesn't stop. But this time, this time, Cas fights back. Cas flings Dean back a few paces and hastily removes his trench coat, dropping it blindly on a corpse by his feet. He loosens his tie just as Dean flies at him again. Dean's practically foaming at the mouth as he hurls himself at the angel, who he once considered his greatest friend.

He doesn't pause, or think, the mark's not letting him. It's all just pain and blood. He knows he can't really hurt Cas, but his vessel can still bleed. His face is bruised in minutes, his left eye closing rapidly. Cas doesn't really hold back either. For the first time ever, he lets Dean feel his own wrath.

He doesn't dare injure him too badly. Dean knows he'll just heal him afterwards. But he reigns upon Dean his fury, what he's been holding back for centuries. Dean's nearly out of breath before Cas backs down, blood dripping from his swollen knuckles. He spits out a wad of blood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes graze all over Dean, as if assessing the damage.

When he apparently feels satisfied that nothing is dire, he stands up straight, locking eyes with Dean. Dean releases the shaky breath, his ribcage straining uncomfortably. He's pretty sure something's cracked or broken. Damn bastard didn't even heal him… He manages to stand up on wobbly feet, wincing as he gathers up his fallen blade and bag.

He exits the bar with as much haste as he can muster before locating a safe place to crash for the night. He leans up against some brick wall and almost immediately passes into unconsciousness.

Castiel doesn't actually expect Dean to suddenly reach out to him. But it's been over six months since their meetup at the bar and so far, there's been nothing. No news, no strange and violent deaths. Again, he isn't so naive to believe that Dean would willingly reach out to him just because he asked.

But these long stretches of calm usually put him on edge sooner or later. And so, during a blazing Minnesota summer, as he is calmly strolling through a beautiful floral sanctuary, he stops dead in his tracks as the unmistakable call for help reaches his ears. And not from any of the humans walking around him. It's not a call anyone but him can hear. In the blink of an eye he's gone. He lands in a large hotel room in a mountainous area in what he immediately recognizes as Alberta, Canada.

He mentally frowns, idly wondering how Dean even crossed the border without documentation. It seems very unimportant in the grand scheme of things. He slowly turns to see Dean slouched at the end of the bed, eyes surprised but wary. He takes a few steps forward and he can see Dean tensing up minutely.

He takes in the man's appearance and finds that not much has changed. His beard has grown longer since the last time and so has his hair, as if he's stopped caring altogether. Dean gruffly coughs, like he's suddenly embarrassed he called Cas. But the look in his eyes is one Castiel recognizes all too well, and the aloofness he's been trying to maintain evaporates as he realises the nature of his call for help.

It was either this or I head down to the lobby and start slashing. I tried, I really fucking tried. But this thing won't let me be and it never will. It's like it takes over and by then it's already too late. I'm hanging on by a thread here. Castiel looks him over, a million questions on his lips. Instead he slowly removes his coat, tossing it out of the way. Dean watches his movements silently before standing up, stilling Cas' hand.

He reaches forward and loosens Cas' tie before deciding to discard it as well. Cas doesn't allow anything further. He punches Dean in the face. Dean is naturally thrown back, eyes wide in surprise. He recovers quickly though, advancing on Cas like a predator who has only one goal in mind.

Cas allows all this because he knows what Dean craves, what he needs. A small, selfish part of him relishes this part, though.

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After the events at the bar, Castiel realized he missed the old days of war and fighting. It was nice to experience a small part of it again. Being an angel, Dean can't actually harm him, and he made sure to leave his angel blade behind, as it is the only thing that can harm him, fatally even.

Still, he's pretty sure Dean loves the physical aspect of it. Hand to hand combat and so forth. They exchange blows for a short time, Dean panting heavily as he's backed up against the bed. His arms are still up but he's struggling with himself, this Cas sees plainly. So he takes the decision for him and slides one of his hands through Dean's long, sweat-soaked hair.

Dean stills, eyes fluttering for a second and the haunted rage seeps away until it's just him breathing, chest heaving as Cas places his other palm flat up against it. A strong, warm hand envelopes it. And this time it's him that's pushing Dean down upon the bed, crawling over him until he straddles his body, feeling the tension and heat the man is giving off. He grabs fistfuls of hair and grounds into Dean, marvels at the effect it has. Arms are wrapped around his torso, pulling him in, impossibly close.

When their lips meet the world ends and it's just them. Like it's always been. It's not pleading or desperate.

It's so matter of fact Dean want to crawl in a hole and fucking cry. Even now, after all this time, Cas still believes in him. He swallows roughly, eyes up at the dark ceiling. I'm not strong like him. And even he broke at the end. It's in his blood. As it is in mine. I'm cursed for eternity.

He wants to dispute it because he's living proof that he's failed, and failed miserably, but he doesn't want to unsettle this moment. He's sweaty and tired but strangely content. His body smarts from all the bruises Cas inflicted but even that feels good. He lifts his head and stares at Cas' profile, eyes burning bright even in the darkness of the room. It feels wrong, that he's brought Cas into this. It's bad enough when Cas was just helping him, aiding him. Now it's like he's sullied him somehow.

He doesn't want to drag him down with him. Your pain is very real and it's calling to me, always. I don't know how much longer I have before I lose you all over again to the darkness. But you're in there still, Dean. I can help you fight it off, but only you, Dean, can stop it altogether. Half the time I don't even realise I'm doing the shit I'm doing. It just takes over and I have no control.

It's not something I can fight. A warm hand threads through his hair and he never even heard the angel move. The touch is like a balm, a temporary relief from the real problem.

But welcome all the same. He licks his lips, his heart thumping an angry rhythm in his chest. Chapped lips find his in the dark and he can't prevent his arms from reaching up and around, holding on so tight he fears it would break a normal being.

But Cas is anything but. He devours Dean like it's the first and last meal he's ever known and Dean responds in kind, everything south of his stomach reacting appropriately.

His mind shuts up for a while as he allows Cas to take over, obliterating him all over again. Lots of logging and other dirty work to do. It passes the time, and I'm pretty good at it. There's an unbelievable amount of spots to hike through. Cold and sleep don't really affect me that much anymore, and food is more of an enjoyment now than a necessity, so I took my time to cross without much issue. I like it up here.

It's quiet, not many people. Yeah I think so. Don't have many options, and they're not too picky here. He knows he can't stay. Sooner or later Dean will resent him all over again. Cas doesn't need to peer inside of Dean, it's written all over his soul for any angel to witness. His eyes must have been tinged with something because Dean looks up in question. He shakes his head slowly. Right now you feel this way. In a week, a month, you will feel differently. He swipes a hand through his long hair, now striped through with a dark gray, and heaves a sigh as he gets up off the bed.

Cas smiles but it hurts too much to keep it. You can always reach me. And I'll always come. He steps closer until he's in Dean's space and removes his hands from safely inside his trench and instead places them on Dean's shoulders.

The man is all rigid and tense and Cas just stares at the amazing greens of his eyes and the small wrinkles only now forming, and the white flecks sprinkled throughout his thick beard, and even now recognizes the man he pulled from perdition, so very long ago.

Underneath this flesh and the curse burning through his arm, the curse that may never let him go, is the man he once admired and loved, and he knows nothing's changed.

As long as Dean needs him, as long as there are moments like this one, Cas will never leave him. Dean gently pulls away, the moment over.

He leaves Dean with a nod, and a silent promise. It's bitterly cold and though he hates the feeling he loves how utterly still it is. Just trees as far as the eye can see. A random house here and there. People recognize him as he walks past, giving him a warm smile or a quick wave.

It's a small community here and that's how Dean likes it. He hasn't seen Cas in a few months and is strangely okay with that. He doesn't want to come off as desperate and he's actually been feeling fine, all things considered. He's shaved off most of his beard and trimmed his hair and has gotten a few interested looks from some of the local girls.

But he never reciprocates. He's just heading towards the local bar when a loud hum overtakes his senses. A couple of guys come barreling out, shoving, grabbing. A fight must've broken out, he thinks and as soon as he sees the action, watches the scene like a slo-mo scene out of some movie, his body is flushed with heat.

Oh no, is the first thought that springs to mind, quickly followed by a hell yeah. His fists clench automatically and he's moving before he realizes what's happening. After that, everything is just a giant blur. Too long, he thinks, but it's not really him.

It's the other him, and right now the other him is kinda pissed off. He smells blood in the air, the familiar, metallic tang that just sets him off further and deeper. He doesn't even think about reaching out to Cas. He's in the thick of things now and the euphoria is just too great. As he's trekking back to his hotel room through the snow, knuckles bruised and bleeding, he spots a familiar shape on the horizon.

He sighs, not really in the mood, but doesn't pause in his steps. When he reaches the figure, he hopes he doesn't look as guilty as he feels. I didn't start anything, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It's not like he owes Cas anything. He stills, shutting his eyes briefly before turning around. I'm freaking begging you over here. I can't have you looking at me like that, and I'm going to disappoint you every time.

It would be better, for both of us, if you just left. I told you I would help you. And no offence, but I don't need you to get laid, either, I got plenty of willing options. He wants to stop the flow of words, but he's fading already, something more powerful is already taking over. He tries to hold on to what he sees before him, tries to look at Cas and will himself to remember.

But it's slipping from his grasp like sand, slowly filtering out. Cas must've seen the subtle transformation and Dean is already prepared for the fight. But what comes out next is not what he expects. His head hurts and his whole body is burning up, trying to stay lucid enough to hear what Cas has to say. The angel takes a few steps closer. What if helping you helps me? I don't even know if I can be an angel anymore, Dean. I've been here too long, been with you too long. You want me to go?

I don't have a place there anymore, Dean. There's nothing there for me. You think I'm here simply because Sam asked me to be? You think I'd devote centuries to watching you murder your way across the country? It's all for you, Dean. Because you've never thought you were special, or you deserved anything.

You always kept everyone at an arm's length, including me. Well there's nowhere else to go, Dean. For either of us. But all he hears is the sorrow and conviction in Cas' words. He's shaking with tension, fighting to hold on, to stay pure. He lick his lips with effort, but Cas stalls him. But I think I know you better than that, Dean. I raised you up and I pieced you together, body, mind and soul. And when you call me, I will come to you.

He blinks as the sun sets over the horizon and he releases his pent-up breath in a whoosh of mist and air. Maybe it doesn't have to hurt so much. Castiel wanders for weeks, until they blur into months. He never tires, except of the mundane and he's even started conversing with people. It keeps the boredom at bay.

He roams the cool beaches of the northern Atlantic and the bright, endless blues of the Pacific. It's all very picturesque. He tries not to dwell on anything related to Dean; it isn't very good for him.

Even though he is immortal, and an angel at that, he finds his chest constricting unpleasantly whenever he imagines Dean in any particular way. It's uncomfortable, this sensation, like he's missing something and he's empty without it. He's too used to this body now, too accustomed to its wants and needs.

Though he doesn't require food or drink, he indulges once in a while, and finds he enjoys it more than he did. He refuses to indulge in anything else. The thought revolts him and sends him into a shame-filled spiral for even considering it.

He misses Dean every day. And no matter how long he goes without seeing his face, he will miss him always. And when he feels the familiar tug pulling him towards his one and only desire, he can't repress the spark of joy that blooms where the empty feeling in his chest was.

He stretches out his wings and takes flight. When he lands outside a cheery diner in Oklahoma, he almost thinks he's got the wrong spot. But the whisper is still calling to him, paving his way forward. He goes inside and hardly anyone gives him a glance.

It's when he peers towards the booths in the back does his heart stop. Dean is there, patiently waiting for Castiel to walk over to him, and he's shaved his beard and cut his hair and it throws Cas off balance, like he's gone back in time.

With slow, measured steps he approaches, disbelief radiating off him, until he is standing by Dean's booth, mouth slightly parted. Dean's eyes are bright, and he gives him a shy smirk, like he's not quite sure what to make of Cas staring at him.

The angel doesn't say a word as he slides in the seat opposite. Cas swallows, feels a strange clogging sensation in his throat. He isn't quite sure what is happening and he's pretty sure there's something off with his vessel as his vision is suddenly obscured.

He tries to blink the strange film away only to feel a light wetness trailing down his cheeks. Dean is staring at him now with something akin to shock, and worry is etched in every wrinkle. He looks down at his finger, then again at Castiel's face.