why should the fire die

You wake with an inhale for the second time that night, hands desperately gripping the sheets pulled tight around you, head thrown to the side. Dreams—these are dreams, and they’re haunting. Dreams of Castiel sitting on the banks, half dead and wary, looking at something across the lake, something that isn’t there. Castiel doesn't communicate this way, at least not often; the last time was years ago, to deliver a message after being ripped from his vessel. But he has his own body now—he shouldn't be able to distance himself, should he?

Could he?