Fic: ten thousand words 2/2 (Dean/Castiel, NC-17)
***
July, 2012
In the next photograph, Dean is standing on top of a mountain of toilet paper. Castiel has mixed feelings about this picture, since compared to the rest of his collection it seems almost...crude. Dean and Cas had gone on their first solo supply run that day, to a nearby Wal-Mart surrounded by a chain-link fence that the Croats hadn't been able to cross yet. The big box stores are often easier places to hit than the smaller stores for this reason. They'd been the first to close their doors when the panic and looting had begun, and they'd had the security resources to keep out humans and non-humans alike. They’re not easy to get into now, but once you do there’s a good chance you’re the first person who’s managed it.
It takes them nearly half an hour to get through all the security, using a combination of the last of Castiel's angel "mojo" and some good old-fashioned brute force. Dean keeps watch until Castiel needs him to shoot a lock or kick down a door, but he doesn't need to raise the alarm even once. The undead are quiet today.
Inside, the power is miraculously still on - the store must have its own generator - so it is blissfully air conditioned. Bland, inoffensive pop music seeps down from somewhere near the ceiling. Lack of customers or employees aside, the store appears perfectly normal. All the carts are pushed neatly into their corral, and the groceries all sit in their proper locations on the shelves. A distinctively foul odor drifts over from the fresh produce section of the store, but they won't bother checking there anyway.
"This is like a horror movie," Dean says quietly, though there's really no reason to whisper. Castiel assumes this must be a pop culture reference he doesn't understand, since this cheerful, well-lit cornucopia of supplies is probably the least horrific thing they've seen in months, in his opinion.
"We're going to need a bigger truck," Castiel says, instead of asking for an explanation, and Dean nods.
"Why don't we drag everything we want into one place," Dean suggests, "and then decide what to take now and what to come back for?"
Castiel has objections on the tip of his tongue. In their single Jeep they'll only be able to bring back a miniscule proportion of what's here, anyway. It would be faster to go back now than to salvage and collect everything on their own before going for reinforcements. If they brought an entire caravan they could probably have this place cleaned out in an hour, whereas it will take Dean and Cas at least five or six to do it all themselves. And then Castiel looks at Dean and realizes that Dean doesn't want to go back to camp, not yet. His shoulders are more relaxed than Castiel has seen them in months, his eyes are bright with anticipation, and he's slipped his gun back into its holster. Dean is comfortable here, and Castiel isn't sure if that's because of the food, the air conditioning, or the fact that it's just the two of them for the first time in ages.
"Sure," he says. "That sounds like a good plan," though it isn't.
They clear out a space at the front of the store near the entrance, pushing aside a display case of Valentine's Day products. Candy hearts and chocolate roses scatter across the floor behind them, and Dean kicks them aside. And then they start to build piles.
They move all the canned food first, Dean using a stepladder they found in the staff room to pull pallets of it off the shelves, while Castiel stacks it on dollies and then rolls it back and forth to their growing pile. Dean plans to leave the creamed corn behind, but Castiel convinces him to take it by promising to tell Chuck Dean is allergic to the stuff. Castiel has become quite proficient at lying.
They take a break to drink cola - still cold! - out of the refrigerator near the store exits before they hit the pharmacy, though there's not much there. When the virus first started spreading, most of the good drugs had been requisitioned by the government or the army, or relocated to major cities. Still, they get a hold of a few antibiotics and plenty of painkillers, a few of them even narcotic. They also stock up on bandages and soaps and toothpaste, filling up cart after cart. It's Dean who remembers they should take all the vitamins, too, and Castiel who grabs the condoms and lube.
And then there is the toilet paper. It's a little embarrassing, but this is the find Castiel appreciates the most. Losing his automatic angelic cleanliness had come as a bit of a shock, and as Chuck's reports on their "hygienic supplies" become more and more dire every day, Castiel feels an increasing sense of dread. The sight of practically an entire aisle filled with shelf upon shelf of paper products fills him with glee.
"Well," Dean says, smiling just as broadly as Castiel, "isn't this a sight for sore eyes?"
And so, naturally, they build a tower out of it. Because most of the plastic bundles are curved slightly by the shape of the rolls, they stack together like building blocks. They have to use stepladders to reach the top of their stack, and when the toilet paper shelves are bare they move on to the paper towels, too. By the time they're finished, the stack nearly touches the ceiling, and it teeters precariously any time either of them touches it. Castiel thinks it's sort of beautiful, all that pristine white marred only by bright slashes of hyper-bright colours from the packaging, sort of like a fairy tale castle. Then he wonders if, despite the soda, he might be a little dehydrated.
But if Castiel is going a bit crazy then so is Dean, because he decides they should climb it.
Castiel is hesitant to destroy their masterpiece, so Dean goes on his own, scaling to the top of a ladder Castiel holds steady, and then leaping towards the top of their tower. He makes the jump, but part of the pile collapses beneath him and he has to grab onto one of the metal ceiling beams to keep from knocking the entire thing down. The result is a crushed top-section of their tower, so that it resembles an ancient ruin more than a fairy tale castle. Castiel doesn't mind; the victorious smile on Dean's face is worth the loss.
Castiel snaps a picture of Dean on the top of the tower, laughing down in his direction and pretending he doesn't want to be photographed.
So it's not the most poignant of all his photos. Since they'd been acting like children more than anything else, Castiel's not even sure that it even represents an important step in his growth. But he - and Dean - are most certainly happy, even if it's in a simple kind of way. And Castiel's oddly satisfied by that. There's something so very human about being so pleased to have something to wipe your ass with.
***
October, 2013
By the time the news out of Detroit gets to from the scouts to Castiel, Dean is already gone. He arrives at Dean’s cabin at the same time as Risa, both out of breath from running. They’re probably the only two people in the camp allowed to walk into Dean’s space without knocking, but the place is empty.
“They should have told us first,” Risa snaps. “Morons.”
“That’s why we send them out as scouts,” Castiel adds, sarcastic. “Because we won’t exactly miss them if they don’t make it back.”
They stand out on the porch together, squinting out into the sun. “He went that way,” Chuck calls from across the yard, pointing at a hunting trail heading east into the forest, back past Castiel’s cabin. It hurts a little, that Dean hadn’t stopped to see him. It’s also fucking terrifying. “About twenty minutes ago.”
“Rock paper scissors?” Castiel asks, turning to face Risa again. He likes her better than any of the other girls Dean has had, and he very nearly trusts her.
Risa shakes her head. “You go,” she says. “You’re better at finding him.” Castiel kisses her in his gratitude, but her heart’s not in it and neither is his, stomach clenched with worry. It makes their fellow campers - looking out the windows of their own cabins, chopping wood, or running last minutes errands before it gets too dark- visibly relax, though. Dean must be okay, they must think, if Risa and Cas are making out outside his cabin. It even seems to calm Chuck down, and he knows as much as Castiel does about the effect bad news regarding Sam Winchester has on his brother.
“Go,” Risa whispers into his ear. Her posture is relaxed, leaning into his body like she doesn’t have a care in the world, but the rising panic in her voice is brutally honest.
Castiel stops at his cabin on the way. He grabs the half bottle of Jack Daniels he’d been saving for an emergency and, instinctively, his Polaroid camera, like it’s some kind of good luck charm. Then he tears off down the trail again, trying not to trip over tree roots. The camera swings against his chest as he runs, its sharp corners digging into his flesh, like a second, even more painful heartbeat.
By the time he finds Dean the sun has completely set, and the stars are visible overhead. Dean’s silhouette is visible in the moonlight, sitting on the ground, his back against a tree. Castiel wishes he’d noticed Dean sooner, in case the noise of his footfalls scares him off. Of course, he’d rather Dean run off than not respond at all, which is the other option he’d considered while running headlong through the forest. He wishes he’d asked Chuck if Dean was armed when he’d left. If it’s Dean’s body up ahead, propped up against a tree with a bullet in its head, Castiel will…well, to be honest he has no idea what he’ll do, but he prepares himself for the sight, anyway.
Castiel holds his breath and takes another step forward. “Hey,” Dean says, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m glad it’s you.”
Castiel exhales loudly. “You scared the shit out of me,” he says.
“By…sitting here?” Dean raises an eyebrow questioningly, then pushes aside some dried leaves and twigs and pats the ground next to him. “Well take a seat to recover from the terrible fright I’ve given you, oh warrior angel.”
Castiel rolls his eyes, but sits, leaning against the oak so that their shoulders bump together. “We were worried about you. We thought you might be upset…by the news, I mean.” It’s an understatement, but it’s true.
“We?” Dean asks.
“Me and Risa,” Castiel says, peeking at Dean through his peripheral vision and trying to figure out if Dean has a single gun or two, to detect any tell-tale lumps in his clothing.
“Ah. I’m not sure how I feel about you two being such close friends all of a sudden,” Dean teases.
“Two weeks ago you suggested we have a threesome,” Castiel counters. He wonders if Dean has suffered some kind of psychotic break, if his mind has totally repressed the news.
“Two weeks ago one of you obviously slipped something into my drink,” Dean says with a wicked smile, “and I think we know which one of you is the expert on drugs.” Then, after a short pause, “I’m happy about the news out of Detroit.”
Castiel coughs, and he gives up on being subtle, turning to face Dean. “What?”
“It’s a good sign,” Dean says. “It means Sam has a plan.” Dean tilts his head back against the rough bark of the tree, and smiles up at the stairs.
“Dean…” Castiel begins.
“Don’t start with me, Cas,” Dean interrupts. “You don’t know Sam like I do.” He talks about his brother in present tense. “He wouldn’t say yes without a reason, not after holding out for this long and sacrificing this much.”
Now that Castiel think about it, the timing is kind of strange.
“Sam must have figured out a way to get rid of him,” Dean continues, “and being his vessel must be a part of it.”
Castiel remembers Sam Winchester as an angry boy still grieving from the loss of his mother, his girlfriend, his father, and his own innocence. He remembers Sam conspiring with a demon, drinking her blood, and suffering for it, screaming in the panic room. He remembers Sam as desperate for power, for some tiny sliver of autonomy in a life as destiny’s chess piece. That boy might be very easily seduced by Lucifer’s pretty words, without his brother by his side.
Castiel has never met the boy Sam was, the one Dean always talks about, the one so profoundly good he taught his brother to be a better person. But Castiel does remember why Sam started drinking demon blood, all love and good intentions. He’s made more than a few mistakes for the same reasons, and so has Dean, who sits beside him as much an angelic vessel as his brother. Castiel would follow Dean to the end of the earth, so it makes sense to have a little faith in Sam, too.
“That makes sense,” Castiel says. “Sam is much more clever than either of us.” Present tense.
Dean’s expression is grateful. “He always was the brains of the operation,” he admits. “You know Sam and I used to do this? Sit out and watch the stars on clear nights. He knows the names of all the constellations.”
“I know them too,” Castiel says. It comes out more competitive than he means for it to. “There are tens of thousands of them, if you include the interpretations of all the human cultures throughout history.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean says, leaning over to lick the shell of Castiel’s ear. “That’s really very impressive to me.” Castiel doubts his sincerity. Dean scrambles on the leaf-covered ground for a moment, then climbs into Castiel’s lap, straddling him. He burrows his face in Castiel’s throat, biting down gently on his collarbone. He rocks up against Castiel, who can feel his growing erection even through their jeans.
“Feels good,” Castiel pants into Dean’s hair.
“Mmm,” Dean agrees. “Sam and I never did this part of star-watching.”
Something catches in Castiel’s brain, a thousand unspoken, half-formed worries he’d harboured in the back of his mind for years. “Didn’t you?” he says, before he can stop himself.
Dean goes still, sits back and meets Castiel’s gaze. “What?”
“You and Sam,” Castiel answers. “You never…”
Dean coughs, and goes faintly pink, and Castiel’s heart stops for a moment. He imagines Dean pushing him away, maybe punching him in the mouth. But Dean’s expression goes incredulous instead. “You think Sam and I were…” Dean grimaces comically, and can’t seem to bring himself to say it, “together?”
Castiel shrugs. “You were everything to each other. And the way you were after the two of you split up. What else was I to think?”
Dean seems a little at a loss for words. “But couldn’t you have read our minds? Or gone invisible and spied on us at night? And then smited us for our sinful, incestuous ways or whatever?”
Castiel shakes his head. “It would be rude to invade your privacy for reasons unrelated to the mission, or maybe I was just avoiding what I didn’t want to know.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, I lived through biblical times. A little harmless incest isn’t enough to earn you a smiting.”
Dean snorts, then leans in again, pressing their foreheads together. “I guess,” he says, “that if an objective outsider were compiling a list of siblings likely to commit incest Sam and I wouldn’t exactly be at the bottom of the list.” He sighs. “This is not a conversation I thought I’d ever be having.”
Castiel smiles and presses a kiss to Dean’s mouth. He hums under his breath.
“What are you so happy about?” Dean says accusingly. “You just called me a pervert.”
“I’m in no place to call anyone a pervert,” Castiel says with another grin. “And I’m happy because it is an immense relief to know that you have not been in love with Sam this entire time and just trying to fill that hole in your heart with whatever’s convenient. And also, because you didn’t shoot yourself in the head tonight.”
Dean gives him that look that means he thinks Castiel is acting like he’s from another planet, and it makes Castiel kind of nostalgic for the days before his fall.
“You’re a moron,” Dean says.
“Okay,” Castiel says, and then he takes a picture of the night sky. It doesn’t really turn out, just a few tiny specks of white against the black background, but Castiel doesn’t think he’ll forget this moment anyway.
***
December, 2013
"Hey, wake up," Dean hisses into his ear, and Castiel is awake instantly, blinking through the fog in his brain and the sand in his eyes. He sits up too suddenly and his head spins.
"Slow down," Dean whispers. "Don't hurt yourself." Dean is leaning over him, and he smells like cold and smoke and gunpowder. He's still wearing his jacket, and Castiel notices that it is splattered with blood, though not enough of it to be his own.
"Are you okay?" Castiel asks anyway.
"Yeah," Dean answers. "C'mon, get up. I brought something back for you. Bring your photos."
Castiel frowns, but does as he's told, fetching not only the small pile of photos, but also his camera. He nearly trips over a quilt-swaddled body lying at the foot of his bed. It becomes clear why Dean was whispering. Castiel held a small get-together the night before, and many of his guests stayed the night. Even in the darkness Castiel can hear the sound of at least four people breathing in the room; Dean's whispers had drowned them out, before.
Castiel follows Dean to the second bedroom, empty, since Castiel had pulled the spare bed into the main room the night before. His rough wooden floor freezes his feet, but he doesn't complain. Dean moves to the farthest corner of the room, then sits with his back against the wall. Castiel joins him, leaning in to his body heat. Dean, obviously still keyed up from the mission, takes off his jacket and places it across his shoulders. Castiel stops shaking.
Dean reaches into the coat, cold fingers grazing Castiel's arm, and pulls out a clear glass bottle full of brown liquid.
"This is really good scotch," Dean says, opening the bottle and taking a long sip. "I had to hide it in my coat so Chuck wouldn't claim it for medicinal use." His smile is mischievous, like a kid caught looting the cookie jar. He offers the bottle to Castiel, who accepts it gratefully. It's been a long time since he's had something real to drink; the moonshine they make in the camp is as likely to make you blind as it is to get you drunk.
Dean reaches into the coat again, and pulls out a small leather book, covered in plastic. He drops it in Castiel's lap.
"That's for you," he says. "It's an album for your pictures. You'll lose them if you just keep them loose like that."
Castiel tears the plastic and tosses it aside, relishing the consumerist crinkling of the wrapping. The leather cover feels soft under his hands, and warm from where it had been pressed against Dean's body inside his jacket. The album has room for twenty photos, but Castiel only has the film for ten. Each one will get its own page.
"Thank you," Castiel says, imagining Dean taking a detour in the mall they looted tonight, standing in front of a shelf of photo albums in a card and gifts shop, while everyone else gathered canned goods or medical supplies. He'd chosen this album in particular, digging it out from among the cheap plastic options covered in pastel hearts and flowers. "No one's ever brought me a present before."
"It's nothing," Dean says, but he looks away as he says it, dropping his eyes to a completely unremarkable part of the floor. "No big deal." Castiel knows, then, that it is a big deal to Dean, that it does mean something. He leans over and kisses Dean hard, pulling him in by the back of his neck. His photos fall off his lap in the process, scattering across the floor for the last time. After tonight, they'll have a place they belong.
"So," Dean says, once Castiel runs out of air and breaks the kiss. "How about we work on this bottle of scotch?" Castiel can see his breath in the cold winter air, but he suspects the alcohol won't be the only thing keeping them warm tonight.
"Sure," he says, handing the bottle back to Dean. "Just let me take your photo first."
Dean groans and rolls his eyes, but he doesn't object. He takes the photo album from Castiel so that Castiel can hold his camera. Dean doesn't like to look into the camera, doesn't like to pose, and Castiel loves him for it. Dean lets Castiel photograph him, but he pretends not to know he's doing it. Now, he busies himself picking the dropped photographs off the ground, and tucks them carefully between the pages of the album, where they'll be safe.
In the photograph, Dean is on his knees on the wooden floor of an empty room. The only light is from the nearly full moon shining in through the uncovered window, and Dean is using that light to retrieve Castiel's photos. He holds two in one hand, carefully, by just the edges, and the brown leather album in the other. He's not looking at the camera, but Castiel can read his expression anyway, in the tiny upward curve of his mouth.
***
March, 2014
When Jackson gets back, lone survivor in a supply caravan that had included three vehicles and nine men and women, Castiel tends to him first, because it's kind of his job. He helps two of the other campers carry him to the infirmary, and then waits with him until Chuck arrives to take down his story. It's Chuck's job to keep records of the camp's history: resources, battles, victories and losses. Chuck keeps a careful record of any deaths, too, because he still thinks that someday he'll publish this, that there will be a world left that wants to remember them. He plans to dedicate the book to Becky, his biggest fan.
But Becky’s gone now, and Castiel isn’t sure there will be anyone else left to read it soon, either.
On his way back to his cabin Castiel stops to talk to groups of frightened looking campers, huddled together on front porches or in the middle of the dirt paths they use to get around. Many of them are crying, clinging together in the damp autumn air. These people, Castiel knows, are the friends, family or lovers of those they have lost. Even those who were strangers to the dead campers are pale, shaken. This mission was supposed to be an easy one; the soldiers were well armed and the warehouses they were trying to clear out nearby. Castiel knows from Jackson that their worst fears are coming true, that the Croats have started to organize, to strategize. That they have a leader and a plan is bad news for the survivors here, of course, but Castiel, with added perspective, knows that it's even more serious than that. Lucifer is finally making his move.
Castiel distributes hugs and reassurance as he goes, and he hopes it seems genuine, but the performance feels forced in a way it usually doesn't. One of the women killed in the ambush had been his lover; they had slept together just three nights before, and there's something entirely disconcerting about the fact that she's dead - or worse, turned - now. Like that night they shared has never happened - or maybe this day is the unreal part. In any case, Castiel is thrown as much as any of the campers, but he tries his best to hide it, tries to maintain control and what little air of authority he has, at least until he arrives at his cabin and can swallow down a few Valium with a generous shot of whiskey.
As usual, though, Dean throws a wrench in his plans. When Castiel opens his door he finds Dean sitting on his cot, cross-legged, in the dark.
"Are you trying to meditate?" Castiel asks.
"Do you think it would help?" Dean responds.
Castiel cocks his head and pretends to think it over. "For you, no."
Dean smiles, but it is a hard, twisted expression that is all too familiar these days. "I don't think I can do this, Cas," he says in a whisper, as if he's afraid of being overheard. That may very well be true; Dean expends a lot of energy putting on a brave face for his followers.
"Meditate?" Castiel asks, but his voice cracks and the joke falls flat.
"Lead," Dean answers. "Not anymore. Every step we make they're three steps ahead of us. The more people I put at risk the more we lose, and worst of all they don't die, they actually join the opposing team. I give up, Cas. I'm tired of being in charge. I'm tired of sending good people to their deaths."
Castiel has seen this kind of hopelessness on Dean's face only once before, and he'd spent that entire night screaming yes at the silent stars until he'd lost his voice, and then hadn't spoken for a full week. Castiel hadn't slept longer than half an hour at a time either, lying next to Dean in his too-small cot and checking to make sure he was still breathing. Castiel doesn't think he can handle that again. Dean has never been as stoic as his father probably intended him to be, has always felt his emotions wholeheartedly, no matter how horrible.
"Hey, hey," Castiel says, still in the habit of being comforting after his rounds outside. "It's okay. You don't have to be in charge all the time."
Dean scoffs. "Yes I do, Cas. These people are my responsibility. If I couldn't save Sa-"
Castiel claps one hand over Dean's mouth, and Dean lets out a warm, surprised puff of air against his palm. "No," he says, pitching his voice low and firm. "None of this is your fault, Dean, and you're going to take the night off."
This isn't something they've ever done before, though Castiel has some experience with other people. He digs the bindings out from under his mattress. A silk cord that had been used to hold a woman's dressing gown closed, and his own faded navy blue necktie, which had somehow managed to survive when his trench coat had not. Dean's eyes go marginally wider when he sees what Castiel is holding, but he doesn't object, doesn't speak when Castiel relaxes the hand covering Dean's mouth.
"Tonight, I'm in charge," Castiel says. "Tonight you're my responsibility."
Castiel ties each of Dean's wrists to the steel bed frame, fingers shaking though he's not really nervous. Dean watches him warily, like he doesn't quite know what he's getting himself into, but he doesn't say a word. When he's done, Castiel lies on his side next to Dean, turning Dean's body so they lie face to face. He unbuttons Dean's shirt and pushes it off his shoulders and up his arms, where it catches around his wrists. He undoes the zipper of Dean's jeans and the sound seems to fill the room, the only other noise Dean's quiet exhalation of breath.
Castiel kisses Dean thoroughly, then slides his mouth down across Dean's collarbone, his left nipple, the too-sharp jut of his hipbone and, finally, over the head of Dean's cock. Dean whimpers, then, and says Castiel's name, and Castiel shushes him. "Quiet," he orders, though he secretly mourns the loss of Dean's voice.
Dean comes quickly, after just a minute or two of Castiel's attention. He doesn’t make a sound.
Then, while Dean’s body is still limp and pliant, Castiel rolls Dean onto his stomach, tugging both pairs of jeans over their respective ankles, and tossing them aside. He reaches under the mattress to pull out the tube of lube he keeps there, then drapes his body over Dean’s, pressing into him, first with his fingers, and then with his cock.
Dean makes one small, barely vocalized sound, and he rolls over far enough to bite down on the pillow, hard. Castiel takes advantage of the new angle, thrusting deeper. Dean tugs at the restraints but they hold firm, biting into his wrists more deeply.
“Good, Dean, you’re doing so good,” Castiel whispers into Dean’s ear as he fucks him. But he doesn’t try to be gentle because he knows he doesn’t need to be, and even though Dean can’t speak, he can tell when he’s got the rhythm and depth right by the way Dean jerks beneath him.
Castiel lets himself get lost in it, in the feeling of Dean beneath and around him, in the sound of their ragged breathing filling the uncharacteristically empty room. But Castiel keeps himself present. He doesn’t treat the adrenaline surging through his veins as yet another drug, never with Dean. He presses on the back of Dean’s neck until his breathing goes just the tiniest bit shallower, and then he holds himself back, settles into a rhythm, takes his time.
Castiel lets Dean rub himself off against the never-clean sheets, and then comes himself a few sharp thrusts later. He waits until his heartbeat returns to normal before he rolls off of Dean, but even then neither of them moves for what feels like hours.
When Castiel finally shifts, it’s only to reach under the bed for his camera. Dean curls his lip into a half smile, and Castiel can tell by the relaxation in his limbs and the submission in his eyes that Dean would let him take a photograph of whatever he wanted - his face, his swollen mouth, his ass probably leaking come by now - but Castiel focuses on his wrists instead.
The photograph is all contrast - Dean’s pale, vulnerable wrists against ungiving dark steel. To anyone else it might look dark, even dangerous, but to Castiel this photograph is peace. It is the last few moments before Dean looks him straight in the eye and says, all business again, “Time to get back to work.”
***
August, 2014
Castiel recognizes the other Dean immediately. It comes as a bit of a surprise at first - he hasn't noticed any trace of his angelic powers in over a year - but it fits back over his skin like a well-worn coat. This older (younger?) Dean is preoccupied, bewildered by this new world and desperate to get back home. Castiel doesn't blame him, and he sort of likes that Dean is so focused, because it gives him plenty of time to watch, and to think.
It's exactly Zachariah's style to send Dean here, the kind of after school special moralizing heaven specializes in, with an added touch of cruelty. Zachariah's sent Dean here to hurt him, and to scare him, and to make him say "yes," that much is obvious. Castiel wonders, briefly, if this entire reality would just pop out of existence if he did, but that kind of metaphysical stuff gives him a headache since his powers wore off, so he pops a few of the purple pills, and heads back to his cabin, leaving the two Dean's alone.
The thing is, there has to be a reason Zachariah chose now, chose this specific day. Castiel doesn't like it. Something especially horrific must be about to go down, and their mission to retrieve the Colt seems the most likely candidate. Someone's going to die tonight, and Castiel is very aware it could be him.
He supposes he could refuse to go on the mission. He knows most everyone in the camp has turned Dean down, recognizing the manic glint in his eye. It's a suicide mission. But Dean is going either way, and that doesn't leave Castiel with much of a choice. If Dean's ready to die, than Cas is pretty sure he's ready, too. He's not entirely sure, but he can't really think of any other option, at this point.
Castiel takes too many pills, and he gets a little too happy, and he pulls out his camera, intending to take the last photograph, to finish off his film. He has trouble holding the camera steady across from his own face, though, and it falls into his laps. Castiel feels dizzy, and too warm, and he lets himself fall back against the pillow. He only means to close his eyes for a moment, before going out and helping to load up the Jeep.
***
Dean knocks, but he doesn't wait for Cas to answer before he opens the cabin door. Everything is loaded and ready to go, and he doesn't know what's taking Cas so damn long anyway. When he sees Cas asleep on his cot Dean frowns and shakes his head. He stomps across the floor, and when Cas doesn't stir, shakes him by the shoulder. Cas groans and mutters something about destiny, and then rolls over onto his stomach. In the process, his huge-ass Polaroid camera rolls out of his lap, and Dean barely catches it by the strap before it clatters to the floor.
"Fuck," Dean mutters. It would be just like Cas to carry this thing through years of hunts and the end of the world, only to break it in his sleep. But then, Dean realizes, it's not like it would serve Cas any good for much longer, anyway.
Dean doesn't expect any of them to come back from this. Even if he does get the shot off and take down Lucifer there will be Croats to contend with, and anyway, Dean wouldn't even place a bet on his own odds of success on the devil-killing front. But Dean has to try, for Sam, and because he doesn't have much to live for anymore. If Cas is one of the only people willing to come along, well, there’s nothing Dean can do about that.
Dean opens the drawer next to Cas' bed. He means to put the camera away, to tuck it in among the drug paraphernalia and condoms and half-empty bottles of lube, but his eyes catch on the leather photo album, tucked safely in the back of the drawer. Dean pulls it out on instinct, flipping to the first page.
Cas has arranged the photos chronologically, one per page though there's room for two. Dean had offered, in the early days before the Internet had been commandeered for official government business only, to try and find Cas some more film, but Cas had refused. "Ten is a nice round number,” he'd said. "And besides, it might spoil the magic." Dean remembers the old man who gave Cas the camera, and his creepy old house, and he doesn't think there was much magic there. But Cas has always been the type of guy who needs something or someone to believe in, and quite frankly, he secretly thinks the camera has taken some of the pressure off him.
Dean flips through Cas' photographs, idly at first - a sunset, he and Cas in a dimly lit pub bathroom, he and Cas soaking wet on the seashore after being attacked by some ugly-ass mermaids. Then he slows down. The top of his head, under Cas’ open palm.
Dean doesn't normally remember the names of the cities they stop in, unless he's on a case, but he remembers this was Indianapolis. He remembers the way the sheets had been over-starched, the way the room had smelled like Doritos, remnants of the room's most recent tenant. He remembers the way Cas' mouth had felt under his, the way his come tasted. Next photo. Dean, Becky and Chuck sitting at a picnic table. The photo is overexposed, but Dean can still read the fond annoyance on his own face. Dean standing on top of a stack of toilet paper in the middle of Wal-Mart, looking just the slightest bit afraid of heights.
The next photo is mostly black, with just a few spots of white. At first Dean thinks the shot was a dud, until he realizes it's an image of the stars, from the night he had first heard about Sam, back when he thought - naively- that it might somehow mean good news. In the next photo Dean's on his knees, holding the same photo album that's in his hands right now. The last photo is of Dean's wrists, twisted together and tied to the steel frame of the bed Cas is sleeping in right now, still muttering in his sleep. That one inspires a twist in his gut that is more than just nostalgia.
The last page of the album is blank. Cas must have one sheet of film left in the camera.
Dean sinks to a sitting position on the edge of Cas' bed, then hesitates for just a second before stretching out next to him, aligning his body with Cas'. He tucks one arm under his own head, and wraps the other around the curve of Cas' hip. "Hey," he whispers in Cas' ear, "wake up."
Cas stirs, and leans back against Dean's body. "Bzuh?" he says, and then turns his head. When recognizes Dean he relaxes again, sinking down into the pillow. "Hey," he says. "Is it time to go?"
There's a lump in Dean's throat, and he has to swallow before he can speak. "There's still a photo left in your camera," he says. "Maybe you should finish it.”
Cas is perfectly silent for a moment, and then he nods, the hair at the back of his head tickling Dean's nose. "Okay," he says. "I understand. I don't want to take a photo right now, but I understand."
"You don't need to come with me," Dean says, suddenly desperate. It feels like there's something clawing at the inside of his chest. "You can stay behind."
"No," Cas says, voice determined. "I'm not letting you go without me." There's something of the old angelic gravity in his tone, the voice designed to make wrongdoers cower in fear. Dean's kind of immune to it, but it does help Cas make his point.
"Okay," Dean says, surprised at how easily the words come out, at how quickly he can reverse a decision that took him two weeks of sleepless nights to make in the first place. "Then I'm not going either."
Cas sits up, nearly banging his head on the bed frame. "What?" he says, losing all of the angelic composure he had briefly regained.
"If you insist on sticking with me, then I guess I shouldn't get us both killed," Dean says. "And anyway, if I used the Colt on Lucifer I'd probably kill Sam, too."
Cas' eyes widen, and then he grins. "You're doing this for Sam," he says.
"Of course," Dean says with a smirk. "Who else would I be doing it for?"
Cas flops back down onto the bed, then rolls over and kisses Dean soundly on the mouth. "I love you," he says, forcing Dean to meet his gaze.
"Yeah, I know," Dean jokes. "I've seen your ridiculously sappy photo album."
"Shut up," Cas says. "It could be magic."
"You know what?" Dean says, remembering the strange blank look that had crossed the old man's face before he offered Cas the camera. "You might just be right."
They lie in silence for a moment. Outside, they hear the sound of a door slamming, and Risa yelling, "What's the fucking holdup?" The other Dean grumbled "Maybe he OD'd," in response.
"I don't think old you approves of my coping mechanisms." Cas says.
"I don't think I approve of your coping mechanisms," Dean responds, and, after a moment, "I guess Zachariah's not gonna see the little show he arranged."
"That'll piss him right off," Cas says, with a wistful smile.
In the last photograph, Dean is holding the camera above their heads. Dean is sticking out his tongue, and Castiel is giving Zachariah the finger.
Art!
Part One
Notes: Thanks to catsinthecoffee for the art, to my beautiful betas, and to lookturtles, for whom I occasionally write happy endings. Thanks also to the hardworking mods at the deancasbigbang. If you were looking for my usual tragic fare I apologize and direct you here or here. I wanted to try something completely different this time.