Dummy With the Rapture (SPN, Dean/Castiel, NC-17)
Title: Dummy with the Rapture
Author: hansbekhart
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Summary: “There’s a room,” Castiel says, pressing his hand against his own chest, “in a house, in a town, where this man used to pray. Where he’d tell God every secret, unworthy thought he’d ever had and be forgiven for them. It matters, Dean. It matters to me that we are alone.”
Notes: Wow, it's been a long time since I've done this. Like, a really really long time. Thank you to essenceofmeanin for letting me bother her with this story and for looking over it for me. Feels good to be back, guys :).
It wasn’t the last time he saw Sam, but sometimes that’s what it felt like.
A motel on the coast, somewhere in California. Some reason they were on the road early, stumbling over each other in the grey light. That kind of half-stunned silence making it impossible to do anything but the most automatic, basic actions. Getting dressed, pulling socks and pants and shoes on, throwing everything else into the trunk. By the time the sun rose, they’d been on the road long enough for the engine to really warm up, for Sam to fall asleep and wake up and fall asleep again. They were on the coast road, that long scary ribbon that someone called Highway 1, and all Dean was thinking about was not driving them off the cliff and into the ocean. That was when he looked over and saw that Sam’s head was up, and that he was looking out over the water where the sun had turned the ocean into gold. And that was when Dean remembered that it was him and Sam against the world, and that was how it should be, and that was how it always would be. Sam didn’t turn his head, not even once, just stared out into the Pacific until there was real daylight. Then he put his head back down and slept.
And that was all. It wasn’t a moment, but somehow Dean sorta felt like it was, like there was something there. After that, things changed and Sam changed and the whole fucking world changed, but that’s what stuck with him. And sometimes he’s almost okay with that.
**
The funny thing - and it is funny, there’s still a lot that Dean can find to laugh about, even now - the funny thing is that the apocalypse doesn’t happen all at once. It starts in little pockets. They’ll lose a town and the next one over will be just fine. The blood and ash lift like fog and after a couple miles Dean can pull the car into a mini-mart on a sunny day. Nobody seems to know their neighbors are dying, like the Internet doesn’t exist, like everyone’s friends and family are out of sight and out of mind. He wonders about people who commute, about where everyone gets their groceries when a nest of succubae has taken over the only Wal-Mart within a hundred miles.
Sometimes, they win. Sometimes Dean leads the armies of Heaven to victory - see, now that’s fucking hilarious - and they kill enough evil sonsabitches to save enough people that for a little while Dean can hope again. Then the survivors wander off into the sunset, weeping, and they don’t turn up on the road out of town. He could ask Castiel where they go, but he isn’t totally sure he wants to know the answer.
Right now, they’re in between. Reports of electrical storms, cattle mutilations, the usual chestnut. The end of the world might come tomorrow or next week to this particular zip code. If they skip town, it might not come at all. Right now, it’s just the two of them. Uriel’s off mopping up the last mess Dean made, the last town he couldn’t save. Elijah and Dina and all the others fucked off to wherever they usually fuck off to. Just Dean and Castiel, gone native.
If Dean had ever thought about it - yeah, that’s pretty funny too - he would have imagined that angels were all big fucking bores. High minded and holy and not even a little bit of fun. And in the beginning, it was easy to get the impression that Castiel was uptight. Maybe not too familiar with the concept of personal space or chapstick or what reality looked like when you weren’t on top of a pink fluffy cloud.
Dean’s not really sure where things changed, but they did.
They pore over the local papers over coffee and pie at the dinner. Or rather, Dean pores over the papers, while Castiel stares into middle distance like it’s personally offended him. It makes Dean laugh, seeing Castiel eat. He starts with the back half of his pie and eats towards the point. He takes his coffee as black as Dean does.
Not much to get from the newspapers. No suspicious deaths yet, nothing that pings his radar. It’s a good sign and a bad one. As soon as folks start dying, it gets a hell of a lot easier to figure out the wheres, whys and hows. Dean just hopes the Good Lord is cool with collateral damage. Angel sense isn’t as good as spider sense, it turns out. The bigger the bad guy, the less likely it is that the angels will be able to find them on their own. Tucson went down without any fucking warning at all, even. That was the first time he ever saw the sky catch fire. Not anything they could figure out later, even though that was when Sam was still around. All they could do was drive as fast and as far away as they could. Then Sam broke down and Dean left him howling in a motel room. Couldn’t deal with it. All he could think to do was get the blood off the car, so that’s what he did, until the sun went down and the rain came, and Castiel came.
Dean’s coffee is long cold. Castiel has hit the tip of his pie, his fork hovering thoughtfully over it. Dean nudges Castiel’s foot with his own, points his fork at that last bite of pie. “You make a wish?”
Castiel looks up and smiles. “Yes,” he says.
**
Feathers on their doorstep, as neat as if someone put them there. Nobody did anything like it, that would be stupid and random even for a demon in the middle of an apocalypse. It was only some bird that got eaten by some cat, but when Dean opens the door, he stops like someone put a hand on his chest and shoved. He stands staring at the feathers for a long time. There’s blood on the tips, like whatever killed the damn thing didn’t lick it clean. For a while, he can’t figure out what bugs him so much - he’s seen the angels fly a couple times, sure. Not all that often, only when things are getting to the worse side of FUBAR. He gets the impression that the wings are a little like a secret. That once a little bit slips out, it’s hard to keep everything else inside. In any case, it’s a rare fucking event when he sees them. He’s only seen Castiel’s the once. When he puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder all he feels is shoulder, that stupid cheap coat.
The feathers are just ugly and kind of gross, and it’s a sunny day and they’re gonna hit up the Wal-Mart for as many socks and diapers and vitamins they can stuff in the trunk. They’ve got a lead on a hellmouth a few hundred miles away, something that opened up so quickly that there still might be people there. It helps to have the supplies on hand, anyway. Never know when you might have cause to need ‘em or something. Castiel bumps into him on the way out the door, not looking where he’s going. Dean stumbles forward a bit and steps right into the feathers, wincing. He doesn’t say anything about it. Castiel’s less superstitious than an angel should be, in Dean’s opinion. They walk to Wal-Mart and in the shoe section he thinks he sees the walking dead. They get the hell out of Dodge, after that.
**
Dean is almost positive that he’s standing in the middle of a McDonalds. It’s hard to tell. The windows are blown out and there’s enough sand underneath his feet to cover a decent stretch of seashore. Where the walls aren’t blackened by fire, they’re a pale sort of pink, vaguely marbled. It’s the only building standing within a square mile. The urge to go and stand in it had been perversely strong.
Outside is miles of sand and bones. The wind is thick with dust. They’re doing the best they can with some torn up T-shirts over their nose and mouth. Dean’s probably breathing in all kinds of fucked up things.
“Do you breathe?” Dean asks Castiel. He has to yell to be heard. Castiel gives him a dirty look, and goes back to examining the deep fryer. He’s crying. It could be the wind or it could be the fact that thirty thousand people used to live here.
If it was Sam. Or some random victim, tossed out into this world of dust and heat. This used to be North Dakota, and it’s nowhere now, the same way that a burned house isn’t a home anymore. If it was Sam, Dean would comfort him. Because it’s Castiel -
He doesn’t look up when Dean comes to stand by him. He’s not staring at the deep fryer, not exactly. There’s a skull inside of it, covered with enough charred bits that it was probably thrown in skin-on, so to speak. The weight of the back of it tilts what used to be the face towards them. There are three teeth missing, baby teeth. Castiel reaches for it, and for a second Dean wants to pull him back. Castiel’s hands look too large on the skull. His eyes slip closed and he lowers his head.
Dean can’t join him. Won’t join. But he stays still and quiet until Castiel is finished praying.
**
The apocalypse has turned Singer Salvage Yard into a refugee camp. Dean’s pretty sure it’s driving Bobby up the fucking wall, but Hell’s only come to Bobby’s house in a figurative sort of sense and that’s enough to be grateful for, if you ask him. There are people sleeping in hallways, on the porch, anywhere they can find room. Dean recognizes a lot of them, weirdly enough. They’re all people that he’s saved.
Castiel moves among them like a shepherd. Speaks less than Dean does, even though everyone looks at them like saviors, like they’re going to make everything right again. Serves him right, Dean supposes, showing up with a fucking angel in tow. Like a big neon sign of hope wrapped up in a trench coat and a tie. Castiel doesn’t hang out too much when the hunters talk strategy. If he happens to be in the same room, he stares out the windows like he’s pretending he’s not. He’s more likely to go outside and watch the kids play in the woods behind Bobby’s house. The trees are still green despite everything else, and Dean could stay there forever just to breathe that wet, living smell.
He finds Castiel out there, sitting with his elbows braced on his knees on one of those junked up chairs that Bobby’s got scattered around the property, as if he’s staked out all the best places to sit and think over the years. There’s an empty seat next to Castiel, like he’s been waiting for Dean. Probably has. Dean’s knees creak when he sits down, and he winces. He broke a kneecap when he was fifteen, but he figures the other one is just old age, as far as it goes.
Castiel doesn’t look over, just stares hard at the creek. They sit in silence and it reminds Dean of North Dakota, or a sunrise.
“Do you …” Castiel begins, after a long time. He looks over at Dean finally, his eyes wide and pale. His hair is wet. Dean wants to ask Castiel if he went for a dip or something, but the guy looks scared and sad and all the things Dean never wanted a beacon of hope to look like. “Do you think we are winning?”
Dean waits. Castiel rummages in his pocket and pulls out Dean’s cigarettes. He flicks the pack open and offers one to Dean before taking one himself. The matches tucked into the pack are as wet as Castiel is, and he frowns at them before bringing his fingertips up to the cigarette. It glows cherry red as soon as he lets go. He does the same for Dean’s, their shoulders brushing together as he lights it. It surprises Dean every time he does stuff like this. Not the magic tricks, but that the vessel is warm, it breathes, it’s just as alive as Dean is. Somehow, he sort of thought it would be different.
“I cannot see,” Castiel says. “And no one seems to know. I see these faces around us and all the pain they have experienced, it … it is beyond my imagination.”
“Didn’t know you had one,” Dean says. Castiel smiles, and Dean feels lit up all over. He looks away, takes a long drag off the cigarette before he embarrasses himself. Somewhere, he can hear Bobby hollering, probably telling those damn kids to get off his damn lawn or something. “Anyway,” Dean says, “What does it matter if no one knows? Sam and Dad and me, we were always on our own, we did just fine.”
Castiel’s smile twists suddenly downwards. “Dean,” he says, and Dean moves before he wants to, his hand over Castiel’s mouth, his thumb brushing against Castiel’s nose.
“Don’t say it,” he warns, “I don’t want to hear about it, okay?”
Slowly, Castiel nods. The corners of his eyes lift up and Dean would almost think he’s still smiling, except he can feel the hard shape of teeth behind Castiel’s mouth. He pulls away slowly, unsure. Castiel’s not smiling, only watching Dean carefully. His fingers look natural enough around the cigarette, held loose between his knees. He purses his lips, like he’s going to try it again, and Dean shakes his head.
Castiel sighs. “There’s a boy,” he says, “whose mother was torn to pieces in front of he and his young brother. They walked here from Wisconsin.” The name sounds strange in his mouth. He tastes the word like it’s a foreign language.
“Yeah,” Dean says, “I know the kid.”
“There’s a woman,” Castiel says, “who was ridden by a demon for three months until your brother exorcised her. She raped and murdered and by the time she was free of her captor, everyone she’d ever known and loved was dust. She lit her own children on fire, unable to stop what was happening to her.”
Dean’s eyes drop. The cigarette makes him feel sick to his stomach.
“There’s a room,” Castiel says, pressing his hand against his own chest, “in a house, in a town, where this man used to pray. Where he’d tell God every secret, unworthy thought he’d ever had and be forgiven for them. It matters, Dean. It matters to me that we are alone.”
Dean shrugs. “I don’t know what you want to hear, Cas,” he admits. “I don’t have the answers any more than you do. I don’t know where God went.”
Castiel scrubs at his face, his nose scrunched up. He’s tilting in his chair and Dean doesn’t really get it until Castiel turns that last inch and presses his face into Dean’s shoulder, like Dean’s hand over his mouth opened up some kind of door between them that made this okay. Castiel breathes out and it’s a snuffle like a dog, like he’s trying to really get Dean’s scent. His mouth is pushed right against the scar he left on Dean’s arm.
Dean wants to be creeped out. Seems like the kind of thing that would’ve made him jump not that long ago, somebody up that close, mouth open and too warm on Dean’s body. But it doesn’t. It feels good. So he shifts a little in his seat, closer. Until Castiel’s tucked against Dean’s neck and shoulder. He can barely see Castiel’s eyes fluttering closed, bone deep relief like some kid getting put down for a nap.
Castiel lifts the cigarette and sucks thoughtfully on it, opening his eyes only when he realizes that it’s gone out. He makes an uncomfortable noise, offering the stub as proof when Dean tucks his chin into his chest to look at him. “Here,” Dean says. Their fingers brush when Dean hands over his own cigarette and it feels even less strange than before.
Castiel’s careful, using one cigarette to light the other. He looks like he’s done it a million times before. Dean holds himself still and doesn’t move away, and when those cigarettes are dust, they each have another, and they sit in silence until the sun goes down.
**
Suited up and ready to go. Dean feels like a Blues Brother without the suit, on a mission from God. Too keyed up and nervous to be that cool, his foot jiggling against the car, watching Bobby approach. Castiel’s fucked off somewhere. Giving benedictions or something to the squatters. Dean doesn’t like having him out of sight, it makes him nervous. Something kind of stupid in that, like he’s the one looking out for Castiel instead of the other way around.
“Got a line on something going down in Nevada, if you’re interested,” Bobby says.
“Sin City?” Dean asks, trying for a grin. They’ve never even bothered with Vegas, mostly for superstition’s sake. Didn’t fall for months, but it seemed kind of hopeless to begin with, like wading in to try and save all those politicians on Capitol Hill. Bobby rolls his eyes, hands him a file.
“Just give it a flip through when you get on the road,” he says. The back of Dean’s neck prickles, and he glances around. No angels in sight. Bobby’s still talking. It gets hard sometimes to talk, to actually get the words out. He’s getting used to the angels, to being looked at and known.
“Sure, Bobby,” Dean says, absently, and Bobby’s hand comes hard around the back of his skull, cupping and supporting and holding him in place. Dean startles too late to escape, stares up at Bobby like a trapped rabbit. Bobby’s eyes are wet and angry.
“You come back safe,” Bobby growls, “You get that angel to watch your back, son, and you come home safe or so help me -”
“Bobby,” Dean says, surprised, and Bobby bursts out laughing, wiping at his eyes and beard with the back of one hand.
“Fuck you, kid,” he says, “It’s the end of the world, you can put up with an old man for a minute.”
Dean hugs him hard enough that Bobby’s laugh gets squeezed right out of his chest, hard enough that when Bobby returns it, it hurts in the best way. “We’ll come back,” Dean says. “Keep the beer cold and the light on. We’ll come back.”
**
If Dean had ever really thought about it, he would’ve thought that Armageddon would be bigger, somehow. And maybe it’ll get there. Maybe they’re fighting in the trenches. Fighting the advance guard. Like maybe all those little barriers that separate a living hell from life as usual will just get thinner and thinner until they don’t exist anymore, and Lucifer will walk the earth.
He’s okay with the trenches, with fighting dirty. Makes him feel like a Winchester again.
The hotel’s nicer than any he’s ever stayed in. Or it used to be. Looks like the universe turned it upside down and shook it like a snow globe. The piano’s broken. The bar is shattered, the lights still on behind it, flickering. The floor is slippery with blood, too much of it to be real, to be something he’s really fucking seeing. When he skids and falls it’s into broken glass. It shreds his forearms but that’s the least of his problems, out in the open like this.
More of them than he’s seen for months. He shouldn’t even fucking be here. Took four out by himself and he’s lost sight of Castiel, he’s all by himself in a hotel full of demons. He can feel the other angels - that itch all over his skin that isn’t quite danger - they’re somewhere, fighting, and he’s all by himself in a fucking hotel full of fucking demons. The knife’s gonna be useless if they rush him and exorcism would take too long. He’s got spray paint in his bag but that’s fucking useless too, all this debris that’ll shift the minute he tries to put a trap down.
He’s so out of his league. He’s so fucked.
He can feel them coming. Slithering up the walls, closer. He’s only going to be alone for a minute longer. Cas, he thinks, and like a prayer being answered, a body hits the ground. He sees it before it hits - watches it fall without even really processing it. He sees the wings spread wide like they could break the fall. He sees the coat and slacks and sensible shoes. He hears bones break when the body hits the piano. He sees the light. He looks up and the demon is still leaning over the rail three stories up, looking down with a smile. Checking out the damage. It sees Dean and winks at him. Then it turns away. Bigger fish to fry, Dean thinks, and that’s when his brain catches up.
He’s shaking by the time he turns around. His whole body shaking as he stumbles across the floor, sliding on the broken glass. Castiel’s eyes are wide, staring up where the demon cast him down from three stories up. His mouth is open a little bit, and Dean takes in a breath that sounds more like a sob, reaching forward. He forgets that you can kill an angel.
Then the body blinks, hard. Sits up so quickly that Dean jumps out of the way, sliding backwards on his ass. “Cas,” Dean says and Castiel shakes his head like a dog. His eyes are wide enough that it feels like Dean can see through them, blown open like he’s been staring into the sun. “Cas,” Dean says again and shakes him. Castiel blinks, turns towards Dean slowly.
“Dean,” he says. He rests a hand on Dean’s shoulder, right over the scar. Dean flinches. Castiel doesn’t seem to notice, peering at Dean like he’s the one with all the answers. “Dean, the battle is upstairs.”
Dean rolls his eyes. His hands are shaking. “Let’s get you up,” he says, “and get the fuck out of here.”
Up and out. Like Willie Wonka’s factory, going up to get out. Never made any fucking sense in horror movies, like all you’re gonna do is get your stupid ass stranded too high to jump out a window. Dean leads, Castiel at his back. Feels good to have someone there. They meet Dina on the second floor, one against four. Dean gets one in the throat, Castiel gets one with each hand, a quick flash of light, and then it’s three against the rest of the fucking world. It’s dark inside the hotel now, the shadows thick around them. All he can smell is sulfur and shit and blood. And he thinks: it wouldn’t be so bad, going out like this. And he thinks: I fucking hate demons. And he thinks: Sam.
Castiel is nowhere near Dean. He’s fighting his own good fight but Dean can feel Castiel’s hands on his shoulders, pushing them both forward, up and out. There are angels and demons all around him and Dean feels fucking good, so good that when they hit daylight he bursts out laughing. Hits the door shoulder first and stumbles right out onto the roof. His boots stick to the tar and he’s surrounded by angels, lifting their hands towards the sun.
The sky’s only blue at the top of that big full bowl, still pink and orange around the edges, and the air tastes so clean that he wants to cry. He can see a long line of dead cars on the highway, the last desperate rush out of town. He can hear birds.
He turns. Castiel is braced against the fire escape, both hands against the door like he’s keeping the demons inside. He looks pale in the sunlight but he smiles at Dean when Dean grabs him, hunches his shoulders awkwardly together like he’s never been hugged before.
“Fuckin’ did it,” Dean breathes, mouth almost up against Castiel’s ear, “stupid fucking Seal is safe, you thought we couldn’t do it.”
Castiel coughs, deep and painful in his chest. Dean pulls back and that’s when he sees wards drawn onto the door, the blood running down Castiel’s thin wrists, the sticky outline of his fingers on either side. Castiel coughs again, gags and spits light. He looks at Dean, mouth open like he’s gonna say something - then his eyes roll back in his head and he drops. Dean catches him awkwardly, fingers slipping on the coat, and then he’s on his knees, easing Castiel against the wall as best he can. Shouting for help.
Castiel’s shaking, his whole body jerking like a seizure, hands splayed out in his lap. Chest heaving. Eyes wide open, trusting, and Dean can’t look away. Not even as they get brighter and brighter and the angels are pulling at Dean, trying to get him away, to shield his eyes. He knows what’s happening. He’s seen it before. There’s light everywhere and it burns his skin and it fucking hurts but he doesn’t look away.
He puts his hands on Castiel’s face. Stokes his thumbs helplessly over Castiel’s cheekbones. It’s all he can think to do. It’s the worst kind of comfort but Castiel’s eyes are on Dean like it’s okay. Like he forgives Dean. Like if this was it, the end, if Dean was the last thing he ever saw, that it would be okay.
Then the light goes out and Castiel goes out with it, pitching forward like his strings were cut.
**
The hotel is clean. He knew it would be. He can read enough of the angels’ sigils now to know that whatever Castiel did, it was going to be permanent. No more shadows. No more blood. The place is still fucking wrecked, but it’s clean and that’s more than they usually get these days.
He carries Castiel. The vessel is surprisingly light. He smells like Bobby’s house, like that economy brand of shampoo that Bobby always gets, like some living thing. He’s breathing. Dean can feel the faint thud of heartbeat but that doesn’t mean shit. He’s kind of surprised when it’s Uriel who stays the closest, who follows him down the stairs and into the first room he sees. Who slides the curtains shut as Dean lays the body down.
He wants to tuck Castiel in, pull the blankets tight over him so that he can be warm and safe. He wants to smooth the hair out of Castiel’s face. He looks at Uriel. “What the fuck,” Dean says, “what the fuck is happening to him?”
Uriel’s face is dark. His nose and mouth twitch, like he can try on different expressions until he finds the one that fits. “He makes his own choices,” he says.
“What the hell does that mean?” Dean growls. He’s got one hand on Castiel’s shoulder, the other fisted on the bed.
“That shitstain he was fighting,” Uriel says, “yanked him right out of that sack of meat. Then it threw him over the railing.”
And distantly, Dean remembers that. Remembers that flash of light right when Castiel fell. The crunch of bones breaking, how easily he pulled Castiel to his feet after that. Healed the body - kept fighting - then that fucking spell or whatever on the door, taking whatever he had left. “How do we fix him, then?” Dean asks.
Uriel’s face darkens. “We don’t,” he says.
He doesn’t try to move when Dean grabs him, fists both hands into the vessel’s collar and snarls. “Don’t say that, there’s gotta be something,” he says, “work your angel mojo or something, fucking do something.”
Uriel looks at Castiel. He’s silent for long moments, doesn’t say one fucking word or smite Dean or anything he’s expecting. When he shakes Dean off, it’s one handed, brushing Dean away. “He’s made his choice,” he says.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Dean sits heavy on the bed. He can see Castiel’s foot out of the corner of his eye. He’s missing a shoe.
“He favors you above all your kind,” Uriel says, lip curled, “and still you do not see. He’ll be glad that his faith is repaid, should he live to see it.”
And there’s nothing at all that Dean can say to that.
**
Waiting. It’s stupidly quiet. The angels are still around, who knows what the fuck they’re waiting for. Should be moving on, now that the Seal is safe and all those demons sent back to Hell by Castiel. What the fuck are they waiting for, that’s what he wants to know.
He waits. An angel he doesn’t know brings him his kit, offers up Castiel’s other shoe like it’ll make everything better. Dean cleans and bandages Castiel’s wrists. Washes the dirt and blood off his face and hands. Awkwardly strips the coat off, the shirt underneath, pulls the tie over Castiel’s head. He’s non-responsive. Doesn’t let out so much as a peep when Dean’s manhandling him under the covers.
And after that, nothing. Nothing he can do but see if Castiel wakes up or just passes on. He doesn’t want to think about that, whether angels go to Heaven or whether they just fucking … blow away or something. He doesn’t want to know. He finds things to occupy his hands. He sharpens the knives. He straightens up the room, puts the bathroom back in order. Nobody died in there but it’s filthy enough that he feels kinda better seeing it clean. Returns every once in a while just to listen to Castiel breathe shallow and uneven. It’s better than nothing.
Pacing. It gets dark. Dean goes through the room and turns on every light, even in the bathroom. He remembers once when Sam was very young and very sick, watching Dad walk circles around whatever shitty motel they’d been staying in at the time. Nothing supernatural about it - just strep. Dean had stayed close and held Sammy’s hand. Didn’t pray even then, just wished and wished and wished. Like he was blowing dandelion clocks or something. Sammy didn’t wake up even when his fever spiked and he poured sweat like his whole body was crying, and that was the part that scared Dean the most. Because if you were hurt that bad, then it was only right that you should be there to feel it.
Been a long time since he thought that. There’ve been times where he’s wished he could just go to sleep and wake up when it was all over, or never. When it’s been so bad that he would’ve given anything for the Off button. But it’s been a while since he’s thought that too.
He turns the lights off one by one and when the room is dark enough that he manages to trip over the table and his duffle, he undresses and crawls into bed. Castiel is fever hot and the bare skin of his back sticks to Dean’s chest. Dean wiggles close, tucks himself behind Castiel. Not exactly touching. Castiel’s hair tickles his face. Dean closes his eyes. Reaches out carefully until he finds Castiel’s shoulder, drags his hand carefully over Castiel’s collarbone, up his throat and jaw. Strokes Castiel’s cheek with the back of his fingers. Sleeps.
**
His mouth is full of hair, but that’s not what wakes him. He stays completely still, listening. Could be an angel in the room. Could be something else. His arm tightens around Castiel, and he thinks, oh.
“Dean?”
Dean pulls away. Lets Castiel shift until they’re facing each other. It’s dawn, or close to it, near as he can figure out - enough light that a sliver falls across the bed. Enough light for him to see that it’s not Castiel.
The vessel smiles. Hesitant. His fists pulled up underneath his chin like he’s not sure what to do with them, this close to someone.
“I don’t know your name,” Dean says. The vessel grins, showing teeth now.
“That’s okay.” He adds, like it’s not important, “it’s Jonah.”
“Jonah,” Dean repeats. “Nice to meet you. I didn’t, you know - ”
“Think I was still in here?” Jonah asks. “Yeah. I know.”
“Where is he?” Dean asks, hating himself for needing to ask.
Jonah is quiet. He gestures at his own chest, vaguely. “Here,” he says, and Dean has to close his eyes. “It’s been so long since it’s just been me. I wanted some fresh air.” He laughs, self-consciously. He still sounds like Castiel. Words measured and thoughtful. Like there wasn’t that much difference between them to begin with.
An awkward silence stretches between them. Awkward for Dean, at least. Jonah just watches him, hands folded between his cheek and the pillow. He looks tranquilized. Stoned on God, maybe. Dean hasn’t given too much thought to the vessel Castiel’s been wearing as long as that damn suit, never much considered if the guy had family, kids, had survived getting stabbed in the fucking chest with a demon-killing knife. Right in the heart.
“Are you,” Dean begins, and stops. Tries again. “Do you -”
“No,” Jonah says, “I’m where I want to be.”
“How?” Dean has to ask. “How can this be what you want - getting dragged all over the place, seeing all the same horrible, fucked up shit that he does, we’re in a fucking war and you could be safe and home and with people who - ” He stops when Jonah lays a hand over Dean’s lips. He reached out slowly. He gave Dean time to pull away. His fingers are so warm.
“Dean,” he says, “it’s God’s plan. God needs me here. Same as you.”
“God doesn’t care,” Dean mutters. He turns his face away from Jonah, rolls onto his back. If he squints he can see the ceiling in all its pock marked glory. Hell of a lot easier to look at than Jonah. “God’s not even here.”
“Anything I say’s going to sound like a platitude to you. Unless that’s what you’re looking for?”
“No,” Dean says, “I fucking hate those. Doesn’t help anyway. Doesn’t change anything, like it makes some difference that angels watch over me. Still more evil than I can ever fix, only now I know it’s too big for angels too.”
“God is here,” Jonah says, “God is always here. He has always been with you.”
His voice is kind. Dean wants to hear the bible thumping behind it but it just sounds like Jonah’s telling him the truth. “I don’t believe you,” Dean says. Too close to the guy. He can feel Jonah’s knees against his own. Their feet brush together somewhere under the covers. He can smell shampoo and antiseptic every time he breathes the vessel in. He’s never been this close to Castiel.
“It’s still true,” Jonah breathes.
“You’re a weird dude,” Dean tells him, and Jonah laughs.
“I get that a lot,” he says.
“What’s it like?” Dean asks.
“What, being touched by an angel?” Jonah says, his mouth crooked. He’s seen the same expression on Castiel’s face and he doesn’t think will ever not be strange, that Jonah will ever not be stranger. Somehow, it makes it even worse that they’re like fucking twins. That they laugh and smile and speak the same.
“No,” Dean says, “believing so much.”
Jonah is quiet for a long time. He tucks his chin down against his hand. It’s the first time he’s looked away from Dean. His other hand is on the pillow between them, palm towards the ceiling, fingers curled. It matches the mark on Dean’s shoulder exactly, the size and shape of each finger, the way they spread out. Still surprises him that it fits like that, like it was Jonah’s body that crawled down into Hell and pulled Dean out. He misses Castiel so badly that it hurts even though he’s close enough that Dean could reach out and just touch him. So he does. Lays his fingers along Jonah’s neck, thumb on the hard line of Jonah’s jawline. He can feel muscles underneath skin tense and shift. He’s smiling.
“It’s hard to describe,” Jonah says. He looks up at Dean through his eyelashes, eyes widened. “I don’t think there are words for it. It’s … it’s not the absence of doubt, or fear, or hate. It just is. There’s nothing big enough for me to say. I’m never alone. There is always someone who feels the same pain that I do, the same joy.”
“Platitudes,” Dean says, and Jonah covers Dean’s hand with his own.
“Love,” he says, “That’s what it’s like.”
**
He cocks the gun as soon as he hits the kitchen lights. He checks under every table, behind all the doors, looks in the walk-in. Electricity must’ve been off for a least a week; the walk-in smells like death. So does the pantry, but that’s because there’s a dead guy in there. Head split open, face down on the ground. Maggots moving back and forth between brain and pasta, squirming up the walls and over every shelf, thick as carpet. It’s still hard to leave the guy in there, but he’s too soupy for Dean to move by himself.
He finds the oatmeal tucked into someone’s locker, someone’s quick snack. If he judges by dead pantry guy, it’s been at least a couple of weeks since anybody worked a shift, but it still smells like perfume inside.
The oatmeal’s one of those packet kinds, little dried strawberries inside. He dumps it into a bowl and then, as an afterthought, fixes a second helping. He’s not hungry, but the food is there. Might as well eat it. He kinda wishes he’d asked Jonah how he takes his oatmeal, if he likes butter or sugar or anything, but the dairy’s probably spoiled and he’s not setting foot in that pantry again.
So quiet down here. He watches the little bowls go round in the microwave. The quiet hum of machines drown everything else out. He’s so fucking tired. Gotta be close to sunrise now. His whole body hurts.
If Castiel’s too hurt to come back. If he’s dead already. If God decides that Castiel’s just not up to the job anymore. If Dean isn’t up to it either -
Doesn’t want to think about it. Jonah’s got a soft look about him. Easy meat to the stuff they fight and he still stinks of angel, Dean can tell. Easier to drop the poor guy off than risk him like that, but where? No place is safe anymore.
He shuts his eyes. Breathes in and out. He reaches for belief. He’s felt it before. All he feels is cold and tired and lonely. Alone. The microwave beeps and he doesn’t even open his eyes. He can feel the ache of the world knotting in his chest, bearing down on his ribs so that he can’t breathe. Holds on to it with both hands, all that pain. And then. Lets it go, just a little bit, and it’s enough that he can breathe again, can stand up and open the microwave door and put the two bowls and some sodas on a tray. The motions practical, automatic, but it gets easier with every step.
He hesitates outside the door to the room he left Jonah inside. Not for any particular reason; the bowls slid around when he was climbing the stairs, and he braces the tray on his shoulder, adjusts, opens the door without another pause. He feels the heat on his face, feels all the air wick out of the room. There’s a man on fire standing at the window. Not on fire; made of fire, and Dean feels fear like a punch to the gut even as his heart stutters with joy and wonder. There are tears in his eyes and when he blinks them away, he sees that it’s Castiel standing shirtless by the window, holding the curtains back with one hand.
He doesn’t drop the tray. It’s a close thing. Castiel looks back over his shoulder at Dean, his eyes clear and empty. Dean puts the tray down and is across the room in a heartbeat. He comes so fast that he crushes Castiel against the window when he throws his arms around the angel and grips him tight.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean breathes, “I thought - ”
Castiel is still underneath Dean, chin propped awkwardly against Dean’s collarbone, and his hands hang limp at his sides for a long moment. Then he reaches up, slowly, one hand around the back of Dean’s neck and the other tangling in Dean’s hair. Dean feels rather than hears the noise he makes, some deep hum low down in his throat that vibrates against Dean’s shoulder. His eyes close and open slowly, blinking hard like a drunk.
“Cas,” Dean says, and Castiel laughs softly. He dropped the curtain for Dean but it’s pulled back where he’s pressed against it, enough light that Dean thinks he can see the sun over Castiel’s shoulder. He laughs too, Castiel touching him like he’s never touched anything at all before, his fingertips skimming light and cautious over Dean’s ears, his jaw, his throat. Can’t help but laugh and not just because it tickles the ever living fuck out of him. They’re pushed together, Castiel against the window and Dean against him. He could swear Castiel’s saying something, but all that matters is that he’s fucking here.
They settle, eventually. Should be weirder than it is, tucked into each other, Jonah’s body a solid thing pressed up against him, his arms around Dean’s shoulders, one hand still sort of ruffling Dean’s hair. Dean’s got one cheek pressed into the curtain and all he can smell is Fabreeze and Castiel.
“Didn’t think you’d come back,” he says, eventually.
Castiel’s hesitates, and says softly, his mouth up close enough to Dean’s ear that he shivers helplessly, “Always.”
Dean pulls back a little. Hard to breathe, not nearly enough air between them, but he smiles. Says, “Yeah.” And when he kisses Castiel it’s softer than he wants it to be. One hand pressed to Castiel’s cheek. He jerks a little when Castiel’s hands come up and close over his wrists, but all they do is hold him there, hold him up. Pull him closer. Castiel’s grip slides down his wrists, to his elbows, the backs of his arms, and when Dean starts shaking Castiel lets go entirely, just long enough to reach behind himself and wrap them both of them in the curtain. Closer, then, tangled together in heavy material and warm, just warm all over. He can’t stop laughing because it’s ridiculous, that’s what it is, and Castiel grins back at him like he’s finally getting the joke.
“I know,” Dean tells him, and it’s been long enough that Castiel just looks confused, and Dean says, “I get it now,” like that makes any more sense. He kisses Castiel again so he doesn’t have to talk anymore. Makes his way slowly down to his knees, letting Castiel support his weight, scraping his teeth over sharp, delicate hipbones. Feels a little bad, like he should’ve been feeding Jonah’s body more than pie and cigarettes but that only makes him wonder if this is still where Jonah wants to be. Soft, round stomach that looks like it comes from a soft kind of life, and Castiel’s breath is a sob above his head. His muscles jump wherever Dean touches him and it’s kind of fucking amazing, and he looks up as he hooks his fingers under Castiel’s waistband, pulls a little bit. Waits for Castiel to look down at him.
“You,” Castiel says, at the same time that Dean asks, “do you -?” The silence stretches and then Castiel says, so softly that Dean wouldn’t have heard if he wasn’t listening as hard as he could, “Yes.”
Dean swallows hard. Has to close his eyes and press his forehead against Castiel’s thigh. Waiting for the guts to just do it, to keep pulling and just do what he’s pretty sure he’s wanted for a long time.
“Cas,” he breathes. Leans closer, rubs cheek and mouth over Castiel’s cock, still covered, breathes hot through the material. He can feel the zipper against his teeth. Feels the shape of Castiel’s cock for the first time and it’s even harder to make his hands move, inch them down and over smooth skin, the curve of Castiel’s ass. Hell of a lot scarier than Anna, terror so thick and hot in him as he helps Castiel step out of his clothes, pushes pants and socks to the side. No underwear and God only knows why the fuck not, and Dean sort of has to stop and sort of giggle a bit. His hands skim the back of Castiel’s knees. Castiel lets go of the curtain and follows Dean down, covers his whole body as Dean lets go. Lays himself down and lets go.
**
After. A long time after. Boneless and curled together and even on the bed, finally. Castiel up on his elbows, his eyes flickering over Dean, frowning just a little bit, like he’s not totally sure what the hell’s going on anymore, but that it’s probably okay. He runs his fingers carefully over Dean’s face, rubbing his thumbs across Dean’s eyebrows, sketching the curve of cheekbone and lips. Dean grins, snaps his teeth together and Castiel snorts, brings his fingers together like he’s snapping right back. The curtain got torn down somehow, fuck if Dean can remember how or when or why, and there’s sunlight on his skin. Hazy enough through the thin curtain that he almost kind of forgets that it’s the end of the world out there.
He can feel the ground shifting underneath him. Not literally. He picks up the feeling and looks it over, waits for the panic and fear to come and shake him down. They are there, knotted deep inside his chest like every other tumor he’s carried around with him in his life, but somewhere after he opened that door they sort of quit mattering so much. It’s novel enough that Dean holds onto it quietly. Feels himself breathe in and out. Feels Castiel doing the same.
“Shit,” Dean says. Castiel looks up at him, not particularly concerned or even all that curious. Just sort of sleepy and peaceful and bright. “He was right. That’s exactly what it feels like.”
**
There’s a town on the horizon that still hums with electricity. It’s a bright, sunny day and there are people everywhere, shopping and working and walking around and Dean feels like he’s on the moon. It looks more like the end of the world than Tucson ever did, and they stare out the car windows in silence. It’s summer, Dean thinks. Here, at least, for a little while longer. The car rumbles underneath them, impatiently stopped at the light, and Dean looks over at Castiel, who rolls his eyes.
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Squaresville, man.” He thinks, Sammy would’ve hated a place like this.
Castiel tilts his head and for a long moment they forget to look away from each other. The light changes and Dean takes the highway signs, and when they hit that double yellow line it feels like the whole world opens up in front of them. Castiel rummages in the glove compartment and pulls out Dean’s sunglasses, slips them on and doesn’t look totally fucking stupid in them. Dean thinks he can see fire on the other side of the mountains. He can smell blood in the air.
Dean shifts the car up to 5th. “Let’s go kick some ass.”
Author: hansbekhart
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Summary: “There’s a room,” Castiel says, pressing his hand against his own chest, “in a house, in a town, where this man used to pray. Where he’d tell God every secret, unworthy thought he’d ever had and be forgiven for them. It matters, Dean. It matters to me that we are alone.”
Notes: Wow, it's been a long time since I've done this. Like, a really really long time. Thank you to essenceofmeanin for letting me bother her with this story and for looking over it for me. Feels good to be back, guys :).
It wasn’t the last time he saw Sam, but sometimes that’s what it felt like.
A motel on the coast, somewhere in California. Some reason they were on the road early, stumbling over each other in the grey light. That kind of half-stunned silence making it impossible to do anything but the most automatic, basic actions. Getting dressed, pulling socks and pants and shoes on, throwing everything else into the trunk. By the time the sun rose, they’d been on the road long enough for the engine to really warm up, for Sam to fall asleep and wake up and fall asleep again. They were on the coast road, that long scary ribbon that someone called Highway 1, and all Dean was thinking about was not driving them off the cliff and into the ocean. That was when he looked over and saw that Sam’s head was up, and that he was looking out over the water where the sun had turned the ocean into gold. And that was when Dean remembered that it was him and Sam against the world, and that was how it should be, and that was how it always would be. Sam didn’t turn his head, not even once, just stared out into the Pacific until there was real daylight. Then he put his head back down and slept.
And that was all. It wasn’t a moment, but somehow Dean sorta felt like it was, like there was something there. After that, things changed and Sam changed and the whole fucking world changed, but that’s what stuck with him. And sometimes he’s almost okay with that.
**
The funny thing - and it is funny, there’s still a lot that Dean can find to laugh about, even now - the funny thing is that the apocalypse doesn’t happen all at once. It starts in little pockets. They’ll lose a town and the next one over will be just fine. The blood and ash lift like fog and after a couple miles Dean can pull the car into a mini-mart on a sunny day. Nobody seems to know their neighbors are dying, like the Internet doesn’t exist, like everyone’s friends and family are out of sight and out of mind. He wonders about people who commute, about where everyone gets their groceries when a nest of succubae has taken over the only Wal-Mart within a hundred miles.
Sometimes, they win. Sometimes Dean leads the armies of Heaven to victory - see, now that’s fucking hilarious - and they kill enough evil sonsabitches to save enough people that for a little while Dean can hope again. Then the survivors wander off into the sunset, weeping, and they don’t turn up on the road out of town. He could ask Castiel where they go, but he isn’t totally sure he wants to know the answer.
Right now, they’re in between. Reports of electrical storms, cattle mutilations, the usual chestnut. The end of the world might come tomorrow or next week to this particular zip code. If they skip town, it might not come at all. Right now, it’s just the two of them. Uriel’s off mopping up the last mess Dean made, the last town he couldn’t save. Elijah and Dina and all the others fucked off to wherever they usually fuck off to. Just Dean and Castiel, gone native.
If Dean had ever thought about it - yeah, that’s pretty funny too - he would have imagined that angels were all big fucking bores. High minded and holy and not even a little bit of fun. And in the beginning, it was easy to get the impression that Castiel was uptight. Maybe not too familiar with the concept of personal space or chapstick or what reality looked like when you weren’t on top of a pink fluffy cloud.
Dean’s not really sure where things changed, but they did.
They pore over the local papers over coffee and pie at the dinner. Or rather, Dean pores over the papers, while Castiel stares into middle distance like it’s personally offended him. It makes Dean laugh, seeing Castiel eat. He starts with the back half of his pie and eats towards the point. He takes his coffee as black as Dean does.
Not much to get from the newspapers. No suspicious deaths yet, nothing that pings his radar. It’s a good sign and a bad one. As soon as folks start dying, it gets a hell of a lot easier to figure out the wheres, whys and hows. Dean just hopes the Good Lord is cool with collateral damage. Angel sense isn’t as good as spider sense, it turns out. The bigger the bad guy, the less likely it is that the angels will be able to find them on their own. Tucson went down without any fucking warning at all, even. That was the first time he ever saw the sky catch fire. Not anything they could figure out later, even though that was when Sam was still around. All they could do was drive as fast and as far away as they could. Then Sam broke down and Dean left him howling in a motel room. Couldn’t deal with it. All he could think to do was get the blood off the car, so that’s what he did, until the sun went down and the rain came, and Castiel came.
Dean’s coffee is long cold. Castiel has hit the tip of his pie, his fork hovering thoughtfully over it. Dean nudges Castiel’s foot with his own, points his fork at that last bite of pie. “You make a wish?”
Castiel looks up and smiles. “Yes,” he says.
**
Feathers on their doorstep, as neat as if someone put them there. Nobody did anything like it, that would be stupid and random even for a demon in the middle of an apocalypse. It was only some bird that got eaten by some cat, but when Dean opens the door, he stops like someone put a hand on his chest and shoved. He stands staring at the feathers for a long time. There’s blood on the tips, like whatever killed the damn thing didn’t lick it clean. For a while, he can’t figure out what bugs him so much - he’s seen the angels fly a couple times, sure. Not all that often, only when things are getting to the worse side of FUBAR. He gets the impression that the wings are a little like a secret. That once a little bit slips out, it’s hard to keep everything else inside. In any case, it’s a rare fucking event when he sees them. He’s only seen Castiel’s the once. When he puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder all he feels is shoulder, that stupid cheap coat.
The feathers are just ugly and kind of gross, and it’s a sunny day and they’re gonna hit up the Wal-Mart for as many socks and diapers and vitamins they can stuff in the trunk. They’ve got a lead on a hellmouth a few hundred miles away, something that opened up so quickly that there still might be people there. It helps to have the supplies on hand, anyway. Never know when you might have cause to need ‘em or something. Castiel bumps into him on the way out the door, not looking where he’s going. Dean stumbles forward a bit and steps right into the feathers, wincing. He doesn’t say anything about it. Castiel’s less superstitious than an angel should be, in Dean’s opinion. They walk to Wal-Mart and in the shoe section he thinks he sees the walking dead. They get the hell out of Dodge, after that.
**
Dean is almost positive that he’s standing in the middle of a McDonalds. It’s hard to tell. The windows are blown out and there’s enough sand underneath his feet to cover a decent stretch of seashore. Where the walls aren’t blackened by fire, they’re a pale sort of pink, vaguely marbled. It’s the only building standing within a square mile. The urge to go and stand in it had been perversely strong.
Outside is miles of sand and bones. The wind is thick with dust. They’re doing the best they can with some torn up T-shirts over their nose and mouth. Dean’s probably breathing in all kinds of fucked up things.
“Do you breathe?” Dean asks Castiel. He has to yell to be heard. Castiel gives him a dirty look, and goes back to examining the deep fryer. He’s crying. It could be the wind or it could be the fact that thirty thousand people used to live here.
If it was Sam. Or some random victim, tossed out into this world of dust and heat. This used to be North Dakota, and it’s nowhere now, the same way that a burned house isn’t a home anymore. If it was Sam, Dean would comfort him. Because it’s Castiel -
He doesn’t look up when Dean comes to stand by him. He’s not staring at the deep fryer, not exactly. There’s a skull inside of it, covered with enough charred bits that it was probably thrown in skin-on, so to speak. The weight of the back of it tilts what used to be the face towards them. There are three teeth missing, baby teeth. Castiel reaches for it, and for a second Dean wants to pull him back. Castiel’s hands look too large on the skull. His eyes slip closed and he lowers his head.
Dean can’t join him. Won’t join. But he stays still and quiet until Castiel is finished praying.
**
The apocalypse has turned Singer Salvage Yard into a refugee camp. Dean’s pretty sure it’s driving Bobby up the fucking wall, but Hell’s only come to Bobby’s house in a figurative sort of sense and that’s enough to be grateful for, if you ask him. There are people sleeping in hallways, on the porch, anywhere they can find room. Dean recognizes a lot of them, weirdly enough. They’re all people that he’s saved.
Castiel moves among them like a shepherd. Speaks less than Dean does, even though everyone looks at them like saviors, like they’re going to make everything right again. Serves him right, Dean supposes, showing up with a fucking angel in tow. Like a big neon sign of hope wrapped up in a trench coat and a tie. Castiel doesn’t hang out too much when the hunters talk strategy. If he happens to be in the same room, he stares out the windows like he’s pretending he’s not. He’s more likely to go outside and watch the kids play in the woods behind Bobby’s house. The trees are still green despite everything else, and Dean could stay there forever just to breathe that wet, living smell.
He finds Castiel out there, sitting with his elbows braced on his knees on one of those junked up chairs that Bobby’s got scattered around the property, as if he’s staked out all the best places to sit and think over the years. There’s an empty seat next to Castiel, like he’s been waiting for Dean. Probably has. Dean’s knees creak when he sits down, and he winces. He broke a kneecap when he was fifteen, but he figures the other one is just old age, as far as it goes.
Castiel doesn’t look over, just stares hard at the creek. They sit in silence and it reminds Dean of North Dakota, or a sunrise.
“Do you …” Castiel begins, after a long time. He looks over at Dean finally, his eyes wide and pale. His hair is wet. Dean wants to ask Castiel if he went for a dip or something, but the guy looks scared and sad and all the things Dean never wanted a beacon of hope to look like. “Do you think we are winning?”
Dean waits. Castiel rummages in his pocket and pulls out Dean’s cigarettes. He flicks the pack open and offers one to Dean before taking one himself. The matches tucked into the pack are as wet as Castiel is, and he frowns at them before bringing his fingertips up to the cigarette. It glows cherry red as soon as he lets go. He does the same for Dean’s, their shoulders brushing together as he lights it. It surprises Dean every time he does stuff like this. Not the magic tricks, but that the vessel is warm, it breathes, it’s just as alive as Dean is. Somehow, he sort of thought it would be different.
“I cannot see,” Castiel says. “And no one seems to know. I see these faces around us and all the pain they have experienced, it … it is beyond my imagination.”
“Didn’t know you had one,” Dean says. Castiel smiles, and Dean feels lit up all over. He looks away, takes a long drag off the cigarette before he embarrasses himself. Somewhere, he can hear Bobby hollering, probably telling those damn kids to get off his damn lawn or something. “Anyway,” Dean says, “What does it matter if no one knows? Sam and Dad and me, we were always on our own, we did just fine.”
Castiel’s smile twists suddenly downwards. “Dean,” he says, and Dean moves before he wants to, his hand over Castiel’s mouth, his thumb brushing against Castiel’s nose.
“Don’t say it,” he warns, “I don’t want to hear about it, okay?”
Slowly, Castiel nods. The corners of his eyes lift up and Dean would almost think he’s still smiling, except he can feel the hard shape of teeth behind Castiel’s mouth. He pulls away slowly, unsure. Castiel’s not smiling, only watching Dean carefully. His fingers look natural enough around the cigarette, held loose between his knees. He purses his lips, like he’s going to try it again, and Dean shakes his head.
Castiel sighs. “There’s a boy,” he says, “whose mother was torn to pieces in front of he and his young brother. They walked here from Wisconsin.” The name sounds strange in his mouth. He tastes the word like it’s a foreign language.
“Yeah,” Dean says, “I know the kid.”
“There’s a woman,” Castiel says, “who was ridden by a demon for three months until your brother exorcised her. She raped and murdered and by the time she was free of her captor, everyone she’d ever known and loved was dust. She lit her own children on fire, unable to stop what was happening to her.”
Dean’s eyes drop. The cigarette makes him feel sick to his stomach.
“There’s a room,” Castiel says, pressing his hand against his own chest, “in a house, in a town, where this man used to pray. Where he’d tell God every secret, unworthy thought he’d ever had and be forgiven for them. It matters, Dean. It matters to me that we are alone.”
Dean shrugs. “I don’t know what you want to hear, Cas,” he admits. “I don’t have the answers any more than you do. I don’t know where God went.”
Castiel scrubs at his face, his nose scrunched up. He’s tilting in his chair and Dean doesn’t really get it until Castiel turns that last inch and presses his face into Dean’s shoulder, like Dean’s hand over his mouth opened up some kind of door between them that made this okay. Castiel breathes out and it’s a snuffle like a dog, like he’s trying to really get Dean’s scent. His mouth is pushed right against the scar he left on Dean’s arm.
Dean wants to be creeped out. Seems like the kind of thing that would’ve made him jump not that long ago, somebody up that close, mouth open and too warm on Dean’s body. But it doesn’t. It feels good. So he shifts a little in his seat, closer. Until Castiel’s tucked against Dean’s neck and shoulder. He can barely see Castiel’s eyes fluttering closed, bone deep relief like some kid getting put down for a nap.
Castiel lifts the cigarette and sucks thoughtfully on it, opening his eyes only when he realizes that it’s gone out. He makes an uncomfortable noise, offering the stub as proof when Dean tucks his chin into his chest to look at him. “Here,” Dean says. Their fingers brush when Dean hands over his own cigarette and it feels even less strange than before.
Castiel’s careful, using one cigarette to light the other. He looks like he’s done it a million times before. Dean holds himself still and doesn’t move away, and when those cigarettes are dust, they each have another, and they sit in silence until the sun goes down.
**
Suited up and ready to go. Dean feels like a Blues Brother without the suit, on a mission from God. Too keyed up and nervous to be that cool, his foot jiggling against the car, watching Bobby approach. Castiel’s fucked off somewhere. Giving benedictions or something to the squatters. Dean doesn’t like having him out of sight, it makes him nervous. Something kind of stupid in that, like he’s the one looking out for Castiel instead of the other way around.
“Got a line on something going down in Nevada, if you’re interested,” Bobby says.
“Sin City?” Dean asks, trying for a grin. They’ve never even bothered with Vegas, mostly for superstition’s sake. Didn’t fall for months, but it seemed kind of hopeless to begin with, like wading in to try and save all those politicians on Capitol Hill. Bobby rolls his eyes, hands him a file.
“Just give it a flip through when you get on the road,” he says. The back of Dean’s neck prickles, and he glances around. No angels in sight. Bobby’s still talking. It gets hard sometimes to talk, to actually get the words out. He’s getting used to the angels, to being looked at and known.
“Sure, Bobby,” Dean says, absently, and Bobby’s hand comes hard around the back of his skull, cupping and supporting and holding him in place. Dean startles too late to escape, stares up at Bobby like a trapped rabbit. Bobby’s eyes are wet and angry.
“You come back safe,” Bobby growls, “You get that angel to watch your back, son, and you come home safe or so help me -”
“Bobby,” Dean says, surprised, and Bobby bursts out laughing, wiping at his eyes and beard with the back of one hand.
“Fuck you, kid,” he says, “It’s the end of the world, you can put up with an old man for a minute.”
Dean hugs him hard enough that Bobby’s laugh gets squeezed right out of his chest, hard enough that when Bobby returns it, it hurts in the best way. “We’ll come back,” Dean says. “Keep the beer cold and the light on. We’ll come back.”
**
If Dean had ever really thought about it, he would’ve thought that Armageddon would be bigger, somehow. And maybe it’ll get there. Maybe they’re fighting in the trenches. Fighting the advance guard. Like maybe all those little barriers that separate a living hell from life as usual will just get thinner and thinner until they don’t exist anymore, and Lucifer will walk the earth.
He’s okay with the trenches, with fighting dirty. Makes him feel like a Winchester again.
The hotel’s nicer than any he’s ever stayed in. Or it used to be. Looks like the universe turned it upside down and shook it like a snow globe. The piano’s broken. The bar is shattered, the lights still on behind it, flickering. The floor is slippery with blood, too much of it to be real, to be something he’s really fucking seeing. When he skids and falls it’s into broken glass. It shreds his forearms but that’s the least of his problems, out in the open like this.
More of them than he’s seen for months. He shouldn’t even fucking be here. Took four out by himself and he’s lost sight of Castiel, he’s all by himself in a hotel full of demons. He can feel the other angels - that itch all over his skin that isn’t quite danger - they’re somewhere, fighting, and he’s all by himself in a fucking hotel full of fucking demons. The knife’s gonna be useless if they rush him and exorcism would take too long. He’s got spray paint in his bag but that’s fucking useless too, all this debris that’ll shift the minute he tries to put a trap down.
He’s so out of his league. He’s so fucked.
He can feel them coming. Slithering up the walls, closer. He’s only going to be alone for a minute longer. Cas, he thinks, and like a prayer being answered, a body hits the ground. He sees it before it hits - watches it fall without even really processing it. He sees the wings spread wide like they could break the fall. He sees the coat and slacks and sensible shoes. He hears bones break when the body hits the piano. He sees the light. He looks up and the demon is still leaning over the rail three stories up, looking down with a smile. Checking out the damage. It sees Dean and winks at him. Then it turns away. Bigger fish to fry, Dean thinks, and that’s when his brain catches up.
He’s shaking by the time he turns around. His whole body shaking as he stumbles across the floor, sliding on the broken glass. Castiel’s eyes are wide, staring up where the demon cast him down from three stories up. His mouth is open a little bit, and Dean takes in a breath that sounds more like a sob, reaching forward. He forgets that you can kill an angel.
Then the body blinks, hard. Sits up so quickly that Dean jumps out of the way, sliding backwards on his ass. “Cas,” Dean says and Castiel shakes his head like a dog. His eyes are wide enough that it feels like Dean can see through them, blown open like he’s been staring into the sun. “Cas,” Dean says again and shakes him. Castiel blinks, turns towards Dean slowly.
“Dean,” he says. He rests a hand on Dean’s shoulder, right over the scar. Dean flinches. Castiel doesn’t seem to notice, peering at Dean like he’s the one with all the answers. “Dean, the battle is upstairs.”
Dean rolls his eyes. His hands are shaking. “Let’s get you up,” he says, “and get the fuck out of here.”
Up and out. Like Willie Wonka’s factory, going up to get out. Never made any fucking sense in horror movies, like all you’re gonna do is get your stupid ass stranded too high to jump out a window. Dean leads, Castiel at his back. Feels good to have someone there. They meet Dina on the second floor, one against four. Dean gets one in the throat, Castiel gets one with each hand, a quick flash of light, and then it’s three against the rest of the fucking world. It’s dark inside the hotel now, the shadows thick around them. All he can smell is sulfur and shit and blood. And he thinks: it wouldn’t be so bad, going out like this. And he thinks: I fucking hate demons. And he thinks: Sam.
Castiel is nowhere near Dean. He’s fighting his own good fight but Dean can feel Castiel’s hands on his shoulders, pushing them both forward, up and out. There are angels and demons all around him and Dean feels fucking good, so good that when they hit daylight he bursts out laughing. Hits the door shoulder first and stumbles right out onto the roof. His boots stick to the tar and he’s surrounded by angels, lifting their hands towards the sun.
The sky’s only blue at the top of that big full bowl, still pink and orange around the edges, and the air tastes so clean that he wants to cry. He can see a long line of dead cars on the highway, the last desperate rush out of town. He can hear birds.
He turns. Castiel is braced against the fire escape, both hands against the door like he’s keeping the demons inside. He looks pale in the sunlight but he smiles at Dean when Dean grabs him, hunches his shoulders awkwardly together like he’s never been hugged before.
“Fuckin’ did it,” Dean breathes, mouth almost up against Castiel’s ear, “stupid fucking Seal is safe, you thought we couldn’t do it.”
Castiel coughs, deep and painful in his chest. Dean pulls back and that’s when he sees wards drawn onto the door, the blood running down Castiel’s thin wrists, the sticky outline of his fingers on either side. Castiel coughs again, gags and spits light. He looks at Dean, mouth open like he’s gonna say something - then his eyes roll back in his head and he drops. Dean catches him awkwardly, fingers slipping on the coat, and then he’s on his knees, easing Castiel against the wall as best he can. Shouting for help.
Castiel’s shaking, his whole body jerking like a seizure, hands splayed out in his lap. Chest heaving. Eyes wide open, trusting, and Dean can’t look away. Not even as they get brighter and brighter and the angels are pulling at Dean, trying to get him away, to shield his eyes. He knows what’s happening. He’s seen it before. There’s light everywhere and it burns his skin and it fucking hurts but he doesn’t look away.
He puts his hands on Castiel’s face. Stokes his thumbs helplessly over Castiel’s cheekbones. It’s all he can think to do. It’s the worst kind of comfort but Castiel’s eyes are on Dean like it’s okay. Like he forgives Dean. Like if this was it, the end, if Dean was the last thing he ever saw, that it would be okay.
Then the light goes out and Castiel goes out with it, pitching forward like his strings were cut.
**
The hotel is clean. He knew it would be. He can read enough of the angels’ sigils now to know that whatever Castiel did, it was going to be permanent. No more shadows. No more blood. The place is still fucking wrecked, but it’s clean and that’s more than they usually get these days.
He carries Castiel. The vessel is surprisingly light. He smells like Bobby’s house, like that economy brand of shampoo that Bobby always gets, like some living thing. He’s breathing. Dean can feel the faint thud of heartbeat but that doesn’t mean shit. He’s kind of surprised when it’s Uriel who stays the closest, who follows him down the stairs and into the first room he sees. Who slides the curtains shut as Dean lays the body down.
He wants to tuck Castiel in, pull the blankets tight over him so that he can be warm and safe. He wants to smooth the hair out of Castiel’s face. He looks at Uriel. “What the fuck,” Dean says, “what the fuck is happening to him?”
Uriel’s face is dark. His nose and mouth twitch, like he can try on different expressions until he finds the one that fits. “He makes his own choices,” he says.
“What the hell does that mean?” Dean growls. He’s got one hand on Castiel’s shoulder, the other fisted on the bed.
“That shitstain he was fighting,” Uriel says, “yanked him right out of that sack of meat. Then it threw him over the railing.”
And distantly, Dean remembers that. Remembers that flash of light right when Castiel fell. The crunch of bones breaking, how easily he pulled Castiel to his feet after that. Healed the body - kept fighting - then that fucking spell or whatever on the door, taking whatever he had left. “How do we fix him, then?” Dean asks.
Uriel’s face darkens. “We don’t,” he says.
He doesn’t try to move when Dean grabs him, fists both hands into the vessel’s collar and snarls. “Don’t say that, there’s gotta be something,” he says, “work your angel mojo or something, fucking do something.”
Uriel looks at Castiel. He’s silent for long moments, doesn’t say one fucking word or smite Dean or anything he’s expecting. When he shakes Dean off, it’s one handed, brushing Dean away. “He’s made his choice,” he says.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Dean sits heavy on the bed. He can see Castiel’s foot out of the corner of his eye. He’s missing a shoe.
“He favors you above all your kind,” Uriel says, lip curled, “and still you do not see. He’ll be glad that his faith is repaid, should he live to see it.”
And there’s nothing at all that Dean can say to that.
**
Waiting. It’s stupidly quiet. The angels are still around, who knows what the fuck they’re waiting for. Should be moving on, now that the Seal is safe and all those demons sent back to Hell by Castiel. What the fuck are they waiting for, that’s what he wants to know.
He waits. An angel he doesn’t know brings him his kit, offers up Castiel’s other shoe like it’ll make everything better. Dean cleans and bandages Castiel’s wrists. Washes the dirt and blood off his face and hands. Awkwardly strips the coat off, the shirt underneath, pulls the tie over Castiel’s head. He’s non-responsive. Doesn’t let out so much as a peep when Dean’s manhandling him under the covers.
And after that, nothing. Nothing he can do but see if Castiel wakes up or just passes on. He doesn’t want to think about that, whether angels go to Heaven or whether they just fucking … blow away or something. He doesn’t want to know. He finds things to occupy his hands. He sharpens the knives. He straightens up the room, puts the bathroom back in order. Nobody died in there but it’s filthy enough that he feels kinda better seeing it clean. Returns every once in a while just to listen to Castiel breathe shallow and uneven. It’s better than nothing.
Pacing. It gets dark. Dean goes through the room and turns on every light, even in the bathroom. He remembers once when Sam was very young and very sick, watching Dad walk circles around whatever shitty motel they’d been staying in at the time. Nothing supernatural about it - just strep. Dean had stayed close and held Sammy’s hand. Didn’t pray even then, just wished and wished and wished. Like he was blowing dandelion clocks or something. Sammy didn’t wake up even when his fever spiked and he poured sweat like his whole body was crying, and that was the part that scared Dean the most. Because if you were hurt that bad, then it was only right that you should be there to feel it.
Been a long time since he thought that. There’ve been times where he’s wished he could just go to sleep and wake up when it was all over, or never. When it’s been so bad that he would’ve given anything for the Off button. But it’s been a while since he’s thought that too.
He turns the lights off one by one and when the room is dark enough that he manages to trip over the table and his duffle, he undresses and crawls into bed. Castiel is fever hot and the bare skin of his back sticks to Dean’s chest. Dean wiggles close, tucks himself behind Castiel. Not exactly touching. Castiel’s hair tickles his face. Dean closes his eyes. Reaches out carefully until he finds Castiel’s shoulder, drags his hand carefully over Castiel’s collarbone, up his throat and jaw. Strokes Castiel’s cheek with the back of his fingers. Sleeps.
**
His mouth is full of hair, but that’s not what wakes him. He stays completely still, listening. Could be an angel in the room. Could be something else. His arm tightens around Castiel, and he thinks, oh.
“Dean?”
Dean pulls away. Lets Castiel shift until they’re facing each other. It’s dawn, or close to it, near as he can figure out - enough light that a sliver falls across the bed. Enough light for him to see that it’s not Castiel.
The vessel smiles. Hesitant. His fists pulled up underneath his chin like he’s not sure what to do with them, this close to someone.
“I don’t know your name,” Dean says. The vessel grins, showing teeth now.
“That’s okay.” He adds, like it’s not important, “it’s Jonah.”
“Jonah,” Dean repeats. “Nice to meet you. I didn’t, you know - ”
“Think I was still in here?” Jonah asks. “Yeah. I know.”
“Where is he?” Dean asks, hating himself for needing to ask.
Jonah is quiet. He gestures at his own chest, vaguely. “Here,” he says, and Dean has to close his eyes. “It’s been so long since it’s just been me. I wanted some fresh air.” He laughs, self-consciously. He still sounds like Castiel. Words measured and thoughtful. Like there wasn’t that much difference between them to begin with.
An awkward silence stretches between them. Awkward for Dean, at least. Jonah just watches him, hands folded between his cheek and the pillow. He looks tranquilized. Stoned on God, maybe. Dean hasn’t given too much thought to the vessel Castiel’s been wearing as long as that damn suit, never much considered if the guy had family, kids, had survived getting stabbed in the fucking chest with a demon-killing knife. Right in the heart.
“Are you,” Dean begins, and stops. Tries again. “Do you -”
“No,” Jonah says, “I’m where I want to be.”
“How?” Dean has to ask. “How can this be what you want - getting dragged all over the place, seeing all the same horrible, fucked up shit that he does, we’re in a fucking war and you could be safe and home and with people who - ” He stops when Jonah lays a hand over Dean’s lips. He reached out slowly. He gave Dean time to pull away. His fingers are so warm.
“Dean,” he says, “it’s God’s plan. God needs me here. Same as you.”
“God doesn’t care,” Dean mutters. He turns his face away from Jonah, rolls onto his back. If he squints he can see the ceiling in all its pock marked glory. Hell of a lot easier to look at than Jonah. “God’s not even here.”
“Anything I say’s going to sound like a platitude to you. Unless that’s what you’re looking for?”
“No,” Dean says, “I fucking hate those. Doesn’t help anyway. Doesn’t change anything, like it makes some difference that angels watch over me. Still more evil than I can ever fix, only now I know it’s too big for angels too.”
“God is here,” Jonah says, “God is always here. He has always been with you.”
His voice is kind. Dean wants to hear the bible thumping behind it but it just sounds like Jonah’s telling him the truth. “I don’t believe you,” Dean says. Too close to the guy. He can feel Jonah’s knees against his own. Their feet brush together somewhere under the covers. He can smell shampoo and antiseptic every time he breathes the vessel in. He’s never been this close to Castiel.
“It’s still true,” Jonah breathes.
“You’re a weird dude,” Dean tells him, and Jonah laughs.
“I get that a lot,” he says.
“What’s it like?” Dean asks.
“What, being touched by an angel?” Jonah says, his mouth crooked. He’s seen the same expression on Castiel’s face and he doesn’t think will ever not be strange, that Jonah will ever not be stranger. Somehow, it makes it even worse that they’re like fucking twins. That they laugh and smile and speak the same.
“No,” Dean says, “believing so much.”
Jonah is quiet for a long time. He tucks his chin down against his hand. It’s the first time he’s looked away from Dean. His other hand is on the pillow between them, palm towards the ceiling, fingers curled. It matches the mark on Dean’s shoulder exactly, the size and shape of each finger, the way they spread out. Still surprises him that it fits like that, like it was Jonah’s body that crawled down into Hell and pulled Dean out. He misses Castiel so badly that it hurts even though he’s close enough that Dean could reach out and just touch him. So he does. Lays his fingers along Jonah’s neck, thumb on the hard line of Jonah’s jawline. He can feel muscles underneath skin tense and shift. He’s smiling.
“It’s hard to describe,” Jonah says. He looks up at Dean through his eyelashes, eyes widened. “I don’t think there are words for it. It’s … it’s not the absence of doubt, or fear, or hate. It just is. There’s nothing big enough for me to say. I’m never alone. There is always someone who feels the same pain that I do, the same joy.”
“Platitudes,” Dean says, and Jonah covers Dean’s hand with his own.
“Love,” he says, “That’s what it’s like.”
**
He cocks the gun as soon as he hits the kitchen lights. He checks under every table, behind all the doors, looks in the walk-in. Electricity must’ve been off for a least a week; the walk-in smells like death. So does the pantry, but that’s because there’s a dead guy in there. Head split open, face down on the ground. Maggots moving back and forth between brain and pasta, squirming up the walls and over every shelf, thick as carpet. It’s still hard to leave the guy in there, but he’s too soupy for Dean to move by himself.
He finds the oatmeal tucked into someone’s locker, someone’s quick snack. If he judges by dead pantry guy, it’s been at least a couple of weeks since anybody worked a shift, but it still smells like perfume inside.
The oatmeal’s one of those packet kinds, little dried strawberries inside. He dumps it into a bowl and then, as an afterthought, fixes a second helping. He’s not hungry, but the food is there. Might as well eat it. He kinda wishes he’d asked Jonah how he takes his oatmeal, if he likes butter or sugar or anything, but the dairy’s probably spoiled and he’s not setting foot in that pantry again.
So quiet down here. He watches the little bowls go round in the microwave. The quiet hum of machines drown everything else out. He’s so fucking tired. Gotta be close to sunrise now. His whole body hurts.
If Castiel’s too hurt to come back. If he’s dead already. If God decides that Castiel’s just not up to the job anymore. If Dean isn’t up to it either -
Doesn’t want to think about it. Jonah’s got a soft look about him. Easy meat to the stuff they fight and he still stinks of angel, Dean can tell. Easier to drop the poor guy off than risk him like that, but where? No place is safe anymore.
He shuts his eyes. Breathes in and out. He reaches for belief. He’s felt it before. All he feels is cold and tired and lonely. Alone. The microwave beeps and he doesn’t even open his eyes. He can feel the ache of the world knotting in his chest, bearing down on his ribs so that he can’t breathe. Holds on to it with both hands, all that pain. And then. Lets it go, just a little bit, and it’s enough that he can breathe again, can stand up and open the microwave door and put the two bowls and some sodas on a tray. The motions practical, automatic, but it gets easier with every step.
He hesitates outside the door to the room he left Jonah inside. Not for any particular reason; the bowls slid around when he was climbing the stairs, and he braces the tray on his shoulder, adjusts, opens the door without another pause. He feels the heat on his face, feels all the air wick out of the room. There’s a man on fire standing at the window. Not on fire; made of fire, and Dean feels fear like a punch to the gut even as his heart stutters with joy and wonder. There are tears in his eyes and when he blinks them away, he sees that it’s Castiel standing shirtless by the window, holding the curtains back with one hand.
He doesn’t drop the tray. It’s a close thing. Castiel looks back over his shoulder at Dean, his eyes clear and empty. Dean puts the tray down and is across the room in a heartbeat. He comes so fast that he crushes Castiel against the window when he throws his arms around the angel and grips him tight.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean breathes, “I thought - ”
Castiel is still underneath Dean, chin propped awkwardly against Dean’s collarbone, and his hands hang limp at his sides for a long moment. Then he reaches up, slowly, one hand around the back of Dean’s neck and the other tangling in Dean’s hair. Dean feels rather than hears the noise he makes, some deep hum low down in his throat that vibrates against Dean’s shoulder. His eyes close and open slowly, blinking hard like a drunk.
“Cas,” Dean says, and Castiel laughs softly. He dropped the curtain for Dean but it’s pulled back where he’s pressed against it, enough light that Dean thinks he can see the sun over Castiel’s shoulder. He laughs too, Castiel touching him like he’s never touched anything at all before, his fingertips skimming light and cautious over Dean’s ears, his jaw, his throat. Can’t help but laugh and not just because it tickles the ever living fuck out of him. They’re pushed together, Castiel against the window and Dean against him. He could swear Castiel’s saying something, but all that matters is that he’s fucking here.
They settle, eventually. Should be weirder than it is, tucked into each other, Jonah’s body a solid thing pressed up against him, his arms around Dean’s shoulders, one hand still sort of ruffling Dean’s hair. Dean’s got one cheek pressed into the curtain and all he can smell is Fabreeze and Castiel.
“Didn’t think you’d come back,” he says, eventually.
Castiel’s hesitates, and says softly, his mouth up close enough to Dean’s ear that he shivers helplessly, “Always.”
Dean pulls back a little. Hard to breathe, not nearly enough air between them, but he smiles. Says, “Yeah.” And when he kisses Castiel it’s softer than he wants it to be. One hand pressed to Castiel’s cheek. He jerks a little when Castiel’s hands come up and close over his wrists, but all they do is hold him there, hold him up. Pull him closer. Castiel’s grip slides down his wrists, to his elbows, the backs of his arms, and when Dean starts shaking Castiel lets go entirely, just long enough to reach behind himself and wrap them both of them in the curtain. Closer, then, tangled together in heavy material and warm, just warm all over. He can’t stop laughing because it’s ridiculous, that’s what it is, and Castiel grins back at him like he’s finally getting the joke.
“I know,” Dean tells him, and it’s been long enough that Castiel just looks confused, and Dean says, “I get it now,” like that makes any more sense. He kisses Castiel again so he doesn’t have to talk anymore. Makes his way slowly down to his knees, letting Castiel support his weight, scraping his teeth over sharp, delicate hipbones. Feels a little bad, like he should’ve been feeding Jonah’s body more than pie and cigarettes but that only makes him wonder if this is still where Jonah wants to be. Soft, round stomach that looks like it comes from a soft kind of life, and Castiel’s breath is a sob above his head. His muscles jump wherever Dean touches him and it’s kind of fucking amazing, and he looks up as he hooks his fingers under Castiel’s waistband, pulls a little bit. Waits for Castiel to look down at him.
“You,” Castiel says, at the same time that Dean asks, “do you -?” The silence stretches and then Castiel says, so softly that Dean wouldn’t have heard if he wasn’t listening as hard as he could, “Yes.”
Dean swallows hard. Has to close his eyes and press his forehead against Castiel’s thigh. Waiting for the guts to just do it, to keep pulling and just do what he’s pretty sure he’s wanted for a long time.
“Cas,” he breathes. Leans closer, rubs cheek and mouth over Castiel’s cock, still covered, breathes hot through the material. He can feel the zipper against his teeth. Feels the shape of Castiel’s cock for the first time and it’s even harder to make his hands move, inch them down and over smooth skin, the curve of Castiel’s ass. Hell of a lot scarier than Anna, terror so thick and hot in him as he helps Castiel step out of his clothes, pushes pants and socks to the side. No underwear and God only knows why the fuck not, and Dean sort of has to stop and sort of giggle a bit. His hands skim the back of Castiel’s knees. Castiel lets go of the curtain and follows Dean down, covers his whole body as Dean lets go. Lays himself down and lets go.
**
After. A long time after. Boneless and curled together and even on the bed, finally. Castiel up on his elbows, his eyes flickering over Dean, frowning just a little bit, like he’s not totally sure what the hell’s going on anymore, but that it’s probably okay. He runs his fingers carefully over Dean’s face, rubbing his thumbs across Dean’s eyebrows, sketching the curve of cheekbone and lips. Dean grins, snaps his teeth together and Castiel snorts, brings his fingers together like he’s snapping right back. The curtain got torn down somehow, fuck if Dean can remember how or when or why, and there’s sunlight on his skin. Hazy enough through the thin curtain that he almost kind of forgets that it’s the end of the world out there.
He can feel the ground shifting underneath him. Not literally. He picks up the feeling and looks it over, waits for the panic and fear to come and shake him down. They are there, knotted deep inside his chest like every other tumor he’s carried around with him in his life, but somewhere after he opened that door they sort of quit mattering so much. It’s novel enough that Dean holds onto it quietly. Feels himself breathe in and out. Feels Castiel doing the same.
“Shit,” Dean says. Castiel looks up at him, not particularly concerned or even all that curious. Just sort of sleepy and peaceful and bright. “He was right. That’s exactly what it feels like.”
**
There’s a town on the horizon that still hums with electricity. It’s a bright, sunny day and there are people everywhere, shopping and working and walking around and Dean feels like he’s on the moon. It looks more like the end of the world than Tucson ever did, and they stare out the car windows in silence. It’s summer, Dean thinks. Here, at least, for a little while longer. The car rumbles underneath them, impatiently stopped at the light, and Dean looks over at Castiel, who rolls his eyes.
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Squaresville, man.” He thinks, Sammy would’ve hated a place like this.
Castiel tilts his head and for a long moment they forget to look away from each other. The light changes and Dean takes the highway signs, and when they hit that double yellow line it feels like the whole world opens up in front of them. Castiel rummages in the glove compartment and pulls out Dean’s sunglasses, slips them on and doesn’t look totally fucking stupid in them. Dean thinks he can see fire on the other side of the mountains. He can smell blood in the air.
Dean shifts the car up to 5th. “Let’s go kick some ass.”