Humble Pie [17/20]
Getting in is the easy part, thanks to Charlie’s fake IDs and their cover as journalists, and it only takes them 10 minutes to make their way through the crowds and into the Divinity building at the other end of the complex, meeting up with Jo on the way. According to Ash’s blueprints of the building, the place Castiel is most likely to be held is in the warehouse out the back, where the slaves are kept until auction time.
The warehouse doors are secured with locks and opened with a keypad that requires a code.
“Charlie? The code for the doors to Warehouse 5?”
“Fifty, seventy-two, nine.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
“You owe me like a million, but that’s not important right now.”
“Cut the cameras?”
“Well, no, but they’ve been on loop for the past five minutes waiting for you guys to arrive. You’ve got another five to get in and out before they go back live.”
“Damn. Can’t you get us longer?”
“No. We’d risk someone suspecting something, and then the whole place would go into lockdown and you’d be royally fucked. Just be quick. Oh, and because they’re on loop, Sam can’t warn you if anyone comes along. You’re on your own for this one.”
“Roger that.”
He pushes the door open and they enter, not even attempting stealth. Inside, it’s nothing like a warehouse; Dean knows from the plans that the name is helpfully misleading. A long, grey corridor leads off to left and right with doors coming off. Locked, barred doors. Cells.
“Sammy? Which way?”
“Uh ... Left. Go all the way to the end; it’s the last door but one.”
According to the records Charlie found, this is where they put Castiel.
The door is locked. Fuck.
“Charlie? Let us in?”
There’s no answer for a moment, and when it comes, she sounds worried. “I- I can’t. Something’s stopping me - manual override or …”
Sam takes over. “Dean, get out of there.”
“No.”
“Dean - it’s a trap!”
“I don’t fucking care!”
Something about being this close, about knowing Castiel is just on the other side of this wall, something about it makes Dean want to scream, because he has to get Castiel back, he just has to, it’s not an option to fail, this has to work, and he crashes against the door with his shoulder even though he knows it won’t do any good, he shouts and beats against it with his fist, he calls Castiel’s name, begs for the fates or God or someone, begs for them to let this work, curses them when it doesn’t.
And then-
a second before he turns-
he knows that something is wrong-
even more wrong than being this close yet still too far-
he knows they’re not alone-
and then-
then he hears the sound-
the unmistakable sound-
of a gun being cocked.
And he knows it was too easy.
It was too easy because they let it be too easy.
‘That’s what he does: controls people.’
“Well, well, well, Dean Winchester.”
Zachariah Adler smiles, and it makes him look like a greedy, pompous, manipulative snake. He smiles, and Dean feels sick.
“I must say, I am surprised you would risk so much just for an angel. Did you become attached to it, is that it?”
“Shut up - you shut the fuck up right now.”
“Touchy. I don’t think you’re in any position to be making demands right now. Put all of your weapons on the floor and take a step back. Make any sudden movements and you will be shot.” He manages to sound entirely reasonable and even a little companionable as he says this, and if Dean wasn’t so busy coming up with the most apt swear-words in his head he might have appreciated this more.
He nods to the others, signals for them to do as they’re told. He doesn’t like it, not even in the slightest, but it’s not like he has any choice. This rescue mission is quickly turning into something they’re going to need rescuing from. And apart from the added irritation, it’s incredibly embarrassing.
A moment later, and they’re all unarmed, and if that wasn’t enough to make Dean feel uncomfortable, he’s still got several guns pointed at his face.
“Open the door,” Zachariah orders one of his goons, who steps forwards and punches the code into the keypad. The door unlocks with a clunk, and Zachariah extends an arm, the gesture friendly, motioning for Dean to enter. “After you.”
The room is small-ish and square, the walls halfway between light grey and dirty cream, the vaguely unpleasant color water turns after you’ve washed up all your dishes for the past week in it. But even before he notices the color of the walls (which, actually, he probably doesn’t pay very much attention to given his current situation, and I only really told you about them because it’s a little thing called Detail which helps to Set the Scene, which I sort of feel like I ought to do every now and again), before he notices anything else, Dean smells the blood, sharp and wrong, and as it hits the back of his throat he can almost taste it. He nearly takes a step backwards just to get away from it - nearly, but not quite - which is lucky, because the next thing he sees throws him off-balance completely.
A figure stands at the far end of the room, moon-pale amongst the shadows. Its bare arms are drawn above its head, pulled taut, and the loll of the head and weakness of the knees hint of unconsciousness. It’s probably only being kept upright by its arms, which must be being pulled out of their sockets. Its bare torso is purpled with bruises and littered with scratches, and the flecks of blood caking it as well as the drips pooling by its feet on the floor suggest that it’s the source of all the blood.
Dean doesn’t need to see the face to know it’s the man they came in here for.
“Cas!” he shouts, mouth dry and coppery. He starts towards him, half expecting to feel a bullet ripping through his back but no longer caring, and when none comes, he breaks into a run. “Cas!” Goddammit, he’s too late, he’s too late, Castiel isn’t moving, what if he’s dead, what if-
“Stop there, Winchester. If you touch it you’ll be shot.”
It is the hardest thing Dean has ever done not to leap the last few feet and press himself to Castiel, check his pulse, pull him down, hold him until he wakes and then go kill the sons of bitches who did this to him. Because from here, up close, he can see how bad the damage really is. Minor cuts and bruises cover his chest in a map of pain, and although Dean can’t be sure, a few of those ribs look like they could be broken. But it’s Castiel’s back that ... the blood ... it’s his back ... Fuck.
Dean is familiar with brutality. He has been both the victim and the perpetrator of violence, and he’s known his fair share of pain and suffering in his time. Over the years, he’s become accustomed to horror, acclimatized to it, desensitized almost. These days, it takes an awful lot to shock him.
Keep that in mind when I tell you this: right now, in this moment, Dean is rocked to his very core.
It’s very difficult to see what’s left of Castiel’s back because of all the blood. Not just a little splattering or spraying; this blood could very well have been poured on, because Castiel is drenched. There’s not an inch of flesh that isn’t stained with red. But if you look more closely, as Dean is doing now, as Dean will regret doing in a moment, you will see the two long, deep gashes splitting Castiel’s back, vicious yet precise slashes from shoulder to hip in an obscene V.
It stirrs a half-forgotten memory in Dean’s mind, a memory of a dream, of shadows and terror and blood, watching Castiel look at him with dark eyes and slowly bleed his life away.
That’s not going to happen. Not now, not ever. Not if Dean can help it.
“What the fuck have you done to him?” he demands, turning on Zachariah.
“I had Alastair punish it,” the other man says simply, his tone matter-of-fact, the vaguely pleasant expression on his face belying his words. “It ran away from me; it needed to be made an example of. Frankly, it wasn’t meant to survive this long, but another day or two and I’ll be able to wash my hands of this unfortunate episode. And, as it turns out, it was useful for one last thing. Catching you.”
Dean clenches his jaw, although whether to stop himself from killing Zachariah with his bare hands and to hell with the consequences or from throwing up all over the man’s slimy shoes at the man’s slimy words, he’s not sure.
“It ever occur to you that it would’ve been kinder to just put a bullet in his head?”
“Kindness has nothing to do with it. Sometimes, humanity is not a luxury all of us can afford.”
“Bullshit. That’s crap and you know it.”
“How is it any different from the way you put your morals on hold when you work a job?”
Dean bites down on the inside of his lip, tastes blood. “I don’t go around torturing people. And I don’t go around justifying what I do, either. It’s wrong, and I know that, I get it. You ... You’re just a sick fuck. And now I’m getting Cas down, and if you like you can shoot me, but I’m sure as hell not going to just stand here while he bleeds out.”
“Very well. The FBI will arrive here in a minute or so anyway so it really makes very little difference. It’s been nice meeting you, Dean Winchester.” Zachariah turns smartly on his heel and makes for the exit, and it takes all of Dean’s strength of will not to just kill him there and then. But his self-preservation instinct kicks in, and besides, he’d be no use to Castiel dead. Turns out he’s not much use to Castiel alive, either, but that’s beside the point.
The moment the door clunks shut, leaving Dean and the others alone with Castiel, he springs into action, letting forth a stream of orders as he does so. “Jo, get the others over the radio and let them know what’s going on. Charlie should be out by now but just check; if she’s not see if she can do something about the cops coming here, lock the doors or something. And see if she can unlock this door. Also talk to Sam, get him watching the cameras, tell him to alert us the moment there’s movement, and see if he can get in touch with Henricksen and warn him that shit’s about to go down. Gabriel, you help me get Cas down from there. We’re going to need to stop the bleeding, and bring him around as soon as possible too, or his body will go into shock and he could slip into a coma.”
Castiel’s wrists are cuffed, and the chain connecting them is drawn up over a hook suspended from the ceiling. Even if Castiel’s unconscious form wasn’t a dead weight despite his slightness, it would still be a tricky job, first because the hook is high and Dean has to stretch up to reach it, but also because they’re both trying to hurt Castiel as little as possible by avoiding all his obvious injuries, and this makes the maneuvers even more difficult. Finally, however, they manage it, with a lot of swearing and a lot of worry, and lower Castiel slowly to the ground, where he lies with his head in Gabriel’s lap. Dean stands over the pair, breathing heavily and watching the reassuring sight of Castiel’s chest moving in and out, shallowly, raggedly, but surely. For now at least, Castiel is still alive.
Jo appears at Dean’s shoulder. “Hey. I’ve updated the others. According to the cameras, we’ve got under five minutes before a whole heap of cops descend on us. Henricksen’s with them, so he might be able to talk us out of this. But Dean? We’re going to have to leave Castiel behind.”
He looks down at the body cradled in Gabriel’s arms, the body of a man he’s come to think of as a friend, looks at the peaceful expression on his face, the lines of worry and pain smoothed out by sleep. He imagines the pain and the suffering the last few days have held for Castiel, and imagines more in the coming days, imagines Castiel screaming until his voice is cracked and hoarse and the only noise he can make is a ragged whisper, until finally, finally, he dies, broken and beaten and bloodied, in such a haze of agony that he can’t even remember his own name, let alone the crime for which he is being punished.
And Dean makes his decision. If the can’t save Castiel’s life, then at least he can save him from that death, a death full of pain and violence and blood.
He just hopes he’ll have the strength to do what he must when the time comes.
“Dean? You’ve got company.” Sam’s voice sounds slightly squashed through the earpiece, like he’s very far away or talking through a mouthful of water or something.
“What’s their twenty?” Dean asks, all business, and his own voice sounds muffled too. Like it’s not real. Nothing is real apart from the blood pounding behind his eyes.
“I’d give you two minutes, tops. What’re you going to do?”
Dean takes his earpiece out and drops it on the floor. He’s not going to need it. And he doesn’t want anyone else being party to what he’s got to do now. Then he turns to Gabriel.
He doesn’t know what he expected to see in the other man’s eyes. Worry, maybe, or confusion; maybe even denial. But the acceptance he sees there almost brings him up short. Gabriel’s no fool. He knows exactly what’s going on. And he knows exactly what Dean plans on doing.
And he knows it’s the right thing to do.
Gabriel doesn’t often beg, but he does it now, for his brother. “Please,” he says, mouth dry, like all the moisture in his body is currently residing just behind his eyeballs, threatening to spill out at any moment. “Please, can you- I can’t-” His voice breaks and he stops, looking down at his brother’s peaceful face. He’s come so far for him, out of guilt and love and determination, and to lose him now ... Like this ... They could have - should have had so much more time. They barely even know each other any more. And, selfishly, Gabriel doesn’t want to die one day, knowing that all of this was his fault, and knowing that Castiel never forgave him.
But this is the only way Castiel’s suffering will finally end. It’s what he would want - he’s a fighter, but he would prefer to go to his grave nobly, even if that means dying at the hand of a friend. This final act of compassion is the very least Gabriel can do for his little brother.
But that doesn’t mean he can bring himself to do the deed.
He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. Dean sees the plea in the other man’s eyes and nods his understanding. A breath. Calm. Reasonable. Professional. He’s used to pushing his feelings away in order to do what he must, acting coldly and rationally when necessary and saving the tears for later. He’s played Death’s part before.
This time it’s a friend. He doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.
He crouches down, gently taking Castiel’s head in his hands. The man’s skin is pale from blood-loss, dark smudges under his eyes, hair matted with sweat, and blood on his slightly parted lips. For a moment he just sits there, wavering, undecided, before he leans forward, pausing self-consciously halfway down but then continuing until he lightly presses his lips to Castiel’s forehead. It’s tender and personal and he’s so, so sorry, there aren’t any words. To end a life ... it’s difficult at any time, no matter who it is or why the killing is being done. But to end Castiel’s life ... It feels so wrong. Somehow, Castiel is different. He’s managed to reach Dean in a way no one else ever has. They share a bond, more profound than Dean can either ignore or deny.
So Dean presses his face to Castiel’s, tangling his fingers in his hair, grasping the man as though, if he holds on tight enough everything will be okay. And he stays like that for the longest time.
It takes the most gargantuan effort of will to sit back up again and steel himself for what he must do. There are tears on his face but his jaw is set. The time for sentimentality will come later or not at all. What he has to do now it get on with his job. Do it, do it well, and do it with a smile. That’s called being professional.
All it will take is a quick, sharp twist. He’ll hear the muffled crunch and snap of bone on bone as Castiel’s neck breaks, and then he’ll lay the other man’s head back down in his brother’s lap. He will look like he’s still sleeping. Only this time, he’ll never wake back up.
Dean takes a deep breath. Two.
And then it’s all over.
The warehouse doors are secured with locks and opened with a keypad that requires a code.
“Charlie? The code for the doors to Warehouse 5?”
“Fifty, seventy-two, nine.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
“You owe me like a million, but that’s not important right now.”
“Cut the cameras?”
“Well, no, but they’ve been on loop for the past five minutes waiting for you guys to arrive. You’ve got another five to get in and out before they go back live.”
“Damn. Can’t you get us longer?”
“No. We’d risk someone suspecting something, and then the whole place would go into lockdown and you’d be royally fucked. Just be quick. Oh, and because they’re on loop, Sam can’t warn you if anyone comes along. You’re on your own for this one.”
“Roger that.”
He pushes the door open and they enter, not even attempting stealth. Inside, it’s nothing like a warehouse; Dean knows from the plans that the name is helpfully misleading. A long, grey corridor leads off to left and right with doors coming off. Locked, barred doors. Cells.
“Sammy? Which way?”
“Uh ... Left. Go all the way to the end; it’s the last door but one.”
According to the records Charlie found, this is where they put Castiel.
The door is locked. Fuck.
“Charlie? Let us in?”
There’s no answer for a moment, and when it comes, she sounds worried. “I- I can’t. Something’s stopping me - manual override or …”
Sam takes over. “Dean, get out of there.”
“No.”
“Dean - it’s a trap!”
“I don’t fucking care!”
Something about being this close, about knowing Castiel is just on the other side of this wall, something about it makes Dean want to scream, because he has to get Castiel back, he just has to, it’s not an option to fail, this has to work, and he crashes against the door with his shoulder even though he knows it won’t do any good, he shouts and beats against it with his fist, he calls Castiel’s name, begs for the fates or God or someone, begs for them to let this work, curses them when it doesn’t.
And then-
a second before he turns-
he knows that something is wrong-
even more wrong than being this close yet still too far-
he knows they’re not alone-
and then-
then he hears the sound-
the unmistakable sound-
of a gun being cocked.
And he knows it was too easy.
It was too easy because they let it be too easy.
‘That’s what he does: controls people.’
“Well, well, well, Dean Winchester.”
Zachariah Adler smiles, and it makes him look like a greedy, pompous, manipulative snake. He smiles, and Dean feels sick.
“I must say, I am surprised you would risk so much just for an angel. Did you become attached to it, is that it?”
“Shut up - you shut the fuck up right now.”
“Touchy. I don’t think you’re in any position to be making demands right now. Put all of your weapons on the floor and take a step back. Make any sudden movements and you will be shot.” He manages to sound entirely reasonable and even a little companionable as he says this, and if Dean wasn’t so busy coming up with the most apt swear-words in his head he might have appreciated this more.
He nods to the others, signals for them to do as they’re told. He doesn’t like it, not even in the slightest, but it’s not like he has any choice. This rescue mission is quickly turning into something they’re going to need rescuing from. And apart from the added irritation, it’s incredibly embarrassing.
A moment later, and they’re all unarmed, and if that wasn’t enough to make Dean feel uncomfortable, he’s still got several guns pointed at his face.
“Open the door,” Zachariah orders one of his goons, who steps forwards and punches the code into the keypad. The door unlocks with a clunk, and Zachariah extends an arm, the gesture friendly, motioning for Dean to enter. “After you.”
The room is small-ish and square, the walls halfway between light grey and dirty cream, the vaguely unpleasant color water turns after you’ve washed up all your dishes for the past week in it. But even before he notices the color of the walls (which, actually, he probably doesn’t pay very much attention to given his current situation, and I only really told you about them because it’s a little thing called Detail which helps to Set the Scene, which I sort of feel like I ought to do every now and again), before he notices anything else, Dean smells the blood, sharp and wrong, and as it hits the back of his throat he can almost taste it. He nearly takes a step backwards just to get away from it - nearly, but not quite - which is lucky, because the next thing he sees throws him off-balance completely.
A figure stands at the far end of the room, moon-pale amongst the shadows. Its bare arms are drawn above its head, pulled taut, and the loll of the head and weakness of the knees hint of unconsciousness. It’s probably only being kept upright by its arms, which must be being pulled out of their sockets. Its bare torso is purpled with bruises and littered with scratches, and the flecks of blood caking it as well as the drips pooling by its feet on the floor suggest that it’s the source of all the blood.
Dean doesn’t need to see the face to know it’s the man they came in here for.
“Cas!” he shouts, mouth dry and coppery. He starts towards him, half expecting to feel a bullet ripping through his back but no longer caring, and when none comes, he breaks into a run. “Cas!” Goddammit, he’s too late, he’s too late, Castiel isn’t moving, what if he’s dead, what if-
“Stop there, Winchester. If you touch it you’ll be shot.”
It is the hardest thing Dean has ever done not to leap the last few feet and press himself to Castiel, check his pulse, pull him down, hold him until he wakes and then go kill the sons of bitches who did this to him. Because from here, up close, he can see how bad the damage really is. Minor cuts and bruises cover his chest in a map of pain, and although Dean can’t be sure, a few of those ribs look like they could be broken. But it’s Castiel’s back that ... the blood ... it’s his back ... Fuck.
Dean is familiar with brutality. He has been both the victim and the perpetrator of violence, and he’s known his fair share of pain and suffering in his time. Over the years, he’s become accustomed to horror, acclimatized to it, desensitized almost. These days, it takes an awful lot to shock him.
Keep that in mind when I tell you this: right now, in this moment, Dean is rocked to his very core.
It’s very difficult to see what’s left of Castiel’s back because of all the blood. Not just a little splattering or spraying; this blood could very well have been poured on, because Castiel is drenched. There’s not an inch of flesh that isn’t stained with red. But if you look more closely, as Dean is doing now, as Dean will regret doing in a moment, you will see the two long, deep gashes splitting Castiel’s back, vicious yet precise slashes from shoulder to hip in an obscene V.
It stirrs a half-forgotten memory in Dean’s mind, a memory of a dream, of shadows and terror and blood, watching Castiel look at him with dark eyes and slowly bleed his life away.
That’s not going to happen. Not now, not ever. Not if Dean can help it.
“What the fuck have you done to him?” he demands, turning on Zachariah.
“I had Alastair punish it,” the other man says simply, his tone matter-of-fact, the vaguely pleasant expression on his face belying his words. “It ran away from me; it needed to be made an example of. Frankly, it wasn’t meant to survive this long, but another day or two and I’ll be able to wash my hands of this unfortunate episode. And, as it turns out, it was useful for one last thing. Catching you.”
Dean clenches his jaw, although whether to stop himself from killing Zachariah with his bare hands and to hell with the consequences or from throwing up all over the man’s slimy shoes at the man’s slimy words, he’s not sure.
“It ever occur to you that it would’ve been kinder to just put a bullet in his head?”
“Kindness has nothing to do with it. Sometimes, humanity is not a luxury all of us can afford.”
“Bullshit. That’s crap and you know it.”
“How is it any different from the way you put your morals on hold when you work a job?”
Dean bites down on the inside of his lip, tastes blood. “I don’t go around torturing people. And I don’t go around justifying what I do, either. It’s wrong, and I know that, I get it. You ... You’re just a sick fuck. And now I’m getting Cas down, and if you like you can shoot me, but I’m sure as hell not going to just stand here while he bleeds out.”
“Very well. The FBI will arrive here in a minute or so anyway so it really makes very little difference. It’s been nice meeting you, Dean Winchester.” Zachariah turns smartly on his heel and makes for the exit, and it takes all of Dean’s strength of will not to just kill him there and then. But his self-preservation instinct kicks in, and besides, he’d be no use to Castiel dead. Turns out he’s not much use to Castiel alive, either, but that’s beside the point.
The moment the door clunks shut, leaving Dean and the others alone with Castiel, he springs into action, letting forth a stream of orders as he does so. “Jo, get the others over the radio and let them know what’s going on. Charlie should be out by now but just check; if she’s not see if she can do something about the cops coming here, lock the doors or something. And see if she can unlock this door. Also talk to Sam, get him watching the cameras, tell him to alert us the moment there’s movement, and see if he can get in touch with Henricksen and warn him that shit’s about to go down. Gabriel, you help me get Cas down from there. We’re going to need to stop the bleeding, and bring him around as soon as possible too, or his body will go into shock and he could slip into a coma.”
Castiel’s wrists are cuffed, and the chain connecting them is drawn up over a hook suspended from the ceiling. Even if Castiel’s unconscious form wasn’t a dead weight despite his slightness, it would still be a tricky job, first because the hook is high and Dean has to stretch up to reach it, but also because they’re both trying to hurt Castiel as little as possible by avoiding all his obvious injuries, and this makes the maneuvers even more difficult. Finally, however, they manage it, with a lot of swearing and a lot of worry, and lower Castiel slowly to the ground, where he lies with his head in Gabriel’s lap. Dean stands over the pair, breathing heavily and watching the reassuring sight of Castiel’s chest moving in and out, shallowly, raggedly, but surely. For now at least, Castiel is still alive.
Jo appears at Dean’s shoulder. “Hey. I’ve updated the others. According to the cameras, we’ve got under five minutes before a whole heap of cops descend on us. Henricksen’s with them, so he might be able to talk us out of this. But Dean? We’re going to have to leave Castiel behind.”
He looks down at the body cradled in Gabriel’s arms, the body of a man he’s come to think of as a friend, looks at the peaceful expression on his face, the lines of worry and pain smoothed out by sleep. He imagines the pain and the suffering the last few days have held for Castiel, and imagines more in the coming days, imagines Castiel screaming until his voice is cracked and hoarse and the only noise he can make is a ragged whisper, until finally, finally, he dies, broken and beaten and bloodied, in such a haze of agony that he can’t even remember his own name, let alone the crime for which he is being punished.
And Dean makes his decision. If the can’t save Castiel’s life, then at least he can save him from that death, a death full of pain and violence and blood.
He just hopes he’ll have the strength to do what he must when the time comes.
“Dean? You’ve got company.” Sam’s voice sounds slightly squashed through the earpiece, like he’s very far away or talking through a mouthful of water or something.
“What’s their twenty?” Dean asks, all business, and his own voice sounds muffled too. Like it’s not real. Nothing is real apart from the blood pounding behind his eyes.
“I’d give you two minutes, tops. What’re you going to do?”
Dean takes his earpiece out and drops it on the floor. He’s not going to need it. And he doesn’t want anyone else being party to what he’s got to do now. Then he turns to Gabriel.
He doesn’t know what he expected to see in the other man’s eyes. Worry, maybe, or confusion; maybe even denial. But the acceptance he sees there almost brings him up short. Gabriel’s no fool. He knows exactly what’s going on. And he knows exactly what Dean plans on doing.
And he knows it’s the right thing to do.
Gabriel doesn’t often beg, but he does it now, for his brother. “Please,” he says, mouth dry, like all the moisture in his body is currently residing just behind his eyeballs, threatening to spill out at any moment. “Please, can you- I can’t-” His voice breaks and he stops, looking down at his brother’s peaceful face. He’s come so far for him, out of guilt and love and determination, and to lose him now ... Like this ... They could have - should have had so much more time. They barely even know each other any more. And, selfishly, Gabriel doesn’t want to die one day, knowing that all of this was his fault, and knowing that Castiel never forgave him.
But this is the only way Castiel’s suffering will finally end. It’s what he would want - he’s a fighter, but he would prefer to go to his grave nobly, even if that means dying at the hand of a friend. This final act of compassion is the very least Gabriel can do for his little brother.
But that doesn’t mean he can bring himself to do the deed.
He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. Dean sees the plea in the other man’s eyes and nods his understanding. A breath. Calm. Reasonable. Professional. He’s used to pushing his feelings away in order to do what he must, acting coldly and rationally when necessary and saving the tears for later. He’s played Death’s part before.
This time it’s a friend. He doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.
He crouches down, gently taking Castiel’s head in his hands. The man’s skin is pale from blood-loss, dark smudges under his eyes, hair matted with sweat, and blood on his slightly parted lips. For a moment he just sits there, wavering, undecided, before he leans forward, pausing self-consciously halfway down but then continuing until he lightly presses his lips to Castiel’s forehead. It’s tender and personal and he’s so, so sorry, there aren’t any words. To end a life ... it’s difficult at any time, no matter who it is or why the killing is being done. But to end Castiel’s life ... It feels so wrong. Somehow, Castiel is different. He’s managed to reach Dean in a way no one else ever has. They share a bond, more profound than Dean can either ignore or deny.
So Dean presses his face to Castiel’s, tangling his fingers in his hair, grasping the man as though, if he holds on tight enough everything will be okay. And he stays like that for the longest time.
It takes the most gargantuan effort of will to sit back up again and steel himself for what he must do. There are tears on his face but his jaw is set. The time for sentimentality will come later or not at all. What he has to do now it get on with his job. Do it, do it well, and do it with a smile. That’s called being professional.
All it will take is a quick, sharp twist. He’ll hear the muffled crunch and snap of bone on bone as Castiel’s neck breaks, and then he’ll lay the other man’s head back down in his brother’s lap. He will look like he’s still sleeping. Only this time, he’ll never wake back up.
Dean takes a deep breath. Two.
And then it’s all over.