Castielfest Fic: Shadows Filled Up With Doubt
Title: Shadows Filled Up With Doubt
Author: MF Luder
Recipient: amor_remanet
Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Castiel/OFC, intimated Dean/OFC
Keywords: slash, het, apocalypse, character death, established relationship, alternate universe
Rating: R
Word Count: ~11,600
Warnings: torture, drug use, character death
Spoilers: 5x4, “The End”
Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to Kripke and Co. and the CW.
Archive: My LJ, anywhere else, please let me know
Summary: When Dean begins to torture again, Castiel slowly loses pieces of himself.
Author's Notes: Filling this request: 5.04-verse: established Dean/Cas. Remember in "On the Head of A Pin" when Cas says, "I would give anything for you not to have to do this" about Dean torturing Alastair? After losing his Grace, basically-human!Cas picks up the taste for pain meds, but for the most part, he's sober more often than not. When Dean starts torturing again, it takes its toll on Cas too for castielfest. Title taken from Jace Everett's “Bad Things,” another prompt. And umm, I sorta of included two of your DNWs so I'm hoping you'll forgive me since it is a 5x4 fic. D:
Author’s Notes 2: This is a little twist on 5x4 in that there is no past!Dean. Thus, the ending is a tish different. Make of that as you will. Bastardized a few lines from the show as well.
Author's Notes 3: Finally, the BIGGEST of apologies to the mods and to my recipient amor_remanet for being so incredibly tardy with this.
Castiel tunes out the whimpers that echo within concrete walls as he patrols the perimeter of the room, gun slack in his hands. From the corner of his eye, he can see a green army jacketed form stalking around another form chained to a chair. There's red all over.
“Where's Lucifer? What is his next move? You will tell me or it'll only get worse. I was trained by the best.”
He flinches when the screams start up again. With each piece of skin Dean flays from the creature, a little piece of Castiel's soul is skinned away, too.
***
It begins after Robert Singer dies in his South Dakota home. Most of them had moved to Camp Chitaqua by then, but Bobby had remained steadfast in his home of fifty odd years. Said he was more safe there than anywhere else. Only problem was, Enochian sigils and Devil's Traps didn't keep out people juiced up on the Croatoan virus. They didn't reach him in time.
The stoic look that descended on Dean's features when they burned Bobby's body gave Castiel shivers.
Less than a week after they laid the hunter to rest, Castiel and Chuck go on a supply run with a few of the younger men from the camp. Dean no longer goes on these runs, claiming Castiel can handle the Croats and that Chuck knows far better than anyone what they need at the base camp. He's right, of course. But Castiel knows it is less his own competence and more Dean finding the runs beneath him, leaving the former angel to babysit the prophet of the Lord. If it didn't involve eviscerating zombies, Dean couldn't give a shit.
They returned several days later, having had to travel into North Dakota as they've already raided everything in the immediate area that wasn't spoiled by those affected with the virus. Castiel doesn't bother checking in with Dean; that is Chuck's job. Instead, he heads straight to his cabin where he finds Shannon waiting for him - naked - and so he loses himself in the dark hair and dark eyes that remind him of no one and remembers the beauty of humanity for an hour.
He is sitting in bed, girl gone, smoking a joint when Chuck comes bursting into his cabin.
“Don't you knock?” Cas asks with a slow grin. His sexploits - Dean had taught him that word - were infamous around here now, after all.
Chuck's face is half panic and all seriousness. “Cas. It's Dean. You need to come now.”
He immediately swings his legs out of bed, joint forgotten. “Is he hurt?” Castiel slides his arms into a shirt and then they're out the door.
“No, he's not hurt. It's just...I didn't know. But some of the guys came up to me when I couldn't find him. Mentioned something about his last raid. And a demon.”
Those are words that would stop Castiel in his tracks normally, but right now he's too worried that wherever Chuck leads him, Dean will be at the end lying broken and bleeding.
They finally stop outside a cabin on the edge of the perimeter. They don't go out there often; it's normally used as a guard house.
Chuck turns to him, wringing his hands and looking incredibly frazzled. “He's been in there for two days, now, they said.”
“What is going on?” Castiel demands but even though Chuck flinches, he doesn't say anything more, just opens the door.
Castiel takes in the sight in front of him with a sharp inhale. There's a Devil's Trap chalked on the floorboards. In it sits a man, his head bleeding from a gash on his temple. His eyes are black and blue, his clothes ripped and bloody.
Dean is standing behind him, oblivious to Chuck and Castiel's presence as he leans over the man's shoulder, whispering something in his ear. In his hands, he holds a pliers.
The demon - for that's surely what he is - has no fingernails.
“Dean Winchester.” His voice surprises even himself; it's assertive and angry, loud. His blood is rushing in his ears, the adrenaline heightening his senses, and anger flows through his veins.
Dean's gaze turns on him and for a moment, it's still harsh. But then his eyes widen and a look of horror crosses his features. He glances down at the pliers in his hands and drops them. The thunk they make when they hit the ground shatters the thick silence.
Castiel steps into the room and says a quick exorcism; Latin is still ingrained in his mind, even if he's impotent when it comes to banishing demons hands-on. The demon's essence bursts out of the host's mouth and vanishes.
“Chuck,” Castiel says, eyes still on Dean who has backed himself up against a wall. “Get Tom and Jeff in here to clean up the body.”
Castiel stays there, never taking his eyes off Dean who has sunk to the ground, head in his hands. Within ten minutes, the body of the demon is dragged out. Blood smears across the floor.
“Burn it,” he says to Jeff as they pass by.
Once they've left, Castiel closes the door behind him, locking it. He walks towards Dean, stopping when he's a foot away.
“Dean.”
He doesn't look up. There's blood on the cuffs of his jacket. There's blood on his hands.
Castiel nudges him with his foot. Says his name again, a little quieter; softer.
“Dean. Look at me.”
He finally turns his head up, staring into Castiel's shadow. There are wet tracks down his face and his voice is rough with emotion. “Cas. Cas, I don't know what I was doing. It was just...we caught him. And he wouldn't tell us anything. It was so easy...”
Dean trails off and Castiel sighs, sliding down the wall next to him. He doesn't touch him, but they're close, jackets barely brushing against each other. It's getting dark outside and he can't see the bloodstains any more. He knows they are there, though, and they burn inside him like acid, a pattern that clings to his retinas when he closes his eyes.
“That's not you, Dean. You don't torture. We kill the bad guys and we keep on living. That's what you taught me.”
“It's not enough, though.” Dean's voice is hushed, wretched. “He was going to break. I could feel it. He could have told us where Lucifer was hiding. Maybe where the Colt is.”
“He couldn't have told you where Sa-” he corrects himself, “Lucifer is. And if he had, he'd have been lying. You think Lucifer lets demons go when they know where he is? My brother is not stupid.”
“Just a little longer,” Dean says before he tips into Castiel's body, head resting on his arm where it lies across his knees. His body is shaking.
Castiel knows it's just the crash from adrenaline, but still, he reaches across with his other arm and lets his hand run through Dean's hair. It's cut a little shorter than it used to be; Dean's picked up more military habits as the apocalypse has crept on. He probably learned them from his father. Dean doesn't shy away from his touch and for a little while, Castiel is grateful.
***
Dean had been Castiel's first time. After the sweat had cooled and they were lying together, legs tangled around each other and the stiff motel room sheets, Dean had smiled charmingly at him and said:
“Just so you know, Cas, this doesn't mean we're going steady or anything.”
That had been fine with Castiel. As an angel, he hadn't expected devotion or for Dean to change his ways. Sex had been pleasant, but that was it. In fact, he'd assumed Dean would have stopped caring about Castiel and sex at all since Castiel was no longer a virgin, his promise fulfilled.
As he'd become more human, though, he'd found himself starting to care. He felt jealous, possessive, angry, sometimes. Emotions that as an angel, he'd never known. He'd seen them, yes. Seen Paris destroy Troy all for the love of a woman. Seen empires crumble because of man's frailty when it came to succumbing to emotions. But now he lived them. They broiled up inside him until they spilled over and he was forced to lock himself in his cabin so that he didn't show the world how weak he'd become.
Sex made him feel alive; for that minute of orgasm, he reached an ecstasy that rivaled communion with his brothers in the Heavenly Host. He found he liked dirty sex, rough sex, sex without words that allowed him to completely be in the experience, to simply feel. And when his mouth claimed Dean's, when he bent Dean to his will with a twist of his hips, his mind screamed mine, mine, mine! the entire time.
Ironic, then, that Dean had not had sex with anyone but him while he was an angel - despite his words which had indicated he planned to - yet, since Castiel had fallen, Dean was open for business, women in and out of his bed like a revolving door.
Some days it drove Castiel out of his mind. Other days, he was able to calmly accept it. Castiel had nothing to offer Dean anymore since he'd fallen from the angel club. He was useless.
Human.
***
It started with alcohol. After that initial bender he found it to be his best friend. It became his crutch when he was sad or feeling too much. The drug both heightened emotions and dulled the pain. He could spin the things he was feeling over and over in his mind while he drank but they were just out of his reach. It gave him the illusion of being an outside observer again.
For the first few months of living in the camp, everyone had left him alone with his whiskey and vodka. But Dean dragged him out of his cabin one night, insisting he needed social contact and that night was the first time someone challenged him to a drinking contest.
While Castiel was quickly losing the tolerance levels he'd had as an angel, he could still out drink an entire platoon of soldiers - so Dean said. After awhile, the veterans of the camp went back to leaving him alone, unable to lose any more of their money or dignity to Castiel's iron stomach. But every time a new person joined the camp they heard of Castiel's drinking habits and thought themselves up to the challenge. It kept him in lube, condoms, smokes, and toilet paper.
When Dean found Chuck a year later - he'd survived the Croats initial attack because he'd been guarded by an archangel still and had been kept in a military safe house since - and brought him back to camp, Castiel quit the drinking games that went on in their makeshift bar. Instead, he and Chuck sat and drank together at a two-person table in the back, not needing much conversation. They got along well enough. He'd lost his reverence for the prophet, but still had respect for the man who could cook up some mean scrambled eggs and understood the need to lose himself in drink.
Castiel never failed to be amused by the rumors surrounding them. If anything, Castiel saw Chuck as a strange sort of father figure. Weird as he was eons older than Chuck, but when Dean stopped feeling inclined to converse with him for periods longer than twenty minutes, it was Chuck who took Castiel under his wing and explained the bits of humanity that still perplexed Castiel.
***
Castiel discovered he liked to dance. He wasn't very good, but even Dean had to admit his 'slinky hips' moved well to the beat. Chuck helped him out there, too, picking up a box of CDs from someone's house while they were out on a supply run. Dean kept the camp running on generators, so Castiel stole some batteries on their next run and traded a quart of homemade beer for someone's disc-man.
He found he didn't like pop. Classical was beautiful in its mathematical symmetry, symphonies washing over him like the chorus of Heaven. Heavy metal did nothing for him, though he'd become accustomed to the classic rock Dean still listened to from time to time.
His favorites, though, were those with Latin or reggae beats. Dean rolled his eyes at him, not understanding the music or Castiel's inclination to lose himself to it. But on what would have been the two-year anniversary of Castiel losing his virginity to Dean, he found a few battered CDs featuring salsa music wrapped in brown paper and string on his dresser.
The sex they had that night was surprisingly gentle and sweet. Castiel came with a sigh in Dean's mouth - lips locked in a kiss - ass clenching around his fingers.
Extracurricular activities were few and far between - unless you counted drinking and sex - but one day he walked by one of the women's cabin barracks and saw a blonde wearing low cut jeans and a flowy top moving across the floor in bare feet to a beat he couldn't hear. Curious, he knocked on the open door's frame and smiled when the girl started. The thing that drew him further in was that, after a moment, he remembers seeing her leaving Dean's cabin late last night.
“You dance?” he asks, running his fingers over the metal of the bunk bed closest to him.
She nods, a flush on her cheeks, a wary smile on her face.
“Do you?”
“Not well,” he laughs.
“You're Castiel, aren't you?”
“That's me.” He lets an easy grin slide over his face.
“Dean...well, the camp, really, talks about you a lot. I'm new here. They say you're an angel.”
He shrugs. “That's what they say. But,” he leans forward, into her space. He can see the sweat glistening on her forehead, smell the slight musk that speaks of their limited water supplies and humanity in general. “I don't believe everything they say, if you know what I mean.”
Her eyes widen and then she tosses her long curls over her shoulder in a laugh. “My name's Amanda. Let's dance.”
Her eyes are brown, her lips pink and smiling, her frame slimmer than he's used to. They move to a beat no one but them hears and she catches and corrects him when he misses a step. They move like that until it turns into something else, heart pounding in his chest as he lifts up one of her legs so that it wraps around his waist.
He swears he can taste Dean inside her, but he knows it's just wishful thinking.
After, they lie side by side with only the scratchy blanket covering them - more her than him - and she pulls a joint from her nightstand she shares with whomever sleeps above her. Used to the feel of cigarettes between his fingers, he figures it isn't much different and inhales deep on his first pull. He chokes and the lithe girl next to him doubles over in laughter, shoulders shaking. He frowns and tries again when she tells him to hold in the smoke. It doesn't hit him right away, but then it does, and it's glorious.
She's his other first.
***
The world around them is dying. Very little green is left anymore. The northern states are covered in ice and ghostly trees. The south is sweltering, plants dried out like burnt husks. There in South Dakota it's a mixture. The vegetation is still lush but it all pokes out from snow patches. Some of those in the camp keep a garden through hard work and a lot of babying the vegetables. They make do on a limited diet.
Castiel's able to pass off his weight loss due to that. Dean barks at him to eat more - they can't fight properly if he's too weak, he says - and Chuck just looks at him sadly.
Castiel thinks Chuck knows. That he knows the bottles disappearing out of the medicine stash aren't the result of black market trade. It almost makes Castiel feel ashamed. The thing is, Castiel feels stronger. And somewhere along the line, if he'd been born human, he'd have learned drugs made you think you were invincible. But Castiel hadn't been born a human. There's no D.A.R.E. teacher scolding him in his head and the hunters of the camp are either too focused on the hunt or themselves to worry about a sorry excuse of a former angel trying to find his next high.
***
The second time Dean tortures again, Castiel isn't there. He'd passed out on a combination of amphetamines and the heavy binge drinking they allowed. He doesn't know anything about it until he finds himself face-first in the toilet, staring at his own vomit and Chuck making disgusted sounds behind him even as he pats his back in a manner that is probably meant to be soothing.
“You're going to have a wicked headache, Cas.”
“I already do,” he growls.
How long he camps out on the floor, he doesn't know. All he realizes is that there's always a glass of cool water ready for him and a pillow he can rest his head on for when he's not throwing up.
“Never doing that again,” he states at one point, not even knowing if anyone's there to listen to him.
But Chuck apparently hasn't left. He makes a sympathetic noise and then pauses heavily enough that Castiel can't help but notice.
“What is it?” Cas asks.
“Dean...well, he tortured again. A demon. About the Colt.”
“Perfect,” he says before he has to make use of the toilet again.
He confronts Dean two days after the torture, three since he'd passed out, according to Chuck. He calls Dean to his cabin and is surprised when Dean comes through the door with a soft expression. He looks strangely naked; he's not wearing his usual ten layers. He has only a long sleeve shirt and a pair of worn jeans on.
He looks good.
Castiel glances up from the list he's making. He's in desperate need of coffee and he's also running low on smokes.
“Hello, Dean.”
“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, stepping into the room and scanning it. He steps just close enough so that his arm brushes against Castiel's back. It's not quite a caress, but Castiel leans into it anyway. “You're changing up the digs. A gong?”
“Meditation,” he responds. “I do yoga to keep limber now. Trying to keep my reflexes in shape.”
“You could just come to practice.”
Castiel can't. He doesn't like seeing Dean sweaty, fumbling with the other men of the camp. Even if he has no interest in them - which certainly isn't true, there's a sweet boy barely nineteen he sees fawning over Dean and he doubts someone gets that look in their eyes around Dean unless they've been treated to his skills in bed - it stirs up something dark and bitter inside him. Other days, he spars with the female hunters of the camp and that burns worse in Castiel's gut.
“I believe I do satisfactory, not only in the field, but also in our private sessions. I don't recall you complaining.”
He offers up a quick leer and Dean laughs. Scrapes his fingernails down Castiel's neck as he leans in like he's sharing a secret. “Wanna fuck?”
Castiel doesn't, actually; he took a few pills just over an hour ago and whenever he takes this particular cocktail, he can't get it up for hours. Unfortunate side affect, but he loves the the pleasant feeling it gives him. Unlike his other drugs, this one doesn't send him flying. He's just able able to forget and feel happy for a little while.
But still, he's not going to turn Dean down. He moves his chair back from the desk, twisting in order to grab Dean's shirt at the collar and tug him down closer. He kisses away the lascivious smirk from Dean's face, his other hand reaching up to keep him in place, resting on his neck.
“C'mere,” he mumbles against plump lips, pulling Dean into his lap. He knows he's avoiding the purpose of Dean's visit, but he gets so little of Dean these days, he's going to take each moment Dean will let him have before he casts him aside for the next redhead that walks by. It's selfish. Something else he never experienced as an angel, but that's just par for the course, now.
Dean is already hard in his jeans as he straddles Castiel's thighs, placing his hands on either side of his shoulders so that he grips the chair tight. Castiel kisses him with a hunger he feels in his gut, even if he's not feeling it in his groin. The hunger is always there - has been since Famine came to town.
He continues to kiss Dean, making his way down the hunter's throat, leaving little nips of claim behind. He keeps his hand on the back of Dean's neck, but slides the one that had been clutching in his shirt down to his crotch, rubbing with a firm pressure. He fingers open the button on Dean's jeans, listening to the clicking of his zipper pulling down. Outside he can hear some of the other hunters yelling about something, but it seems fairly good-natured. The sound of vehicles coming to life nearly pulls his attention away; he didn't get his list to Chuck in time and now he's going to have to hope the prophet remembers him bitching about needing more cigarettes. It'll be another week where he has to scrounge if not. He can't help but wonder if Dean timed his visit on purpose.
“Cas, come on, man,” Dean breathes, thrusting up into Castiel's still hand on his fly, gripping his thighs tighter. It makes Castiel wish he hasn't taken those pills because Dean looks good enough to fuck, sprawled in his lap with his eyes lidded and his penis threatening to push out of his boxers.
Castiel slips his hand inside the slit of Dean's boxers, feeling the soft skin of his cock against the roughened patches on his palms where he's gained gun calluses, feels it leap eagerly into his hand as he slides the skin up and down the shaft all in the confined space. He draws it out slowly, amused as Dean winces as the tip catches inside his pants for a moment too long. By the time he is fully exposed, Dean is completely hard and his cock bounces against his stomach when Castiel lets go.
He uses both hands to grab at Dean's ass and slide him closer so that his dick is pressed tight between their bodies. He brings one hand up and licks a strip along it before placing it on Dean's dick. Dean watches all his movements with heavy eyes and breath, making a little gasp when Castiel closes his hand completely around his girth. He then leans forward, almost curling around Castiel, and kisses him hot and messy, hands tangling in Castiel's hair as he jerks him off.
Castiel enjoys the little tugs in his hair. Sure, he likes it when Dean tries to rip out whole handfuls, too, but these are gentle and Dean's fingers trail a line of fire down his neck and over his ears when they stray from his hair. He rewards Dean by making a noise in the back of his throat, licking up Dean's neck until he gets to his chin where he presses in a kiss even as he twists his hand wickedly. It earns him a laugh.
“Are you purring at me, Cas?” Dean jokes, tilting his head down so he can look into Castiel's face. The former angel lets his lips slide into a small smirk, making a “Mmmm,” in agreement.
Dean grins and nips at Castiel's nose and his heart aches because it's seemingly full of affection. Castiel ducks his head in an effort to not show the emotions he's sure are flashing across his face right now. He slides his unoccupied hand into the loose back of Dean's jeans, trailing fingers down his crack in an effort to break the sweetness of the moment because it's something he can't afford.
Dean jerks against him and breathes out a guttural, “Cas!” and his fingers tighten in Castiel's hair for a moment as he shudders. Castiel knows he's close, knows from the way his breathing escalates and his muscles tense. He knows because he knows Dean and that's what makes this so much harder. At the same time, making Dean feel this, feel pleasure when he's offered so little the rest of the time gives Castiel a power trip that's as good as the cocktails he takes. Making him come undone is a point of pride. So he moves his hand faster on Dean's cock, thrusts a finger into Dean's hole dry, and bites down on Dean's earlobe - the only part he can reach as Dean's head is thrown back - and Dean comes, spilling over his fist, coating Castiel's shirt in sticky semen. Castiel pumps Dean through it until he collapses, body entirely loose and head lolling about on Castiel's shoulder.
He brings his hand up to his mouth, licking away the fluid there to Dean's huffed out laughter. He reluctantly slides his finger out of Dean's body as the other man straightens, shifting in his lap.
“That was good for me, was it good for you?” he leers, waggling his eyebrows. He looks down only to see Castiel's entirely flat crotch. “Did you even come?” he asks, sounding confused.
Castiel shrugs. “Just not feeling it today,” he responds.
Dean stands up rather abruptly, rubbing a hand through the short hairs at the back of his neck after tucking himself back in. It almost seems as though he's embarrassed. He stares out the window for a moment. Castiel realizes he never thought to close the blinds and that any one of those voices he'd heard earlier could have seen inside. It gives him a strange thrill.
He watches as Dean's hand smooths over the fabric of his shirt across his stomach before he turns back to Castiel. He wonders if Dean has been stalling, too. His face is less friendly now than when he walked in.
“What did you want to talk to me about, Cas?”
Castiel sighs, stands up from the desk. He paces for a moment, crossing his arms, then uncrossing them, crossing them again. He's still feeling a bit detached, a little too buzzed for the seriousness this conversation requires. It makes it difficult to start.
“Chuck told me about your latest...stunt.”
“Excuse me?” Dean asks, and the transformation is nearly instantaneous. One moment he's awkward, the next he's bristling with righteousness. Dean's emotions evoke almost as much whiplash as his own do.
“The demon. You tortured again, Dean. After you told me you wouldn't.”
“What do you care?” Dean states, sliding effortlessly into a nonchalant attitude, leaning up against the wall, hands in his pockets. It's the practiced look Castiel has come to think of as Dean's fearless leader personality. It's a front, just like everything else at this camp.
“Dean. It's not you. You don't torture.”
“I tortured for ten years. In Hell. I learned from the best. I am the best.”
Castiel glares. “You don't have to be.”
Dean's hands ball into fists, though they remain in his pockets, and he straightens up. “Aren't you the one who reminded me of what I did? Three years ago you put that scalpel back in my hand. I begged you not to and yet...if it meant the mission got accomplished, you wanted me to do it. Well, now I've got a mission to accomplish and if I need to torture some douche-bag demons to do it, then I will.”
Castiel physically recoils from Dean's words because he knows all too well that what he says is truth. Dean looks away when he does and Castiel wonders if he feels bad. What Dean doesn't know is how much that hurt Castiel to make him do it, then. That was the point at which Castiel knew he'd grown too close to Dean; when he didn't want to use Dean as a tool, to make him hurt by bringing up the part of him he'd tried to leave in the Pit. Even as an angel - emotions dulled by Grace - that had been the hardest order Castiel had ever had to follow. He'd seen no other option at the time. In hindsight, he should have known it would get them nowhere, even without Uriel defecting.
He doesn't know how to make Dean understand that. Sometimes, Dean is an obstinate son of a bitch and refuses to see things that don't fit with his world view. He can use it to justify his actions and that makes Castiel regret it even more. He didn't want to rebel, didn't want to leave Heaven behind, but in this moment, he wishes he had sooner. Perhaps things would have been different.
It does no good to feel regret, though, and he channels his sorrow into anger instead. He lets it build up in his veins, simmering until he has to let it out. His words are no less honest, but they come out hurtful rather than caring as he truly means them.
The taste of Dean still lingers on his lips, on his tongue, but it's bitter, now; sour.
“I can't believe you tortured again, Dean. What happened to staying human? What happened to caring about the people left in this world?”
Dean whips around, glaring. His anger is palpable. “You know what, Cas? You weren't there. You don't get to tell me what is and isn't right. You're not an angel anymore. You're a two-bit drunk. You're a stoner, for Christ's sake. Yeah, that's right. Chuck told me. I know it's not just alcohol and cigarettes anymore, Cas.”
“Do not take the Lord's name in vain,” he says, shock and dismay causing it come out a little quieter than intended.
“Fuck God. Fuck Him, fuck the angels, and fuck you. None of you are a bit of help to me. You've all left us here to fucking rot under Lucifer's thumb. No, you don't get to take the moral high ground anymore. Not when you're crawling in the dirt, just like the rest of us, Castiel.”
With that, Dean storms out of his cabin, heavy boots clomping all the way.
“I never left, Dean,” Castiel whispers to the empty air as he slides down the wall, clutching his head in his hands and trying desperately not to cry.
***
The third time Dean tortures, Castiel is with him, but he doesn't say a word. He sees Dean flinch when he glances at Castiel's face, though, and knows the sorrow he's feeling must show.
After that, Dean never looks directly at Castiel.
***
He finds it remarkably easy to fall into the 'hippie' lifestyle as Dean called. The drugs loosen him up. His prayers turn to meditation. He discovers the wonder of tantric sex sometime in 2013. He'd already been bringing people into his cabin, telling them the Gospels. He already knows he likes sex. After someone calls him baby for the first time, it rolls off his tongue like whiskey on ice.
The first time Dean walks into one of his meditation sessions, Castiel is sitting with three lovely girls, legs crossed in lotus, prayer beads clacking as he gestures slightly. The candles are new - Chuck found them on a raid, Castiel confiscated them. Incense burns Cas' nose, but he finds it pleasant. A reminder he's alive. The scent is cloying, but vanishes for a moment as Dean steps into the room.
Castiel doesn't stop his lesson, just puts up his pointer finger to let Dean know he'll be done soon. Dean stands and watches, silent and clearly annoyed.
“Ladies, why don't you go wash up now?” he concludes his teaching. “Our Fearless Leader needs to speak with me. I'll return shortly. So beautiful,” he tells them as they giggle on their way past him.
He grins up at Dean and winks, relaxed and amused by the anger pulling at Dean's features.
“What do they need to wash up for, Cas? It's the middle of the day and it's not like your groupies help out with the chores.”
“On the contrary. Most of these women tend our gardens. Some are Chuck's distributors.”
“Yeah, whatever. Point being, where are they going?”
“To get ready for the orgy, of course.”
Dean blinks. Then makes a face. “Oh yes, for the orgy, of course. What are you, Gaius friggin' Baltar, now?”
Castiel combs his mind, then smiles, a small laugh escaping. “A very apt description, yes. What?” he asks when Dean's eyes widen. “Chuck showed me a great many things before you decreed we could no longer use power for frivolous activities. He didn't have all the DVDs, sadly. I always wanted to find out what the opera house symbolized.”
Dean's lip curls up in disgust. “Whatever. I came to talk to you about the plans for tonight's raid but I can see you're busy. Be at my cabin, ten o'clock, if you want to be included.”
Dean turns on his heel and leaves. Castiel places the butt of his hands against his eyes and sighs. He's not drunk enough for this.
***
The fourth through tenth times Dean tortures, Castiel isn't with him. He knows he's being deliberately left at the compound so that he doesn't put up a fuss. Or so that Dean doesn't have to see his face.
He drinks more those nights because he knows he can't stop what is happening. He sees Dean growing harder, more violent. He's becoming the twisted soul Castiel rescued from Hell and he wishes he could rescue Dean again, but he's not an angel anymore. He's just a junkie.
Not being able to stop Dean from falling hurts worse than his own Fall did.
***
Finally, Castiel cracks.
He seeks Dean out, finds him perched on his bed, cleaning his guns. He wears a thigh holster on a regular basis now, having been caught without a second gun one too many times. Castiel also knows he keeps Ruby's old knife strapped to the inside of his lower right leg.
“Dean,” he says softly from the doorway.
Dean doesn't turn to look at him. Castiel notices the tension in his shoulders though when he speaks.
“What do you want, Cas?”
Castiel scratches at his three-day growth of a beard, feeling twitchy. He's going to need another upper soon. Preferably some caffeine, too.
“Don't just stand there,” Dean's voice is gruff, but he's rolling his eyes so Castiel knows he's more annoyed than angry.
Castiel steps in to the cabin, the wooden floor sounding hollow with the weight of his heavy shoes. He clears his throat, can't help the laugh that slips out. Dean finally looks at him. He looks old, haunted. There are circles etched deep beneath his eyes. He probably sleeps less than Castiel, nowadays.
“Chuck told me you're leaving tonight. Going south.”
Dean grunts in what is meant to be acknowledgment, cocks the gun in his hands, peering at it. He seems to deem it satisfactory and places it on the right side of his body with the larger collection. He picks up a knife from his left side and grabs a whetstone stone from the night stand.
“It's a big trip. You've got a lead on the Colt?” Castiel feels awkward. He's not normally this hesitant and it's not like it was his fault Dean shut him out for so long, but he still feels as though he's the apologist here.
Dean sighs dramatically and finally looks up into Castiel's eyes. Says, “Yes, Cas. We've got a lead, down in Kansas. I figure we'll be gone a week at least.”
“That's great,” he responds, probably a little too enthusiastically. He fidgets again, scratching at his belly now, inadvertently pulling up his shirt a bit. He catches Dean's gaze flicker down to his hand. That simple glance sends a rush of heat right to his groin. He lowers his eye lids, licks his lips.
Dean is all business, though, and he ignores Castiel's blatant tease. He turns his attention back to the knife he's sharpening. “Did you want to come or something?”
Yes, Castiel thinks, smirking. Instead he responds, “I can be packed in an hour.”
Dean nods. “See that you are.”
***
Castiel rides alone, the Jeep that he tends to consider his loaded down with supplies rather than people. He brings up the rear, humming along to the CD in the player though it often jumps and skips. It takes about eight hours to get to Wichita. Half way through, Castiel takes a few uppers and caffeine pills to keep awake. He's not the only one taking drugs this time; the drive around Omaha is dangerous. They not only have to avoid Croats, but the military quarantines as well. Everyone has to be on their game.
They arrive before dawn that next morning and their convoy pulls into a dilapidated motel where Dean instructs everyone get a few hours of sleep before they drive the extra twenty minutes into the little town where the Colt is supposedly being kept.
A few of the men who were passengers and slept on the way down take up guns and go to patrol the perimeter. Dean sits on the bed of the truck he drove. After a moment's hesitation, Castiel joins him.
“What are you doing, Cas? You should be resting.” Dean's face is hard as he stares at the horizon.
Castiel shrugs, the movement fluid where once it was stilted. “I don't require much sleep.”
“I need you sharp,” Dean says, turning to look at him. His eyes are unreadable.
“I'll be fine,” Castiel smiles. He knows it's the caffeine talking and that he could crash at any time, but he's used to that, too. He can fight through it.
So they sit there like that, neither talking, but it's not entirely uncomfortable, either. When the sun has been up for about an hour, Dean checks his watch and hops down from the truck bed, his shoulder bumping into Castiel's as he does so.
“Time to get everyone up,” he says gruffly, starting to walk away.
“Dean, wait,” Castiel hears himself saying. Dean stops as he slides off the truck. He walks up to the hunter whose face is guarded and tired. He reaches one hand up and lays it on Dean's cheek in a gesture that's almost tender and presses his lips against Dean's. Dean doesn't move closer, doesn't touch a hand to Castiel, but neither does he pull away.
After a minute, Castiel tilts his head so that their foreheads touch and whispers right against Dean's mouth, “For luck.”
Dean steps back, face still guarded, but perhaps a little softer. “Come on, Cas. Let's get these lazy bones up.”
It's the first time they've touched like that since Dean stopped including Castiel in his raids four months ago. It leaves a smile on his face.
***
Of course, the Colt isn't in the tiny Kansas town. What waits for them is a trap which isn't surprising. Within twenty minutes, the fighting is over and only Cody, one of the newest to their camp, is killed and all fifty of the demons waiting for them have been exorcised, stabbed by Ruby's knife, or taken captive in impromptu Devil's Traps.
Stephanie, a pretty blonde who isn't one of his girls, is the only one who takes Cody's death hard. Apparently, they'd been dating, or whatever one did at the end of the world with someone you liked. Castiel watches as Dean takes her over to the side and talks to her quietly. He inches closer so that he can hear.
“There'll be time to grieve later, okay, Stephanie? Cody fought well, he died trying to keep the world safe. But we can't let his sacrifice go to waste by not keeping it together. We don't know if there's more demons coming or not. We don't have the Colt. We can't fall apart, yet.”
The girl's tears come to a stop and Dean helps wipe them away before he pulls her close and kisses her on the forehead. Castiel is intrigued to see the gesture is more fatherly than anything.
The girl shuffles away to some of her friends who all pat her on the back as they shift gear and set up a perimeter around the old farmhouse where the trap sprang. Dean catches Castiel staring at him and his gaze hardens again. He walks towards him, then past, saying, “Let's go. We've got some demons to interrogate.”
That makes Castiel's stomach drop, but there's a spark of hope that lights inside him because despite it all - the sex, the torture, his tendency to disregard Chuck and Castiel and all those who knew him before - there's still obviously compassion left in him.
It's that thought that gets Castiel through the first two demons.
It takes ten hours for the first to break. What it reveals is worthless. Dean slices its throat with Ruby's knife in a rage, blood splattering on his face as the demon's scream is choked off and the body falls limp to the ground.
Castiel wants to vomit which is only in part because he hasn't eaten in over a day. It's strange. As an angel he could have killed anything that stood in his way. He'd watched from above as Uriel took out vengeance on Sodom and Gomorrah. Barely blinked when during the Crusades. Lives, then, were inconsequential to the bigger picture. Looking back, that twists his stomach more.
But instead of criticizing, Castiel puts his hand on Dean's arm - who starts like he's been in a trance - and takes the knife. He brushes the worst of the blood off Dean's face with his sleeve. He guides Dean out of the wooden barn, where they'd brought the prisoner after redecorating it with symbols enough to remind Castiel of the first time he met Dean in his vessel form, despite his protests and takes him out to the vehicles where someone offers them both sandwiches and water. Castiel doesn't eat until Dean's had his fill.
If Dean's going to do this to himself, Castiel will make sure that spark of life left buried deep down but revealed by Stephanie's misery is maintained. The hardened man scanning his motley army in front of him may be their Fearless Leader, but he's still Dean and Castiel never wants him to lose that. It's why he fought so hard against Dean saying yes to Michael. It's why he Fell. Dean might not want him around, but Castiel's not going anywhere. It's not like he has anywhere else to be, anyway.
So he stays with Dean through the second and third demons until they finally get a name - Crowley. Supposedly he's the big Crossroads demon. And supposedly, Lilith gave him the Colt after obtaining it from Bela.
After that session, Dean collapses with exhaustion and while he's sleeping, Castiel slips into the barn and slits the remaining two demons throats with the knife. Dean is pissed at him when he wakes up four hours later but then he tells everyone to pack up and Castiel almost thinks he looks relieved.
***
Castiel discovers Vicodin when he breaks his foot running from Croats. He's out of commission for two months, and frankly, he checks out - high on painkillers which are good and yet never enough - so that when Chuck finally stages an intervention by depriving him of the pills until Castiel has to get out of bed in search for more, he hardly recognizes the man who stands on Dean's porch. Yes, it's Dean, the hair still that bristle short length, his eyes green, the same army jacket he's been wearing for over two years now. But Dean is yelling at Chuck so loud Castiel can make out most of the words one hundred feet away and Chuck is cringing and clutching a clipboard tight in front of him like it'll protect him from Dean's wrath.
It's only when Dean gestures right to where Castiel stands on the steps of his cabin that he realizes they're talking about him. He limps over - ankle still weak because he hasn't tried any of the physical therapy Risa showed him - and he watches as Dean's eyes get unimaginably colder. Castiel tries to smile but he's afraid it's more of a grimace, pain shooting up through his leg, bitter withdrawal and desperate need clawing in his gut.
Once he reaches them, Dean turns away and speaks to Chuck instead. “Get him out of my sight until he can be useful again. And I don't care if he's internally bleeding and dying; don't give him any more pills.”
That hurts more than it should, so Castiel reaches out, catching Dean's sleeve. “Dean-”
The hunter stops and shakes him off like he would a bug with his face exuding the same amount of contempt that he would for a particularly annoying fly. “Don't touch me, junkie. Go bury yourself in your booze and women until you get the gonads to fucking fight again. That's what you do best, right? Whore yourself out? Two months for a broken foot, Jesus fucking Christ.”
A hysterical giggle slips out of his mouth without his permission. “I thought you'd gotten past trying to label me, Dean.”
Dean's eyes flicker over him from head to toe and it shouldn't make him horny, but it does. He watches the other man purse his lips before uttering, “Pathetic,” and stalking off.
A kernel of despair blossoms in his chest as he gazes after Dean. Something has gone terribly wrong in the past two months and it's Castiel's fault. If he hadn't tripped...if only he'd been a little faster running from the Croats...if, if, if.
He doesn't know if there's anything left of Dean to save, now. And if there isn't, that doesn't bode well for the rest of humanity, including himself. Lucifer is still out there and he's succeeding in slowly eroding the last hope of mankind, without even having to show his stolen face.
He turns and sees Chuck staring. “What?” he asks, bitter. “You want to take a shot, too?”
Castiel leaves as forcefully as he can, wincing with each step. Chuck continues to stand there in front of Dean's porch, clip board still in his hands. Castiel refuses to acknowledge the deep sadness in the man's eyes, an emotion that shouldn't belong to a hapless prophet who has no Lord left to prophesier for. He knows Chuck cares, but he shouldn't see that love shining amidst something akin to disappointment. It leaves him more disquieted than Dean's disdain, like Chuck knows something they all don't.
Conclusion
Author: MF Luder
Recipient: amor_remanet
Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Castiel/OFC, intimated Dean/OFC
Keywords: slash, het, apocalypse, character death, established relationship, alternate universe
Rating: R
Word Count: ~11,600
Warnings: torture, drug use, character death
Spoilers: 5x4, “The End”
Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to Kripke and Co. and the CW.
Archive: My LJ, anywhere else, please let me know
Summary: When Dean begins to torture again, Castiel slowly loses pieces of himself.
Author's Notes: Filling this request: 5.04-verse: established Dean/Cas. Remember in "On the Head of A Pin" when Cas says, "I would give anything for you not to have to do this" about Dean torturing Alastair? After losing his Grace, basically-human!Cas picks up the taste for pain meds, but for the most part, he's sober more often than not. When Dean starts torturing again, it takes its toll on Cas too for castielfest. Title taken from Jace Everett's “Bad Things,” another prompt. And umm, I sorta of included two of your DNWs so I'm hoping you'll forgive me since it is a 5x4 fic. D:
Author’s Notes 2: This is a little twist on 5x4 in that there is no past!Dean. Thus, the ending is a tish different. Make of that as you will. Bastardized a few lines from the show as well.
Author's Notes 3: Finally, the BIGGEST of apologies to the mods and to my recipient amor_remanet for being so incredibly tardy with this.
Castiel tunes out the whimpers that echo within concrete walls as he patrols the perimeter of the room, gun slack in his hands. From the corner of his eye, he can see a green army jacketed form stalking around another form chained to a chair. There's red all over.
“Where's Lucifer? What is his next move? You will tell me or it'll only get worse. I was trained by the best.”
He flinches when the screams start up again. With each piece of skin Dean flays from the creature, a little piece of Castiel's soul is skinned away, too.
***
It begins after Robert Singer dies in his South Dakota home. Most of them had moved to Camp Chitaqua by then, but Bobby had remained steadfast in his home of fifty odd years. Said he was more safe there than anywhere else. Only problem was, Enochian sigils and Devil's Traps didn't keep out people juiced up on the Croatoan virus. They didn't reach him in time.
The stoic look that descended on Dean's features when they burned Bobby's body gave Castiel shivers.
Less than a week after they laid the hunter to rest, Castiel and Chuck go on a supply run with a few of the younger men from the camp. Dean no longer goes on these runs, claiming Castiel can handle the Croats and that Chuck knows far better than anyone what they need at the base camp. He's right, of course. But Castiel knows it is less his own competence and more Dean finding the runs beneath him, leaving the former angel to babysit the prophet of the Lord. If it didn't involve eviscerating zombies, Dean couldn't give a shit.
They returned several days later, having had to travel into North Dakota as they've already raided everything in the immediate area that wasn't spoiled by those affected with the virus. Castiel doesn't bother checking in with Dean; that is Chuck's job. Instead, he heads straight to his cabin where he finds Shannon waiting for him - naked - and so he loses himself in the dark hair and dark eyes that remind him of no one and remembers the beauty of humanity for an hour.
He is sitting in bed, girl gone, smoking a joint when Chuck comes bursting into his cabin.
“Don't you knock?” Cas asks with a slow grin. His sexploits - Dean had taught him that word - were infamous around here now, after all.
Chuck's face is half panic and all seriousness. “Cas. It's Dean. You need to come now.”
He immediately swings his legs out of bed, joint forgotten. “Is he hurt?” Castiel slides his arms into a shirt and then they're out the door.
“No, he's not hurt. It's just...I didn't know. But some of the guys came up to me when I couldn't find him. Mentioned something about his last raid. And a demon.”
Those are words that would stop Castiel in his tracks normally, but right now he's too worried that wherever Chuck leads him, Dean will be at the end lying broken and bleeding.
They finally stop outside a cabin on the edge of the perimeter. They don't go out there often; it's normally used as a guard house.
Chuck turns to him, wringing his hands and looking incredibly frazzled. “He's been in there for two days, now, they said.”
“What is going on?” Castiel demands but even though Chuck flinches, he doesn't say anything more, just opens the door.
Castiel takes in the sight in front of him with a sharp inhale. There's a Devil's Trap chalked on the floorboards. In it sits a man, his head bleeding from a gash on his temple. His eyes are black and blue, his clothes ripped and bloody.
Dean is standing behind him, oblivious to Chuck and Castiel's presence as he leans over the man's shoulder, whispering something in his ear. In his hands, he holds a pliers.
The demon - for that's surely what he is - has no fingernails.
“Dean Winchester.” His voice surprises even himself; it's assertive and angry, loud. His blood is rushing in his ears, the adrenaline heightening his senses, and anger flows through his veins.
Dean's gaze turns on him and for a moment, it's still harsh. But then his eyes widen and a look of horror crosses his features. He glances down at the pliers in his hands and drops them. The thunk they make when they hit the ground shatters the thick silence.
Castiel steps into the room and says a quick exorcism; Latin is still ingrained in his mind, even if he's impotent when it comes to banishing demons hands-on. The demon's essence bursts out of the host's mouth and vanishes.
“Chuck,” Castiel says, eyes still on Dean who has backed himself up against a wall. “Get Tom and Jeff in here to clean up the body.”
Castiel stays there, never taking his eyes off Dean who has sunk to the ground, head in his hands. Within ten minutes, the body of the demon is dragged out. Blood smears across the floor.
“Burn it,” he says to Jeff as they pass by.
Once they've left, Castiel closes the door behind him, locking it. He walks towards Dean, stopping when he's a foot away.
“Dean.”
He doesn't look up. There's blood on the cuffs of his jacket. There's blood on his hands.
Castiel nudges him with his foot. Says his name again, a little quieter; softer.
“Dean. Look at me.”
He finally turns his head up, staring into Castiel's shadow. There are wet tracks down his face and his voice is rough with emotion. “Cas. Cas, I don't know what I was doing. It was just...we caught him. And he wouldn't tell us anything. It was so easy...”
Dean trails off and Castiel sighs, sliding down the wall next to him. He doesn't touch him, but they're close, jackets barely brushing against each other. It's getting dark outside and he can't see the bloodstains any more. He knows they are there, though, and they burn inside him like acid, a pattern that clings to his retinas when he closes his eyes.
“That's not you, Dean. You don't torture. We kill the bad guys and we keep on living. That's what you taught me.”
“It's not enough, though.” Dean's voice is hushed, wretched. “He was going to break. I could feel it. He could have told us where Lucifer was hiding. Maybe where the Colt is.”
“He couldn't have told you where Sa-” he corrects himself, “Lucifer is. And if he had, he'd have been lying. You think Lucifer lets demons go when they know where he is? My brother is not stupid.”
“Just a little longer,” Dean says before he tips into Castiel's body, head resting on his arm where it lies across his knees. His body is shaking.
Castiel knows it's just the crash from adrenaline, but still, he reaches across with his other arm and lets his hand run through Dean's hair. It's cut a little shorter than it used to be; Dean's picked up more military habits as the apocalypse has crept on. He probably learned them from his father. Dean doesn't shy away from his touch and for a little while, Castiel is grateful.
***
Dean had been Castiel's first time. After the sweat had cooled and they were lying together, legs tangled around each other and the stiff motel room sheets, Dean had smiled charmingly at him and said:
“Just so you know, Cas, this doesn't mean we're going steady or anything.”
That had been fine with Castiel. As an angel, he hadn't expected devotion or for Dean to change his ways. Sex had been pleasant, but that was it. In fact, he'd assumed Dean would have stopped caring about Castiel and sex at all since Castiel was no longer a virgin, his promise fulfilled.
As he'd become more human, though, he'd found himself starting to care. He felt jealous, possessive, angry, sometimes. Emotions that as an angel, he'd never known. He'd seen them, yes. Seen Paris destroy Troy all for the love of a woman. Seen empires crumble because of man's frailty when it came to succumbing to emotions. But now he lived them. They broiled up inside him until they spilled over and he was forced to lock himself in his cabin so that he didn't show the world how weak he'd become.
Sex made him feel alive; for that minute of orgasm, he reached an ecstasy that rivaled communion with his brothers in the Heavenly Host. He found he liked dirty sex, rough sex, sex without words that allowed him to completely be in the experience, to simply feel. And when his mouth claimed Dean's, when he bent Dean to his will with a twist of his hips, his mind screamed mine, mine, mine! the entire time.
Ironic, then, that Dean had not had sex with anyone but him while he was an angel - despite his words which had indicated he planned to - yet, since Castiel had fallen, Dean was open for business, women in and out of his bed like a revolving door.
Some days it drove Castiel out of his mind. Other days, he was able to calmly accept it. Castiel had nothing to offer Dean anymore since he'd fallen from the angel club. He was useless.
Human.
***
It started with alcohol. After that initial bender he found it to be his best friend. It became his crutch when he was sad or feeling too much. The drug both heightened emotions and dulled the pain. He could spin the things he was feeling over and over in his mind while he drank but they were just out of his reach. It gave him the illusion of being an outside observer again.
For the first few months of living in the camp, everyone had left him alone with his whiskey and vodka. But Dean dragged him out of his cabin one night, insisting he needed social contact and that night was the first time someone challenged him to a drinking contest.
While Castiel was quickly losing the tolerance levels he'd had as an angel, he could still out drink an entire platoon of soldiers - so Dean said. After awhile, the veterans of the camp went back to leaving him alone, unable to lose any more of their money or dignity to Castiel's iron stomach. But every time a new person joined the camp they heard of Castiel's drinking habits and thought themselves up to the challenge. It kept him in lube, condoms, smokes, and toilet paper.
When Dean found Chuck a year later - he'd survived the Croats initial attack because he'd been guarded by an archangel still and had been kept in a military safe house since - and brought him back to camp, Castiel quit the drinking games that went on in their makeshift bar. Instead, he and Chuck sat and drank together at a two-person table in the back, not needing much conversation. They got along well enough. He'd lost his reverence for the prophet, but still had respect for the man who could cook up some mean scrambled eggs and understood the need to lose himself in drink.
Castiel never failed to be amused by the rumors surrounding them. If anything, Castiel saw Chuck as a strange sort of father figure. Weird as he was eons older than Chuck, but when Dean stopped feeling inclined to converse with him for periods longer than twenty minutes, it was Chuck who took Castiel under his wing and explained the bits of humanity that still perplexed Castiel.
***
Castiel discovered he liked to dance. He wasn't very good, but even Dean had to admit his 'slinky hips' moved well to the beat. Chuck helped him out there, too, picking up a box of CDs from someone's house while they were out on a supply run. Dean kept the camp running on generators, so Castiel stole some batteries on their next run and traded a quart of homemade beer for someone's disc-man.
He found he didn't like pop. Classical was beautiful in its mathematical symmetry, symphonies washing over him like the chorus of Heaven. Heavy metal did nothing for him, though he'd become accustomed to the classic rock Dean still listened to from time to time.
His favorites, though, were those with Latin or reggae beats. Dean rolled his eyes at him, not understanding the music or Castiel's inclination to lose himself to it. But on what would have been the two-year anniversary of Castiel losing his virginity to Dean, he found a few battered CDs featuring salsa music wrapped in brown paper and string on his dresser.
The sex they had that night was surprisingly gentle and sweet. Castiel came with a sigh in Dean's mouth - lips locked in a kiss - ass clenching around his fingers.
Extracurricular activities were few and far between - unless you counted drinking and sex - but one day he walked by one of the women's cabin barracks and saw a blonde wearing low cut jeans and a flowy top moving across the floor in bare feet to a beat he couldn't hear. Curious, he knocked on the open door's frame and smiled when the girl started. The thing that drew him further in was that, after a moment, he remembers seeing her leaving Dean's cabin late last night.
“You dance?” he asks, running his fingers over the metal of the bunk bed closest to him.
She nods, a flush on her cheeks, a wary smile on her face.
“Do you?”
“Not well,” he laughs.
“You're Castiel, aren't you?”
“That's me.” He lets an easy grin slide over his face.
“Dean...well, the camp, really, talks about you a lot. I'm new here. They say you're an angel.”
He shrugs. “That's what they say. But,” he leans forward, into her space. He can see the sweat glistening on her forehead, smell the slight musk that speaks of their limited water supplies and humanity in general. “I don't believe everything they say, if you know what I mean.”
Her eyes widen and then she tosses her long curls over her shoulder in a laugh. “My name's Amanda. Let's dance.”
Her eyes are brown, her lips pink and smiling, her frame slimmer than he's used to. They move to a beat no one but them hears and she catches and corrects him when he misses a step. They move like that until it turns into something else, heart pounding in his chest as he lifts up one of her legs so that it wraps around his waist.
He swears he can taste Dean inside her, but he knows it's just wishful thinking.
After, they lie side by side with only the scratchy blanket covering them - more her than him - and she pulls a joint from her nightstand she shares with whomever sleeps above her. Used to the feel of cigarettes between his fingers, he figures it isn't much different and inhales deep on his first pull. He chokes and the lithe girl next to him doubles over in laughter, shoulders shaking. He frowns and tries again when she tells him to hold in the smoke. It doesn't hit him right away, but then it does, and it's glorious.
She's his other first.
***
The world around them is dying. Very little green is left anymore. The northern states are covered in ice and ghostly trees. The south is sweltering, plants dried out like burnt husks. There in South Dakota it's a mixture. The vegetation is still lush but it all pokes out from snow patches. Some of those in the camp keep a garden through hard work and a lot of babying the vegetables. They make do on a limited diet.
Castiel's able to pass off his weight loss due to that. Dean barks at him to eat more - they can't fight properly if he's too weak, he says - and Chuck just looks at him sadly.
Castiel thinks Chuck knows. That he knows the bottles disappearing out of the medicine stash aren't the result of black market trade. It almost makes Castiel feel ashamed. The thing is, Castiel feels stronger. And somewhere along the line, if he'd been born human, he'd have learned drugs made you think you were invincible. But Castiel hadn't been born a human. There's no D.A.R.E. teacher scolding him in his head and the hunters of the camp are either too focused on the hunt or themselves to worry about a sorry excuse of a former angel trying to find his next high.
***
The second time Dean tortures again, Castiel isn't there. He'd passed out on a combination of amphetamines and the heavy binge drinking they allowed. He doesn't know anything about it until he finds himself face-first in the toilet, staring at his own vomit and Chuck making disgusted sounds behind him even as he pats his back in a manner that is probably meant to be soothing.
“You're going to have a wicked headache, Cas.”
“I already do,” he growls.
How long he camps out on the floor, he doesn't know. All he realizes is that there's always a glass of cool water ready for him and a pillow he can rest his head on for when he's not throwing up.
“Never doing that again,” he states at one point, not even knowing if anyone's there to listen to him.
But Chuck apparently hasn't left. He makes a sympathetic noise and then pauses heavily enough that Castiel can't help but notice.
“What is it?” Cas asks.
“Dean...well, he tortured again. A demon. About the Colt.”
“Perfect,” he says before he has to make use of the toilet again.
He confronts Dean two days after the torture, three since he'd passed out, according to Chuck. He calls Dean to his cabin and is surprised when Dean comes through the door with a soft expression. He looks strangely naked; he's not wearing his usual ten layers. He has only a long sleeve shirt and a pair of worn jeans on.
He looks good.
Castiel glances up from the list he's making. He's in desperate need of coffee and he's also running low on smokes.
“Hello, Dean.”
“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, stepping into the room and scanning it. He steps just close enough so that his arm brushes against Castiel's back. It's not quite a caress, but Castiel leans into it anyway. “You're changing up the digs. A gong?”
“Meditation,” he responds. “I do yoga to keep limber now. Trying to keep my reflexes in shape.”
“You could just come to practice.”
Castiel can't. He doesn't like seeing Dean sweaty, fumbling with the other men of the camp. Even if he has no interest in them - which certainly isn't true, there's a sweet boy barely nineteen he sees fawning over Dean and he doubts someone gets that look in their eyes around Dean unless they've been treated to his skills in bed - it stirs up something dark and bitter inside him. Other days, he spars with the female hunters of the camp and that burns worse in Castiel's gut.
“I believe I do satisfactory, not only in the field, but also in our private sessions. I don't recall you complaining.”
He offers up a quick leer and Dean laughs. Scrapes his fingernails down Castiel's neck as he leans in like he's sharing a secret. “Wanna fuck?”
Castiel doesn't, actually; he took a few pills just over an hour ago and whenever he takes this particular cocktail, he can't get it up for hours. Unfortunate side affect, but he loves the the pleasant feeling it gives him. Unlike his other drugs, this one doesn't send him flying. He's just able able to forget and feel happy for a little while.
But still, he's not going to turn Dean down. He moves his chair back from the desk, twisting in order to grab Dean's shirt at the collar and tug him down closer. He kisses away the lascivious smirk from Dean's face, his other hand reaching up to keep him in place, resting on his neck.
“C'mere,” he mumbles against plump lips, pulling Dean into his lap. He knows he's avoiding the purpose of Dean's visit, but he gets so little of Dean these days, he's going to take each moment Dean will let him have before he casts him aside for the next redhead that walks by. It's selfish. Something else he never experienced as an angel, but that's just par for the course, now.
Dean is already hard in his jeans as he straddles Castiel's thighs, placing his hands on either side of his shoulders so that he grips the chair tight. Castiel kisses him with a hunger he feels in his gut, even if he's not feeling it in his groin. The hunger is always there - has been since Famine came to town.
He continues to kiss Dean, making his way down the hunter's throat, leaving little nips of claim behind. He keeps his hand on the back of Dean's neck, but slides the one that had been clutching in his shirt down to his crotch, rubbing with a firm pressure. He fingers open the button on Dean's jeans, listening to the clicking of his zipper pulling down. Outside he can hear some of the other hunters yelling about something, but it seems fairly good-natured. The sound of vehicles coming to life nearly pulls his attention away; he didn't get his list to Chuck in time and now he's going to have to hope the prophet remembers him bitching about needing more cigarettes. It'll be another week where he has to scrounge if not. He can't help but wonder if Dean timed his visit on purpose.
“Cas, come on, man,” Dean breathes, thrusting up into Castiel's still hand on his fly, gripping his thighs tighter. It makes Castiel wish he hasn't taken those pills because Dean looks good enough to fuck, sprawled in his lap with his eyes lidded and his penis threatening to push out of his boxers.
Castiel slips his hand inside the slit of Dean's boxers, feeling the soft skin of his cock against the roughened patches on his palms where he's gained gun calluses, feels it leap eagerly into his hand as he slides the skin up and down the shaft all in the confined space. He draws it out slowly, amused as Dean winces as the tip catches inside his pants for a moment too long. By the time he is fully exposed, Dean is completely hard and his cock bounces against his stomach when Castiel lets go.
He uses both hands to grab at Dean's ass and slide him closer so that his dick is pressed tight between their bodies. He brings one hand up and licks a strip along it before placing it on Dean's dick. Dean watches all his movements with heavy eyes and breath, making a little gasp when Castiel closes his hand completely around his girth. He then leans forward, almost curling around Castiel, and kisses him hot and messy, hands tangling in Castiel's hair as he jerks him off.
Castiel enjoys the little tugs in his hair. Sure, he likes it when Dean tries to rip out whole handfuls, too, but these are gentle and Dean's fingers trail a line of fire down his neck and over his ears when they stray from his hair. He rewards Dean by making a noise in the back of his throat, licking up Dean's neck until he gets to his chin where he presses in a kiss even as he twists his hand wickedly. It earns him a laugh.
“Are you purring at me, Cas?” Dean jokes, tilting his head down so he can look into Castiel's face. The former angel lets his lips slide into a small smirk, making a “Mmmm,” in agreement.
Dean grins and nips at Castiel's nose and his heart aches because it's seemingly full of affection. Castiel ducks his head in an effort to not show the emotions he's sure are flashing across his face right now. He slides his unoccupied hand into the loose back of Dean's jeans, trailing fingers down his crack in an effort to break the sweetness of the moment because it's something he can't afford.
Dean jerks against him and breathes out a guttural, “Cas!” and his fingers tighten in Castiel's hair for a moment as he shudders. Castiel knows he's close, knows from the way his breathing escalates and his muscles tense. He knows because he knows Dean and that's what makes this so much harder. At the same time, making Dean feel this, feel pleasure when he's offered so little the rest of the time gives Castiel a power trip that's as good as the cocktails he takes. Making him come undone is a point of pride. So he moves his hand faster on Dean's cock, thrusts a finger into Dean's hole dry, and bites down on Dean's earlobe - the only part he can reach as Dean's head is thrown back - and Dean comes, spilling over his fist, coating Castiel's shirt in sticky semen. Castiel pumps Dean through it until he collapses, body entirely loose and head lolling about on Castiel's shoulder.
He brings his hand up to his mouth, licking away the fluid there to Dean's huffed out laughter. He reluctantly slides his finger out of Dean's body as the other man straightens, shifting in his lap.
“That was good for me, was it good for you?” he leers, waggling his eyebrows. He looks down only to see Castiel's entirely flat crotch. “Did you even come?” he asks, sounding confused.
Castiel shrugs. “Just not feeling it today,” he responds.
Dean stands up rather abruptly, rubbing a hand through the short hairs at the back of his neck after tucking himself back in. It almost seems as though he's embarrassed. He stares out the window for a moment. Castiel realizes he never thought to close the blinds and that any one of those voices he'd heard earlier could have seen inside. It gives him a strange thrill.
He watches as Dean's hand smooths over the fabric of his shirt across his stomach before he turns back to Castiel. He wonders if Dean has been stalling, too. His face is less friendly now than when he walked in.
“What did you want to talk to me about, Cas?”
Castiel sighs, stands up from the desk. He paces for a moment, crossing his arms, then uncrossing them, crossing them again. He's still feeling a bit detached, a little too buzzed for the seriousness this conversation requires. It makes it difficult to start.
“Chuck told me about your latest...stunt.”
“Excuse me?” Dean asks, and the transformation is nearly instantaneous. One moment he's awkward, the next he's bristling with righteousness. Dean's emotions evoke almost as much whiplash as his own do.
“The demon. You tortured again, Dean. After you told me you wouldn't.”
“What do you care?” Dean states, sliding effortlessly into a nonchalant attitude, leaning up against the wall, hands in his pockets. It's the practiced look Castiel has come to think of as Dean's fearless leader personality. It's a front, just like everything else at this camp.
“Dean. It's not you. You don't torture.”
“I tortured for ten years. In Hell. I learned from the best. I am the best.”
Castiel glares. “You don't have to be.”
Dean's hands ball into fists, though they remain in his pockets, and he straightens up. “Aren't you the one who reminded me of what I did? Three years ago you put that scalpel back in my hand. I begged you not to and yet...if it meant the mission got accomplished, you wanted me to do it. Well, now I've got a mission to accomplish and if I need to torture some douche-bag demons to do it, then I will.”
Castiel physically recoils from Dean's words because he knows all too well that what he says is truth. Dean looks away when he does and Castiel wonders if he feels bad. What Dean doesn't know is how much that hurt Castiel to make him do it, then. That was the point at which Castiel knew he'd grown too close to Dean; when he didn't want to use Dean as a tool, to make him hurt by bringing up the part of him he'd tried to leave in the Pit. Even as an angel - emotions dulled by Grace - that had been the hardest order Castiel had ever had to follow. He'd seen no other option at the time. In hindsight, he should have known it would get them nowhere, even without Uriel defecting.
He doesn't know how to make Dean understand that. Sometimes, Dean is an obstinate son of a bitch and refuses to see things that don't fit with his world view. He can use it to justify his actions and that makes Castiel regret it even more. He didn't want to rebel, didn't want to leave Heaven behind, but in this moment, he wishes he had sooner. Perhaps things would have been different.
It does no good to feel regret, though, and he channels his sorrow into anger instead. He lets it build up in his veins, simmering until he has to let it out. His words are no less honest, but they come out hurtful rather than caring as he truly means them.
The taste of Dean still lingers on his lips, on his tongue, but it's bitter, now; sour.
“I can't believe you tortured again, Dean. What happened to staying human? What happened to caring about the people left in this world?”
Dean whips around, glaring. His anger is palpable. “You know what, Cas? You weren't there. You don't get to tell me what is and isn't right. You're not an angel anymore. You're a two-bit drunk. You're a stoner, for Christ's sake. Yeah, that's right. Chuck told me. I know it's not just alcohol and cigarettes anymore, Cas.”
“Do not take the Lord's name in vain,” he says, shock and dismay causing it come out a little quieter than intended.
“Fuck God. Fuck Him, fuck the angels, and fuck you. None of you are a bit of help to me. You've all left us here to fucking rot under Lucifer's thumb. No, you don't get to take the moral high ground anymore. Not when you're crawling in the dirt, just like the rest of us, Castiel.”
With that, Dean storms out of his cabin, heavy boots clomping all the way.
“I never left, Dean,” Castiel whispers to the empty air as he slides down the wall, clutching his head in his hands and trying desperately not to cry.
***
The third time Dean tortures, Castiel is with him, but he doesn't say a word. He sees Dean flinch when he glances at Castiel's face, though, and knows the sorrow he's feeling must show.
After that, Dean never looks directly at Castiel.
***
He finds it remarkably easy to fall into the 'hippie' lifestyle as Dean called. The drugs loosen him up. His prayers turn to meditation. He discovers the wonder of tantric sex sometime in 2013. He'd already been bringing people into his cabin, telling them the Gospels. He already knows he likes sex. After someone calls him baby for the first time, it rolls off his tongue like whiskey on ice.
The first time Dean walks into one of his meditation sessions, Castiel is sitting with three lovely girls, legs crossed in lotus, prayer beads clacking as he gestures slightly. The candles are new - Chuck found them on a raid, Castiel confiscated them. Incense burns Cas' nose, but he finds it pleasant. A reminder he's alive. The scent is cloying, but vanishes for a moment as Dean steps into the room.
Castiel doesn't stop his lesson, just puts up his pointer finger to let Dean know he'll be done soon. Dean stands and watches, silent and clearly annoyed.
“Ladies, why don't you go wash up now?” he concludes his teaching. “Our Fearless Leader needs to speak with me. I'll return shortly. So beautiful,” he tells them as they giggle on their way past him.
He grins up at Dean and winks, relaxed and amused by the anger pulling at Dean's features.
“What do they need to wash up for, Cas? It's the middle of the day and it's not like your groupies help out with the chores.”
“On the contrary. Most of these women tend our gardens. Some are Chuck's distributors.”
“Yeah, whatever. Point being, where are they going?”
“To get ready for the orgy, of course.”
Dean blinks. Then makes a face. “Oh yes, for the orgy, of course. What are you, Gaius friggin' Baltar, now?”
Castiel combs his mind, then smiles, a small laugh escaping. “A very apt description, yes. What?” he asks when Dean's eyes widen. “Chuck showed me a great many things before you decreed we could no longer use power for frivolous activities. He didn't have all the DVDs, sadly. I always wanted to find out what the opera house symbolized.”
Dean's lip curls up in disgust. “Whatever. I came to talk to you about the plans for tonight's raid but I can see you're busy. Be at my cabin, ten o'clock, if you want to be included.”
Dean turns on his heel and leaves. Castiel places the butt of his hands against his eyes and sighs. He's not drunk enough for this.
***
The fourth through tenth times Dean tortures, Castiel isn't with him. He knows he's being deliberately left at the compound so that he doesn't put up a fuss. Or so that Dean doesn't have to see his face.
He drinks more those nights because he knows he can't stop what is happening. He sees Dean growing harder, more violent. He's becoming the twisted soul Castiel rescued from Hell and he wishes he could rescue Dean again, but he's not an angel anymore. He's just a junkie.
Not being able to stop Dean from falling hurts worse than his own Fall did.
***
Finally, Castiel cracks.
He seeks Dean out, finds him perched on his bed, cleaning his guns. He wears a thigh holster on a regular basis now, having been caught without a second gun one too many times. Castiel also knows he keeps Ruby's old knife strapped to the inside of his lower right leg.
“Dean,” he says softly from the doorway.
Dean doesn't turn to look at him. Castiel notices the tension in his shoulders though when he speaks.
“What do you want, Cas?”
Castiel scratches at his three-day growth of a beard, feeling twitchy. He's going to need another upper soon. Preferably some caffeine, too.
“Don't just stand there,” Dean's voice is gruff, but he's rolling his eyes so Castiel knows he's more annoyed than angry.
Castiel steps in to the cabin, the wooden floor sounding hollow with the weight of his heavy shoes. He clears his throat, can't help the laugh that slips out. Dean finally looks at him. He looks old, haunted. There are circles etched deep beneath his eyes. He probably sleeps less than Castiel, nowadays.
“Chuck told me you're leaving tonight. Going south.”
Dean grunts in what is meant to be acknowledgment, cocks the gun in his hands, peering at it. He seems to deem it satisfactory and places it on the right side of his body with the larger collection. He picks up a knife from his left side and grabs a whetstone stone from the night stand.
“It's a big trip. You've got a lead on the Colt?” Castiel feels awkward. He's not normally this hesitant and it's not like it was his fault Dean shut him out for so long, but he still feels as though he's the apologist here.
Dean sighs dramatically and finally looks up into Castiel's eyes. Says, “Yes, Cas. We've got a lead, down in Kansas. I figure we'll be gone a week at least.”
“That's great,” he responds, probably a little too enthusiastically. He fidgets again, scratching at his belly now, inadvertently pulling up his shirt a bit. He catches Dean's gaze flicker down to his hand. That simple glance sends a rush of heat right to his groin. He lowers his eye lids, licks his lips.
Dean is all business, though, and he ignores Castiel's blatant tease. He turns his attention back to the knife he's sharpening. “Did you want to come or something?”
Yes, Castiel thinks, smirking. Instead he responds, “I can be packed in an hour.”
Dean nods. “See that you are.”
***
Castiel rides alone, the Jeep that he tends to consider his loaded down with supplies rather than people. He brings up the rear, humming along to the CD in the player though it often jumps and skips. It takes about eight hours to get to Wichita. Half way through, Castiel takes a few uppers and caffeine pills to keep awake. He's not the only one taking drugs this time; the drive around Omaha is dangerous. They not only have to avoid Croats, but the military quarantines as well. Everyone has to be on their game.
They arrive before dawn that next morning and their convoy pulls into a dilapidated motel where Dean instructs everyone get a few hours of sleep before they drive the extra twenty minutes into the little town where the Colt is supposedly being kept.
A few of the men who were passengers and slept on the way down take up guns and go to patrol the perimeter. Dean sits on the bed of the truck he drove. After a moment's hesitation, Castiel joins him.
“What are you doing, Cas? You should be resting.” Dean's face is hard as he stares at the horizon.
Castiel shrugs, the movement fluid where once it was stilted. “I don't require much sleep.”
“I need you sharp,” Dean says, turning to look at him. His eyes are unreadable.
“I'll be fine,” Castiel smiles. He knows it's the caffeine talking and that he could crash at any time, but he's used to that, too. He can fight through it.
So they sit there like that, neither talking, but it's not entirely uncomfortable, either. When the sun has been up for about an hour, Dean checks his watch and hops down from the truck bed, his shoulder bumping into Castiel's as he does so.
“Time to get everyone up,” he says gruffly, starting to walk away.
“Dean, wait,” Castiel hears himself saying. Dean stops as he slides off the truck. He walks up to the hunter whose face is guarded and tired. He reaches one hand up and lays it on Dean's cheek in a gesture that's almost tender and presses his lips against Dean's. Dean doesn't move closer, doesn't touch a hand to Castiel, but neither does he pull away.
After a minute, Castiel tilts his head so that their foreheads touch and whispers right against Dean's mouth, “For luck.”
Dean steps back, face still guarded, but perhaps a little softer. “Come on, Cas. Let's get these lazy bones up.”
It's the first time they've touched like that since Dean stopped including Castiel in his raids four months ago. It leaves a smile on his face.
***
Of course, the Colt isn't in the tiny Kansas town. What waits for them is a trap which isn't surprising. Within twenty minutes, the fighting is over and only Cody, one of the newest to their camp, is killed and all fifty of the demons waiting for them have been exorcised, stabbed by Ruby's knife, or taken captive in impromptu Devil's Traps.
Stephanie, a pretty blonde who isn't one of his girls, is the only one who takes Cody's death hard. Apparently, they'd been dating, or whatever one did at the end of the world with someone you liked. Castiel watches as Dean takes her over to the side and talks to her quietly. He inches closer so that he can hear.
“There'll be time to grieve later, okay, Stephanie? Cody fought well, he died trying to keep the world safe. But we can't let his sacrifice go to waste by not keeping it together. We don't know if there's more demons coming or not. We don't have the Colt. We can't fall apart, yet.”
The girl's tears come to a stop and Dean helps wipe them away before he pulls her close and kisses her on the forehead. Castiel is intrigued to see the gesture is more fatherly than anything.
The girl shuffles away to some of her friends who all pat her on the back as they shift gear and set up a perimeter around the old farmhouse where the trap sprang. Dean catches Castiel staring at him and his gaze hardens again. He walks towards him, then past, saying, “Let's go. We've got some demons to interrogate.”
That makes Castiel's stomach drop, but there's a spark of hope that lights inside him because despite it all - the sex, the torture, his tendency to disregard Chuck and Castiel and all those who knew him before - there's still obviously compassion left in him.
It's that thought that gets Castiel through the first two demons.
It takes ten hours for the first to break. What it reveals is worthless. Dean slices its throat with Ruby's knife in a rage, blood splattering on his face as the demon's scream is choked off and the body falls limp to the ground.
Castiel wants to vomit which is only in part because he hasn't eaten in over a day. It's strange. As an angel he could have killed anything that stood in his way. He'd watched from above as Uriel took out vengeance on Sodom and Gomorrah. Barely blinked when during the Crusades. Lives, then, were inconsequential to the bigger picture. Looking back, that twists his stomach more.
But instead of criticizing, Castiel puts his hand on Dean's arm - who starts like he's been in a trance - and takes the knife. He brushes the worst of the blood off Dean's face with his sleeve. He guides Dean out of the wooden barn, where they'd brought the prisoner after redecorating it with symbols enough to remind Castiel of the first time he met Dean in his vessel form, despite his protests and takes him out to the vehicles where someone offers them both sandwiches and water. Castiel doesn't eat until Dean's had his fill.
If Dean's going to do this to himself, Castiel will make sure that spark of life left buried deep down but revealed by Stephanie's misery is maintained. The hardened man scanning his motley army in front of him may be their Fearless Leader, but he's still Dean and Castiel never wants him to lose that. It's why he fought so hard against Dean saying yes to Michael. It's why he Fell. Dean might not want him around, but Castiel's not going anywhere. It's not like he has anywhere else to be, anyway.
So he stays with Dean through the second and third demons until they finally get a name - Crowley. Supposedly he's the big Crossroads demon. And supposedly, Lilith gave him the Colt after obtaining it from Bela.
After that session, Dean collapses with exhaustion and while he's sleeping, Castiel slips into the barn and slits the remaining two demons throats with the knife. Dean is pissed at him when he wakes up four hours later but then he tells everyone to pack up and Castiel almost thinks he looks relieved.
***
Castiel discovers Vicodin when he breaks his foot running from Croats. He's out of commission for two months, and frankly, he checks out - high on painkillers which are good and yet never enough - so that when Chuck finally stages an intervention by depriving him of the pills until Castiel has to get out of bed in search for more, he hardly recognizes the man who stands on Dean's porch. Yes, it's Dean, the hair still that bristle short length, his eyes green, the same army jacket he's been wearing for over two years now. But Dean is yelling at Chuck so loud Castiel can make out most of the words one hundred feet away and Chuck is cringing and clutching a clipboard tight in front of him like it'll protect him from Dean's wrath.
It's only when Dean gestures right to where Castiel stands on the steps of his cabin that he realizes they're talking about him. He limps over - ankle still weak because he hasn't tried any of the physical therapy Risa showed him - and he watches as Dean's eyes get unimaginably colder. Castiel tries to smile but he's afraid it's more of a grimace, pain shooting up through his leg, bitter withdrawal and desperate need clawing in his gut.
Once he reaches them, Dean turns away and speaks to Chuck instead. “Get him out of my sight until he can be useful again. And I don't care if he's internally bleeding and dying; don't give him any more pills.”
That hurts more than it should, so Castiel reaches out, catching Dean's sleeve. “Dean-”
The hunter stops and shakes him off like he would a bug with his face exuding the same amount of contempt that he would for a particularly annoying fly. “Don't touch me, junkie. Go bury yourself in your booze and women until you get the gonads to fucking fight again. That's what you do best, right? Whore yourself out? Two months for a broken foot, Jesus fucking Christ.”
A hysterical giggle slips out of his mouth without his permission. “I thought you'd gotten past trying to label me, Dean.”
Dean's eyes flicker over him from head to toe and it shouldn't make him horny, but it does. He watches the other man purse his lips before uttering, “Pathetic,” and stalking off.
A kernel of despair blossoms in his chest as he gazes after Dean. Something has gone terribly wrong in the past two months and it's Castiel's fault. If he hadn't tripped...if only he'd been a little faster running from the Croats...if, if, if.
He doesn't know if there's anything left of Dean to save, now. And if there isn't, that doesn't bode well for the rest of humanity, including himself. Lucifer is still out there and he's succeeding in slowly eroding the last hope of mankind, without even having to show his stolen face.
He turns and sees Chuck staring. “What?” he asks, bitter. “You want to take a shot, too?”
Castiel leaves as forcefully as he can, wincing with each step. Chuck continues to stand there in front of Dean's porch, clip board still in his hands. Castiel refuses to acknowledge the deep sadness in the man's eyes, an emotion that shouldn't belong to a hapless prophet who has no Lord left to prophesier for. He knows Chuck cares, but he shouldn't see that love shining amidst something akin to disappointment. It leaves him more disquieted than Dean's disdain, like Chuck knows something they all don't.
Conclusion