There is some very brief static, then views of fingers and the ceiling and walls of a motel-like room. Finally the feed stabilizes as Castiel sets his cell phone on a table, propped against a book to hold it upright, and sits on the ratty sofa opposite it so that he's in the video frame
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It's Cas.
And he looks...tired.
Dean's aware of, to some extent, Castiel's role in bringing him back from the dead, which is cool and all, 'cause he's sure that Hell sucks like a goddamn Hoover. But he has yet to see the angel so unsure of himself and his position, not that they'd talked extensively on the subject, or anything.
"Hey, buddy," He pipes up a little worriedly, quirking an eyebrow. "You okay? Why didn't you tell me any of this' sooner? About me...needing you...and stuff."
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"...I'm not douchey, am I?"
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"Doesn't matter," Dean waves one of his hands flippantly. "Tell me about the future, Cas."
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And the future is a very broad subject, Dean. I cannot tell you all of it. I can tell you that you are not a bad person though, if that is what you are wondering. You are human and flawed, but not bad."
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With all of Castiel's 'wisdom of ages', he makes Dean feel very young.
Dean doesn’t tell Castiel how the angel also makes Dean feel very old, or feel like an awkward teenager, or a teacher, or a brand new student, or like a million other things Dean’s never thought were inside of him. Castiel seems to wake old parts of him up in new ways, and the man never even notices.
"...right. I meant about angels, Cas," He corrects himself. "And the Big Guy Upstairs. We've had demons forever, when did you guys show up, and why?"
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As for God... I do not know." The amulet that future Dean lent him hangs heavy and warm under his clothing, twin to the one hanging over Dean's heart now.
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Dean going to Hell = Triggers angels appearing
Angels appear = The Apocalypse
Dean going to Hell = The Apocalypse
He doesn't quite register Castiel's comments about who, what, and why concerning his journey out of Hell, because he's too stuck on a singular piece of information.
"...I started the Apocalypse?"
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He sighs. "No, Dean. You did not start the Apocalypse. Don't give yourself so much credit," he says with a wry almost-smile.
"It is true that your actions in Hell broke the first seal. But it was only one of the sixty-six it took in total."
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...what had he done?
"In Hell," Dean swallows, his mouth dry. "What did I do?"
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He sighs again. "'The first seal shall break when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell,'" he quotes. "The demons intended for it to be your father, but when he escaped his imprisonment, it became you."
He wants to reassure this Dean, wants to shelter him from horror as much as he can, and isn't thinking very hard yet about what that says about his feelings, how different he himself is from the first time he had this conversation. "It's not all bad," he insists. "It means that you're a righteous man. That you weren't in Hell because you merited it."
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Dean is silent for a good, long moment, mulling over this new information. A "righteous" man. And he was supposed to be this "righteous" man? Dean Winchester, a man who had spent his entire life growing up out of motels, learned to hunt monsters while other boys his age played cowboys and Indians, made his first sawed-off shotgun when he was ten, raised his brother because no one else would.
Dean Winchester, a man who hustled pool, cursed like a sailor, drank like a fish, and fucked around with any loose woman he was attracted to who could spare an evening, or less than that.
A man who killed for a living.
And he was righteous?
"Whose blood did I spill?" He asks quietly, gaze fixed to a spot on the table.
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This isn't good news.
"Awesome," He mumbles sarcastically, sitting in silence for another moment. Dean takes all of this in, hoping that redemption from Hell doesn't make him anyone's bitch.
"Why me?"
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