[FIC] These Unpleasant Truths; PG-13; SPN
Title: These Unpleasant Truths
Author: phate_phoenix
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Word Count: ~6,100
Rating/Warning: Pg-13; Spoilers for 5.18, Gore, Torture
Summary: Dean makes some discoveries. Nearly none of them are pleasant.
Disclaimer: DO NOT OWN
Author's Notes: Why, yes, it is a 5.18 coda! XD Hope you all enjoy.
----
It takes Dean two days to drive from Van Nuys to Sioux Falls in the ratty old pick-up he and Sam stole. Two days of mostly easy conversation with a brother Dean had found again, and was seeing for the first time. Two days of plotting, planning, questioning. Dean smiles easy and laughs. It’s been months since his last, good laugh.
Back in Maine, stepping out of whorehouse with an arm wrapped around-
They arrive at Bobby’s in afternoon, the sky darkening and red-toned. Bobby watches them as they pull up from the porch, and Dean wants to throw open the door and grovel before him. He’d made Sam call when they stopped for gas and fill him in on what went down. There are some conversation that shouldn’t be done over the phone. Like this one that’s making him grit his teeth in shame. He wants to apologize, tell Bobby that he’s the closest thing to a father that Dean has ever had, closer, even, than his own. He steps out of the truck, stomach in knots, and offers Bobby a smile. Bobby huffs and wheels back into his house.
Dean clears his throat while Sam frowns at him. “Think he’s still upset?”
“No, Dean,” Sam drawls, but the corners of his mouth are turned up, “I’m sure he went to fix you a piece of pie.”
They let themselves in through the front door and immediately head into the kitchen. Bobby is swirling a glass of amber-colored liquid, and his eyes are far, far away. Dean’s thinks about what color Father’s Day card he should buy to apologize for his monumental fuck-up, but then… then he catches sight of Bobby’s drawn, pale face.
“Bobby, what’s wrong?” Dean asks, stopping at the other side of the table. He feels Sam at his side, can see him in the corner of his eye.
Bobby sighs, looking out his kitchen window. “We lost the angel then,” he says at last. Dean’s stomach rolls, and his teeth clench. Thankfully, Sam’s voice works just fine.
“Do you know what he was planning?” Sam asks. “He only pulled out a boxcutter and made some cuts in his hand before going inside the warehouse.”
Cas narrows his eyes before looking away, but not before Dean could see how hopeless he was, how tired. This is why I’m doing it, Dean wants to say, but then Cas pulls a yellow boxcutter and slides the blade up.
Dean turns his head to look at Sam, and it surprised at the depth of concern in his eyes, at how worried and anxious he looks. He wonders when they got so close, when Sam’s distaste and dislike for Cas became this… friendship. Then again, Dean’s mind bitterly informs him, he has been in a foggy stupor for the past month.
Bobby is quiet for a long minute. Then he looks up. “He told me what he was up against. Five angels all gunning for him. Open space, nowhere to hide.”
Dean’s stomach twists again, and he sees Sam’s body stiffen. Bobby continues.
“I asked about that sigil Dean used on him in the basement-”
There is shock in wide blue eyes. Shock and pain and betrayal before Cas screams loud and the light engulfs him. Dean’s fingers stick to the metal only momentarily.
“-He said that he needed my help.”
“With what, Bobby?” Sam asks, hands wrapping around the back of one of the chairs.
Bobby sighs, leaning his head back. “He decided that the best action would be to use the banishing sigil, but it would take too long for him to go in there and draw it. So…” Bobby pauses. Dean can hear the wood creaking from how tightly Sam is squeezing it. Dean’s gut feels like it’s fallen through the floor. Bobby lifts his head and down the last of his drink. “He asked me to carve the sigil into his chest.”
Cas walks awkwardly, bending slightly over. His face betrays no pain, though, only calm and determination. His brow furrows. “Are you ready?”
“Into his…?” Sam says quietly. Sam shakes his head. “But Cas’s carved that sigil before. It’s never affected him when he did it.”
Bobby closes his eyes. “He said that… carving it into his chest… might multiply the effect.”
“Multiply it how?” Dean asks, and his voice comes out sounding like Dean hasn’t spoken in years. Bobby looks at him.
“He said something about how angel blood made the effect of the sigil stronger,” Bobby began, “affected the radius of the attack, and the strength of it.”
Sam swallows loudly, and speaks because Dean’s used up all his will to. “Are you saying,” Sam pauses, “that Cas used his body to power the sigil?”
Bobby shrugged, taking his glass and wheeling away from the table. “He might have. He probably did. I trusted he’d make the right call.” He sets the glass next to the sink, and lets his hand rest there. “I guess he didn’t.”
Dean’s vaguely aware of Sam slamming his fist against the table. “Dammit Bobby, you let him do this to himself? Let him become a suicide bomber?!”
Bobby spins in his chair, eyes narrow, dark, and red-rimmed. “It was him or you two!” Bobby snarls. “I knew that, and he knew that. He was willing, he knew the risks. And, God forgive me, but I care about you two more than him.”
Dean finally sits down, although it feels more like he’s collapsing into his chair. There’s a strange… buzzing numbness tingling across his body, pricking at his fingers. Sam and Bobby’s words fuzz out into hum in his ears.
“So Cas’s dead.”
The words pull themselves out of his mouth without his say so, but he has no energy to try and take them back. Instead, he turns his eyes on Bobby, who is staring at him, confusion evident in his furrowed brows and concerned eyes. Dean wonders if he’s gone pale, because he feels cold where the numbness doesn’t settle. Sam’s eyes jumped between Bobby’s and Dean’s face, and he swallows.
“We don’t know that Dean,” Sam says. “He could still be alive-”
“Sam,” Bobby sighs, and Sam goes quiet, jaw set, head bowed. His hands tighten into fists. Bobby turns back to Dean, and his eyes speak louder than words ever will. “Dean,” he says, resting his hands in his lap, “he didn’t think he’d make it out.”
And that’s all Dean needs to hear. He’s on his feet seconds later, out the front door before he draws a breath.
Cas’s eyes burn into Dean’s, the brick wall is firm against his back. The anger makes Cas’s eyes brighter, and fear rockets through Dean’s body as his head bounces against brick.
There’s a metal bar in his hands. The stolen truck lingers in the middle of the yard. It’s dark, black, old, rusted.
The alleyway is dark, black, dirty, but Dean only notices this as Cas tosses him into the adjacent wall, forcing the air out of his lungs. His heart is racing, and his fingers scrabble to find something, anything, to save him. Cas pulls him back and clutches his shirt tight, pulls himself close. Dean sees in his eyes again, and this time there’s more than anger.
There’s fear.
“I rebelled for this?!”
The driver’s side door gives way after a few good whacks, glass raining to the ground and crunching beneath his feet. The hood crumples and bows faster than the Impala’s did, and crowbar comes back covered with thick, black oil.
He’s already choking on his blood when Cas tosses him against another wall. His shoulders are pulsing, and his ribs feel like they’re on fire. Suddenly Cas pulls himself closer, and Dean finds himself looking up at him. Dean can feel Cas’s breath on his face.
“I gave everything for you,” Cas hisses, pulling Dean closer. For an instant in Dean’s addled brain, he imagines he’s about to get kissed. That Cas’s chapped lips are about to fall on his. It’s a wild fantasy that makes him even more breathless than before, makes everything blur and buzz. Then Cas pulls back, eyes widening, and Dean feels Cas’s hands clench tighter. “And this is what you give to me?!”
Then he’s stumbling free, and he wants to run. But then there’s a wrecking ball in his gut, and Cas kicks him into the air, and everything is fuzzy. As Cas stalks closer, he thinks of death, and waits.
Blood dribbles off his wrists as he smashes another window.
Narrowed eyes through a darkened doorway. Head tilted slightly.
“Well, Cas, not for nothing, but, the last person who looked at me like that… I got laid.”
And Dean had wanted him. Had wanted him to lean forward and kiss him in that alley, to push him against the wall and make him moan in something other than pain. He’d wanted it.
And now it’s too late.
“I gave everything for you.”
Cas did give everything for Dean. He’d done it before. But this time, there was no God waiting to give them second or third chances. And Dean had squandered it. Had taken all Cas had done for him, all Cas had been through, all they had been through, and said it was useless.
Said Cas was useless.
“And this is what you give to me?!”
The noises that the metal makes ring in Dean’s ears.
Come-back, come-back
Sor-ry, sor-ry
----
Sam and Dean spend the rest of the night pointedly not talking about Dean’s breakdown and not looking at where the glass bit into Dean’s arms. Instead, they scribe anti-angel sigils around the panic room. Bobby hadn’t looked at Dean when he told them to do it, instead just handing over a drawn layout and a bowl of white, odorless paste.
“If we learned one thing from this,” Bobby says, “it’s that we gotta be prepared for anything.”
Hours later, Dean’s fingers are plastered together and his t-shirt is ruined. But it's alright-the shirt’d been old and falling apart anyway, and the busy work kept his mind off-
Kept his mind moving.
It didn’t stop him from feeling guilty about not wondering where Adam was, if he was alright. Truth be told, it wasn’t hard to guess. If Dean’s father had been a vessel for Michael, then Adam would work just as well, even if only as temporary housing, like that poor asshole Satan was wearing. Or maybe Adam could be used at Michael’s proper vessel, like Cas-
Dean grits his teeth and aggressively smears on the next symbol.
“Why didn’t we do this before?” Sam asks.
Dean wants to say they had an angel on their team who didn’t deserve to be locked out if demons attacked.
“Too busy, I guess,” he says instead, and attempts to fix the squiggles in his sigil.
----
There’s a yellow boxcutter in Dean’s hands, and he twirls it through his fingers, a practiced motion from ten years work. The walls of Bobby’s panic room are covered in glowing anti-angel sigils, and red light bleeds from the ceiling, between whirling fan blades. Something jingles behind him, and he smiles, turning around and watching a shirtless Castiel dangle from chains. Blood oozes out of his nose and dribbles down his chin. His chest, however, is completely clean.
Dean strides forward and lazily draws the plastic case over Castiel’s stomach, watching the muscles clench and quiver under his touch. Dean looks up, smiling as Castiel spits blood on the floor. With twitch of his fingers, Dean slides the blade out, and pushes it into Castiel’s skin. Castiel gasps, jerking and making the cut jagged and imperfect. Dean sighs, and starts again. Cas hisses, but keeps utterly still.
Dean slowly carves the line to just inches above Cas’s bellybutton, finishing half of the semicircle. Cas’s breathing is ragged, and he’s slumped completely in his chains. Dean steps back to take in what he’s done, trying to decide if he likes it. He smears the blood away to get a better look at the line, and, apart from some small faults along its edge, Dean is pleased with how it’s coming out.
“I…” Cas rasps, and Dean glances up before pushing the blade back into his gut. Blood gushes down, rolling down Cas’s pants and dribbling onto the floor. Cas chokes, sputters, gags, and Dean continues to carefully slice upwards.
“I gave… everything for you,” Cas growls at last. Dean smirks and pushes the blade deeper. Cas coughs, and Dean feels him spit blood out on his head. Feels it dribble down his face, across his lips. He tastes it.
Divine.
“For… you…” Cas forces out as Dean finally connects the circle and slides the blade from Cas’s body. He pushes his fingers inside the cuts and Cas convulses in pain. He feels the soft edges of skin and the squishy muscles beneath it, smells the coppery scent, feels the sticky, slimy blood coat between his fingers and run down his forearms. He wants to push his hands inside, feel the rest of what’s behind these soft layers of flesh and blood. He refrains, and slides his fingers out.
Dean carefully traces symbols on Cas’s skin in blood, while Cas attempts to regain control of his breathing. Once he presses the blade inside Cas again, the angel shouts and jerks, as if to buck Dean off, buck him out. Dean just grabs hold of Cas’s pants and continues to follow the pattern.
It’s as Dean’s cutting the final symbol that Cas speaks again. “And this,” he murmurs, eyes closed, “is what you give to me?”
Dean connects the lines of the symbol and steps back, admiring his work. It’s beautiful. All blood and lines, magic sewn into human flesh. He sets the boxcutter aside and allows his fingers to trail gently across the mark, smearing bloody trails. Dean raises his head to meet Cas’s gaze. The blue eyes plead for mercy from him, and Dean smiles.
He pulls Cas’s chains, loosens them, and Cas’s feet finally touch the cold iron floor. Cas groans as he puts all his weight on the balls of his feet. He’s stepping in blood, but he doesn’t seem to care. He lifts his head, and Dean steps forward, running one arm around Cas’s neck and pulling his face to his. Cas doesn’t seem to mind, eyes drifting half-shut as Dean brushes their lips together.
Cas smells like blood and hellfire.
Dean smiles against his lips, running his fingers up Cas’s side.
“Blow me, Cas,” Dean murmurs, and slams his palm against the sigil. Cas screams, exploding into dust and light and black feathers.
It’s beautiful.
----
Dean’s out of bed before he’s fully awake, his fingers already pushing the speed dial number on his cell. He holds the phone up to his ear, listening.
It goes directly to voicemail.
“You’ve reached the voicemail of,” the phone tells him, and then Castiel’s annoyed and bewildered voice:
“Wh-I don’t understand. Wh-why do you want me… to say my name?”
Dean doesn’t feel any better hearing the recording. Sam had called on their way back to Bobby’s, but there had been no answer then, either. It twists Dean’s gut. His chest aches from more than just his bruised ribs.
“Cas, it’s Dean,” he says when the tone blares in his ear, “I… I didn’t… It’s me. I’m me.” He swallows and holds the phone to his other ear as he steps out of the house and into the maze of cars and twisted metal. “Look, we called you earlier, but you didn’t pick up.” He pauses, his eyes drawn to the battered and bent black pick-up truck he and Sam had arrived in. He turns away. “We talked to Bobby, Cas. He told us…”
Dean pauses, staring into the lightening horizon. What should he say? That Bobby told them Cas was apparently suicidal? Told them that Cas was dead, and that Dean is currently talking to a busted phone that lies next to a burnt and broken body with two wings burned into the ground beneath it?
Dean inhales.
“He told us what your plan was Cas,” Dean says at last. “He said you might be… in trouble. So, call me back and let me know you’re okay.” Then Dean remembers Cas’s last words to him. He closes his eyes and grits out, “Or call Sam, or Bobby. Just… let us know you’re okay.”
The phone then promptly tells Dean he’s run out of time, and Dean’s jaw hangs open. He leans against an old blue Ford Taurus and stares down at his phone, looking down at the screen long after the backlight fades.
“You know it’s not your fault, right?”
Dean cracks a smile shaking his head. He looks up at Sam, who’s standing a few feet away, hands jammed into the pockets of his sweatpants. It’s then that Dean realizes he’s outside in nothing more than his boxers and a ratty t-shirt. Mud squeezes between his freezing toes, but makes no effort to move. Sam sighs and treads forward, booted feet crunching the gravel. He pauses just to Dean’s left, tugging his hands free.
“Seriously, Dean,” he begins, leaning against the car beside Dean, “it’s not. Castiel knew what he was doing. He chose to do this.”
“Yeah,” Dean says roughly, “after I bullied him into it.”
He hears a thunking noise, and turns to seeing Sam knocking the back of his head against the tire of the car resting onto of the Taurus. Sam finally turns to stare at him, jaw set and eyes narrow.
“Cas was a big-boy angel, Dean,” he says, “who’d seen years and years stuff. He’s older than either you or I could imagine. It wasn’t like he was a four year old you bribed with candy. He knew the risks.” Sam frowns, looking across the yard and to where the sunrise was starting. “He was the only one who really did.”
Dean stares at Sam before looking to the sunrise, watching the reds, oranges, and purples bleed across the sky. “Well, he seemed pretty bitter when he was tossing my ass around that alleyway.”
Dean feels Sam shrug, his shoulder brushing against Dean’s. “Yeah, well, I was pretty close to taking a swing at you myself.”
Dean’s lips twitch automatically into a smile. Then a bitter taste hits his tongue and he glances away and to the ground. “He… he said he had no faith in me,” he says after a minute. “He didn’t go in there to win, Sam. He didn’t go in there because he thought that I would pull it off. He did it because he wanted to die.”
Sam’s silent after that, and Dean can hear him swallow heavily. Dean lets loose a soft chuckle, lifting his eyes to the sky again. “How am I supposed to react to that? He’d lost his family, his faith, and then I…” Dean closes his eyes. “I take away everything he’d fought for. Everything he gave up, I told him that it meant nothing.” He looks back at Sam, and his brother meets his gaze. “How am I not supposed to feel guilty about that, Sam?”
Sam says nothing, because they both know that guilt. They both know that no amount of rationalizing, or talking, or revenge will make them feel any better about themselves. Dean knows that.
But it doesn’t stop him.
“In the alleyway,” Dean says, rough and quiet, turning away from Sam and back to the yellowing sky, “I wanted…”
He tries to say it, but it’s lodged in his throat. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him. “Cas said…” his brother begins, gently, “you asked him to kill you.” Sam pauses. “Are you… do you still-?”
Dean shakes his head. “No, it would’ve just made it easier to find Zachariah,” Dean says. Sam makes a surprised noise, but Dean ignores it. “That’s,” he begins instead, “that’s not what…”
Dean stops, gritting his teeth. Sam places a hand on his shoulder, the unmarked one, and gives him a little shake. “Whatever it is, Dean, it’s nothing. We’ll deal with it.”
It is nothing, Dean realizes, and his stomach clenches and his chest aches and his eyes burn, because Cas is dead.
“I wanted him,” Dean says at last, looking back at the sunrise. Light blue sky is starting to peak out from behind the orange and purple. “I wanted Cas.” Sam’s fingers clench and unclench on his shoulder, and Dean smiles slightly. “I still do.”
“Dean,” Sam says, voice rough and soft, “I didn’t know.”
Dean exhales an amused noise, closing his eyes. “Yeah, join the club.”
Sam’s hand squeezes his shoulder tighter, and doesn’t let go. Dean draws from it, from this newly-mended bond between his brother and himself, and, despite what experience has taught his about ‘talking it out,’ the pain in his chest eases.
They stay there, together, until Bobby calls them in to help with breakfast.
----
“Alright, boys,” Bobby says, wheeling out into the living room. Dean sets down his bottle of beer and looks up from the tome he’d been reading, while Sam pokes his head around the corner of one of the many bookshelves in the room. Bobby gestures out the window. “I’ve got a shipment of herbs, spices, and blades made of iron and silver that should be arriving any minute. You two are unloading the truck.”
Sam frowns, sliding out and around the shelves, arms full of books. “You’re going to let someone drive onto the yard?”
Bobby rolls his eyes and turns his wheelchair back towards the kitchen. “I had an iron line installed at the front gate after,” he pauses, and then waves his hand agitatedly. “You know. Unless the idjit crashes through the gate, they’ll have to cross it.”
Dean grins, eyebrows rising. “Early warning system. Nice one, Bobby.”
Bobby smirks and disappears into the kitchen. “I still know a few tricks yet.” Dean can hear him clanking around with the dishes from breakfast. “It’s only a few boxes, anyway. Independent guys, used ‘em before. They don’t ask questions.”
As if summoned, Dean hears a vehicle rumbling on its way down the gravel path. Sam huffs, looking down at the piles of books he’s carrying and back at the shelf in distress. With a smirk, Dean slides a bookmark into his tome and closes it, eager to get out of the room and back into the sunlight. Eager to be doing something.
As he steps out the front door, he sees a burly, dark-haried man unlocking the back door of the large, green minivan with dark windows. “This Robert Singer’s residence?” the driver calls as he makes his way towards him.
Dean nods, reaching out to shake his hand. “You’ve got the right place.”
The driver smiles and vigorously returns the gesture. Then he jerks his thumb at the truck, shrugging. “You want any help unloading? The caller said you wouldn’t, but I have to ask. Oh.” He pulls out a small booklet from his pocket. “And I need Mister Singer’s signature.”
“We’ve got it,” Dean says. He glances over his shoulder as Bobby wheels himself out of the house. “That’s Bobby.”
The driver smiles, nodding his head. “Thanks,” he says. “Back door should be open.” He walks past Dean and towards Bobby. Dean watches for a minute before turning back and heading to the van. He yanks the two back doors open and looks at the cardboard boxes stacked high, almost pushed against the roof.
“Should’ve gone with a larger van,” Dean mumbles, and gingerly pulls a box out from the top. It’s light, and Dean can hear something shuffling around when he shakes it. Herbs, he thinks, and turns around.
“Hello, Dean.”
And promptly drops it.
He’s standing in front of Dean, ruffled hair, trenchcoat, and wide, blue eyes.
Dean can’t breathe. The ache in his chest is crushing him.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” Dean finally chokes out.
Cas’s eyes narrow. “You’re supposed to be Michael.”
Dean grits his teeth against the hope flaring in his chest. “What are you?” he hisses, well aware that there’s a civilian only a few feet away. “Skinwalker? Revenant?”
The-thing-that-looks-like-Cas looks away. “There are silver knives in the van, Dean. Take one and test me.”
He’s going to do more than that. He’s going to ram it through this thing’s heart and watch it bleed out.
“Oh, jeez, man, totally forgot,” Dean hears the driver say, and flicks his eyes over his shoulder to see him jogging over to them. Dean says nothing, and keeps his eyes firmly on the-whatever-it-is. “This is Jimmy Novak. Found him in Minneapolis looking for a ride here. Said he knew you guys.”
Dean hears Sam and Bobby behind him. “Yeah,” Dean says, and it hurts to lie because this isn’t Cas. “Yeah, we worked together.” His eyes narrow at ‘Cas’. “Why didn’t you call?”
The creature turns its perfectly-colored eyes on Dean again. It’s Cas’s face, just as Dean remembers. He’s even missing his tie. But his shirt is different, Dean notices. He’s wearing a baggier, grey shirt. And he’s missing his suit jacket. And there are holes in the knees of his pants. Cas would never look like that.
This can’t be Cas, Dean thinks. It just… looks so much like him.
“My cell phone broke after…” Its eyes jump between the driver and Dean. “After our last job together. And I have no cash, Dean. I couldn’t have called you. Or Sam, or Bobby.” It pauses, reaching into its trenchcoat and pulling out a beaten, dented, and cracked cell phone. The creature carefully holds it out to Dean, who takes it, and instantly recognizes it as the same brand Cas had. Same color. Dean swallows, looking up to meet its eyes. “I was able to salvage the message you sent me, Dean.”
Bobby clears his throat. “You know, Sam and Greg can deal with the boxes,” he says, eyes narrowed at Dean. “You take… Jimmy inside and get him something to eat.”
Dean nods, bending down to pick up the box he’d dropped. “Here, Jimmy,” he says, shoving the box into the creature’s arms. It winces, and Dean’s jaw sets firmer and he grabs another box from the van. “C’mon.”
Dean walks slowly, matching pace with the thing wearing Cas’s face. He’s already pulled a silver knife out of the box, and he twirls it obviously, catching the eye of the creature. “Don’t do anything stupid,” Dean snarls. “Or I’ll make you regret it.”
Its lips quirk. “I never regretted anything, Dean.”
Dean closes his eyes, jaw clenching so tight he can hear the joint popping. “Now I know you’re not him,” Dean growls, tongue flicking out to lick scabbed-over skin on his lip. He yanks the door open, and it steps in ahead of him. Before the door fully shuts behind him, Dean drops his box and grabs its arm. It merely watches him, arm limp in his grasp, even as Dean lets the blade hover over his skin.
Then he cuts. It’s just enough to make it bleed, but that’s all-no shriek of pain, or sizzling skin. Just blood, dribbling down this creature’s arm.
Dean raises his eyes, looking over this too-familiar face with too familiar eyes and too familiar hair, and struggles to breathe. Because this can’t be real. Not for a second time. Not to Dean. Not to people Dean loves.
“Cas?” he asks, fingers clenching tighter around the arm, blade slipping between suddenly lax fingers.
Cas smiles. “Are you done cutting me?”
Dean makes no conscious motion, just lurches forward and engulfs Cas in his arms. Cas lets out a soft, shocked noise and Dean tucks his head against his shoulder, fingers clutching tighter to the worn, familiar trenchcoat. Dean closes his eyes tightly, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I can’t believe you’re alive,” he rasps.
It takes a moment, but Cas’s arms come up to return the hug. Dean feels Ca’s breath against his neck, feels his heartbeat. He’s stupidly happy. Stupidly, considering it’s the apocalypse.
“I’m glad you’re you, Dean,” Cas says, and clutches Dean tighter.
“Boy, what a heartfelt moment. Let me grab my camera,” Bobby snipes, and Dean flounders back. He knocks his elbow into the wall behind him. Cas merely smiles.
“Bobby,” Cas says. Bobby’s eyes drop to where the sigil would be on his chest before meeting Cas’s gaze again.
“Glad to see you aren’t dead, Feathers.”
Bobby turns to look out the door, and misses the sharp, sudden pain the flashes over Cas’s features. Dean doesn’t, but it’s gone before he can mention it, and the only sign is a lingering strain between his brows that it was ever there.
“Well,” Bobby says, breaking Dean’s thoughts and drawing his attention, “if you two are gonna keep playing grab-ass, at least go do it in your room.”
Dean glares at him but rolls his eyes and gestures to Cas. “C’mon,” he says, staring up the stairs, “we’ll talk up here.”
Sam and Dean rarely ever use their ‘rooms’ at Bobby’s place-normally, they camp out in the living room, close enough to the exits or the panic room. But sometimes a person has to sleep on a bed, if only to save their backs.
“Where is Adam?” Cas asks as they step into the darkened room. Dean frowns. Stilling in the dark.
“Michael has him,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” Cas says, brushing his hand over Dean’s shoulder.
Dean nods. “So’m I.”
He tugs on a dangling string in the middle of the room and light floods the small space, exposing peeling wallpaper. The window sills were lined with iron, and there was a gun rack attached to the side of the bed. It’s perfect, Dean thinks, and heads over to the small closet where he knows he has several t-shirts and jeans.
“Did you lose your jacket and shirt?” he asks, thumbing through the six shirts he has. “Or was there too much blood?”
“Too much damage,” Cas says. Dean can see him lingering in the middle of the room, shoulders hunched and arms dangling loose at his sides. Dean rolls his eyes and pulls a brown t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He turns around, holding the shirt and pants out. “These should work.”
Cas nods, and slowly shuffles forward. “Thank you, Dean,” he says. He comes towards Dean with small, quick steps, gritting his teeth. It catches Dean’s attention, because that’s… not right.
“Cas,” Dean says, narrowing his eyes, “what's going on with your feet?”
Cas’s eyes widen, and his hands drop to his sides, clenching his fists. He looks away for a moment before limping to Dean’s bed and sitting down on it. He exhales, reaching down and pushing his loafers off and letting his feet dangle. “I had to walk several miles to Minneapolis, Dean,” Cas says, lifting his gaze to Dean's face. “My feet… I have blisters.”
And Dean freezes. “Why were you walking?” he asks, a cold chill settling in his chest. “Why did you need to get a ride here?” This is Cas, Dean thinks, because it isn’t a shapeshifter. His stomach twists again when Cas turns his face away. “What… what did you do to yourself?”
Cas presses a hand to the center of his chest, where Dean assumes the sigil is drawn. He then turns on the bed, looking out the window and into the sky.
“The sigil is only meant for banishing angels,” Cas says at last, “but it does become more powerful if it’s drawn in angel’s blood, or a vessel’s blood.” Cas looks to the floor, but his lips are quirked into a small, smug smile. “The sigil’s strength grows with how much blood is used, and how much grace is burned in that blood.”
Dean wanders dazedly to the bed, sitting down beside him. “You used your whole body. You used all of…” Dean closes his eyes.
“I had wanted to power the sigil enough to banish Zachariah from the warehouse,” Cas says. Dean looks at him, and Cas’s brow furrows. “I didn’t have enough grace. I was more human than angel. I had enough to destroy the four angels there, but not enough to send Zachariah from where he was, hovering.”
Dean frowns, shaking his head. “Why? Why would you… We handled Zachariah, we had a plan. You approved of the plan.”
Cas smirks. “I said it was foolish.”
“But you didn't try to stop us,” Dean says, trying to smile. “That's as good as saying it's a good idea.” Dean then frowns. “And stop deflecting, Cas.”
Cas sighs, looking aside. “I wanted to…” He pauses. “If Zachariah wasn't there, then you could get to Adam and leave without ever dealing with him.”
Dean stares. “You were trying to keep me from saying yes.”
Cas looks at him, eyes narrow. “If I were to banish Zachariah long enough for you to escape, then your brother could talk sense into you. I trusted Sam to do it.”
Dean stares at Cas, meets his gaze. Anger flares inside him. “And you, Cas?” he snaps. “What would have happened to you?”
Cas lifts his chin, eyes narrowing. “Had there been enough of it, my grace would have burned me away, and I wouldn’t be sitting here.”
Dean scowls, looking at his feet. “So you'd just… kill yourself, sacrifice yourself, so that I couldn’t say yes to him.”
“Yes,” Cas says. “I would. I have. If I had anything left to give, I’d do it again.”
Dean grits his teeth, jerking towards Cas. “I want to see it,” he snarls.
Cas glares. “This isn’t something you can punish yourself over, Dean,” he says. “I made my choice to follow you. You don’t get to blame yourself for my decisions. Otherwise they aren't mine anymore.”
Dean reaches forward, fingers brushing against the shirt. “I just… need to see it, Cas,” he whispers.
Cas stares at his hand for a moment. “Fine,” he says, and shrugs off his trenchcoat. Dean watches as Cas grips the bottom of his t-shirt, and then hesitates.
“Dean,” Cas says, eyes wide and pleading. “This isn't your fault,” he says again. Dean nods, but they both know he’s going to blame himself anyway. Cas sighs, and pulls the shirt over his head.
Dean feels the blood leach away from his face. He’s barely aware of Cas tossing his shirt across the room, barely aware of anything but the markings so crudely carved into Cas’s flesh. He’s reminded of his dream, because the sigil is the exact same one he'd used here, the same one he'd used on Cas in the panic room. But instead of blood on cold metal, it’s flesh.
The marks are all singed and burned and scarred already, creating ridges of flesh on Cas’s chest. It stretches around the skin, pulling it. It looks uncomfortable, like the wrong twist of Cas’s torso could cause his skin to tear. It’s horrifying.
“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, reaching out and hovering over the mark. “I didn’t… I’m not worth this.”
Cas takes Dean’s hand in his own, drawing Dean’s eyes to his again. There’s something in them, something that makes Dean’s chest ache.
“You are,” Cas murmurs. “You’re worth everything I do. I don’t regret anything, Dean. Never.”
Dean swallows, closing his eyes. “Why?”
Cas’s laughter brushes against his face, and Dean looks up to see Cas only inches away. There’s amusement in his eyes, and a small smile on his face. “Do you have to ask?”
Dean leans forward, brushing his lips against Cas’s. Cas smiles wider, his eyes closing. Dean grits his teeth, bending his forehead against Cas’s, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck.
“I’ll give you everything, Cas,” he whispers, broken. “I’ll give you everything I have. Anything you want.”
“I want to never look into your eyes and see someone else, Dean,” Cas whispers harshly, his hands reaching up to cup Dean’s face. “I want to look at you and see you every time.” He pauses, tilting his head to touch his lips to Dean's. “Can you give me this?”
Dean places a hand over the marks on Cas’s chest, gently. He runs his fingers against the ridges and the scars, feels them scrape against his fingertips. He takes a shaky breath.
“Yes,” Dean says, feeling Cas’s breath against his face. “Yes.”
And he seals his mouth against Cas’s.
Author: phate_phoenix
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Word Count: ~6,100
Rating/Warning: Pg-13; Spoilers for 5.18, Gore, Torture
Summary: Dean makes some discoveries. Nearly none of them are pleasant.
Disclaimer: DO NOT OWN
Author's Notes: Why, yes, it is a 5.18 coda! XD Hope you all enjoy.
----
It takes Dean two days to drive from Van Nuys to Sioux Falls in the ratty old pick-up he and Sam stole. Two days of mostly easy conversation with a brother Dean had found again, and was seeing for the first time. Two days of plotting, planning, questioning. Dean smiles easy and laughs. It’s been months since his last, good laugh.
Back in Maine, stepping out of whorehouse with an arm wrapped around-
They arrive at Bobby’s in afternoon, the sky darkening and red-toned. Bobby watches them as they pull up from the porch, and Dean wants to throw open the door and grovel before him. He’d made Sam call when they stopped for gas and fill him in on what went down. There are some conversation that shouldn’t be done over the phone. Like this one that’s making him grit his teeth in shame. He wants to apologize, tell Bobby that he’s the closest thing to a father that Dean has ever had, closer, even, than his own. He steps out of the truck, stomach in knots, and offers Bobby a smile. Bobby huffs and wheels back into his house.
Dean clears his throat while Sam frowns at him. “Think he’s still upset?”
“No, Dean,” Sam drawls, but the corners of his mouth are turned up, “I’m sure he went to fix you a piece of pie.”
They let themselves in through the front door and immediately head into the kitchen. Bobby is swirling a glass of amber-colored liquid, and his eyes are far, far away. Dean’s thinks about what color Father’s Day card he should buy to apologize for his monumental fuck-up, but then… then he catches sight of Bobby’s drawn, pale face.
“Bobby, what’s wrong?” Dean asks, stopping at the other side of the table. He feels Sam at his side, can see him in the corner of his eye.
Bobby sighs, looking out his kitchen window. “We lost the angel then,” he says at last. Dean’s stomach rolls, and his teeth clench. Thankfully, Sam’s voice works just fine.
“Do you know what he was planning?” Sam asks. “He only pulled out a boxcutter and made some cuts in his hand before going inside the warehouse.”
Cas narrows his eyes before looking away, but not before Dean could see how hopeless he was, how tired. This is why I’m doing it, Dean wants to say, but then Cas pulls a yellow boxcutter and slides the blade up.
Dean turns his head to look at Sam, and it surprised at the depth of concern in his eyes, at how worried and anxious he looks. He wonders when they got so close, when Sam’s distaste and dislike for Cas became this… friendship. Then again, Dean’s mind bitterly informs him, he has been in a foggy stupor for the past month.
Bobby is quiet for a long minute. Then he looks up. “He told me what he was up against. Five angels all gunning for him. Open space, nowhere to hide.”
Dean’s stomach twists again, and he sees Sam’s body stiffen. Bobby continues.
“I asked about that sigil Dean used on him in the basement-”
There is shock in wide blue eyes. Shock and pain and betrayal before Cas screams loud and the light engulfs him. Dean’s fingers stick to the metal only momentarily.
“-He said that he needed my help.”
“With what, Bobby?” Sam asks, hands wrapping around the back of one of the chairs.
Bobby sighs, leaning his head back. “He decided that the best action would be to use the banishing sigil, but it would take too long for him to go in there and draw it. So…” Bobby pauses. Dean can hear the wood creaking from how tightly Sam is squeezing it. Dean’s gut feels like it’s fallen through the floor. Bobby lifts his head and down the last of his drink. “He asked me to carve the sigil into his chest.”
Cas walks awkwardly, bending slightly over. His face betrays no pain, though, only calm and determination. His brow furrows. “Are you ready?”
“Into his…?” Sam says quietly. Sam shakes his head. “But Cas’s carved that sigil before. It’s never affected him when he did it.”
Bobby closes his eyes. “He said that… carving it into his chest… might multiply the effect.”
“Multiply it how?” Dean asks, and his voice comes out sounding like Dean hasn’t spoken in years. Bobby looks at him.
“He said something about how angel blood made the effect of the sigil stronger,” Bobby began, “affected the radius of the attack, and the strength of it.”
Sam swallows loudly, and speaks because Dean’s used up all his will to. “Are you saying,” Sam pauses, “that Cas used his body to power the sigil?”
Bobby shrugged, taking his glass and wheeling away from the table. “He might have. He probably did. I trusted he’d make the right call.” He sets the glass next to the sink, and lets his hand rest there. “I guess he didn’t.”
Dean’s vaguely aware of Sam slamming his fist against the table. “Dammit Bobby, you let him do this to himself? Let him become a suicide bomber?!”
Bobby spins in his chair, eyes narrow, dark, and red-rimmed. “It was him or you two!” Bobby snarls. “I knew that, and he knew that. He was willing, he knew the risks. And, God forgive me, but I care about you two more than him.”
Dean finally sits down, although it feels more like he’s collapsing into his chair. There’s a strange… buzzing numbness tingling across his body, pricking at his fingers. Sam and Bobby’s words fuzz out into hum in his ears.
“So Cas’s dead.”
The words pull themselves out of his mouth without his say so, but he has no energy to try and take them back. Instead, he turns his eyes on Bobby, who is staring at him, confusion evident in his furrowed brows and concerned eyes. Dean wonders if he’s gone pale, because he feels cold where the numbness doesn’t settle. Sam’s eyes jumped between Bobby’s and Dean’s face, and he swallows.
“We don’t know that Dean,” Sam says. “He could still be alive-”
“Sam,” Bobby sighs, and Sam goes quiet, jaw set, head bowed. His hands tighten into fists. Bobby turns back to Dean, and his eyes speak louder than words ever will. “Dean,” he says, resting his hands in his lap, “he didn’t think he’d make it out.”
And that’s all Dean needs to hear. He’s on his feet seconds later, out the front door before he draws a breath.
Cas’s eyes burn into Dean’s, the brick wall is firm against his back. The anger makes Cas’s eyes brighter, and fear rockets through Dean’s body as his head bounces against brick.
There’s a metal bar in his hands. The stolen truck lingers in the middle of the yard. It’s dark, black, old, rusted.
The alleyway is dark, black, dirty, but Dean only notices this as Cas tosses him into the adjacent wall, forcing the air out of his lungs. His heart is racing, and his fingers scrabble to find something, anything, to save him. Cas pulls him back and clutches his shirt tight, pulls himself close. Dean sees in his eyes again, and this time there’s more than anger.
There’s fear.
“I rebelled for this?!”
The driver’s side door gives way after a few good whacks, glass raining to the ground and crunching beneath his feet. The hood crumples and bows faster than the Impala’s did, and crowbar comes back covered with thick, black oil.
He’s already choking on his blood when Cas tosses him against another wall. His shoulders are pulsing, and his ribs feel like they’re on fire. Suddenly Cas pulls himself closer, and Dean finds himself looking up at him. Dean can feel Cas’s breath on his face.
“I gave everything for you,” Cas hisses, pulling Dean closer. For an instant in Dean’s addled brain, he imagines he’s about to get kissed. That Cas’s chapped lips are about to fall on his. It’s a wild fantasy that makes him even more breathless than before, makes everything blur and buzz. Then Cas pulls back, eyes widening, and Dean feels Cas’s hands clench tighter. “And this is what you give to me?!”
Then he’s stumbling free, and he wants to run. But then there’s a wrecking ball in his gut, and Cas kicks him into the air, and everything is fuzzy. As Cas stalks closer, he thinks of death, and waits.
Blood dribbles off his wrists as he smashes another window.
Narrowed eyes through a darkened doorway. Head tilted slightly.
“Well, Cas, not for nothing, but, the last person who looked at me like that… I got laid.”
And Dean had wanted him. Had wanted him to lean forward and kiss him in that alley, to push him against the wall and make him moan in something other than pain. He’d wanted it.
And now it’s too late.
“I gave everything for you.”
Cas did give everything for Dean. He’d done it before. But this time, there was no God waiting to give them second or third chances. And Dean had squandered it. Had taken all Cas had done for him, all Cas had been through, all they had been through, and said it was useless.
Said Cas was useless.
“And this is what you give to me?!”
The noises that the metal makes ring in Dean’s ears.
Come-back, come-back
Sor-ry, sor-ry
----
Sam and Dean spend the rest of the night pointedly not talking about Dean’s breakdown and not looking at where the glass bit into Dean’s arms. Instead, they scribe anti-angel sigils around the panic room. Bobby hadn’t looked at Dean when he told them to do it, instead just handing over a drawn layout and a bowl of white, odorless paste.
“If we learned one thing from this,” Bobby says, “it’s that we gotta be prepared for anything.”
Hours later, Dean’s fingers are plastered together and his t-shirt is ruined. But it's alright-the shirt’d been old and falling apart anyway, and the busy work kept his mind off-
Kept his mind moving.
It didn’t stop him from feeling guilty about not wondering where Adam was, if he was alright. Truth be told, it wasn’t hard to guess. If Dean’s father had been a vessel for Michael, then Adam would work just as well, even if only as temporary housing, like that poor asshole Satan was wearing. Or maybe Adam could be used at Michael’s proper vessel, like Cas-
Dean grits his teeth and aggressively smears on the next symbol.
“Why didn’t we do this before?” Sam asks.
Dean wants to say they had an angel on their team who didn’t deserve to be locked out if demons attacked.
“Too busy, I guess,” he says instead, and attempts to fix the squiggles in his sigil.
----
There’s a yellow boxcutter in Dean’s hands, and he twirls it through his fingers, a practiced motion from ten years work. The walls of Bobby’s panic room are covered in glowing anti-angel sigils, and red light bleeds from the ceiling, between whirling fan blades. Something jingles behind him, and he smiles, turning around and watching a shirtless Castiel dangle from chains. Blood oozes out of his nose and dribbles down his chin. His chest, however, is completely clean.
Dean strides forward and lazily draws the plastic case over Castiel’s stomach, watching the muscles clench and quiver under his touch. Dean looks up, smiling as Castiel spits blood on the floor. With twitch of his fingers, Dean slides the blade out, and pushes it into Castiel’s skin. Castiel gasps, jerking and making the cut jagged and imperfect. Dean sighs, and starts again. Cas hisses, but keeps utterly still.
Dean slowly carves the line to just inches above Cas’s bellybutton, finishing half of the semicircle. Cas’s breathing is ragged, and he’s slumped completely in his chains. Dean steps back to take in what he’s done, trying to decide if he likes it. He smears the blood away to get a better look at the line, and, apart from some small faults along its edge, Dean is pleased with how it’s coming out.
“I…” Cas rasps, and Dean glances up before pushing the blade back into his gut. Blood gushes down, rolling down Cas’s pants and dribbling onto the floor. Cas chokes, sputters, gags, and Dean continues to carefully slice upwards.
“I gave… everything for you,” Cas growls at last. Dean smirks and pushes the blade deeper. Cas coughs, and Dean feels him spit blood out on his head. Feels it dribble down his face, across his lips. He tastes it.
Divine.
“For… you…” Cas forces out as Dean finally connects the circle and slides the blade from Cas’s body. He pushes his fingers inside the cuts and Cas convulses in pain. He feels the soft edges of skin and the squishy muscles beneath it, smells the coppery scent, feels the sticky, slimy blood coat between his fingers and run down his forearms. He wants to push his hands inside, feel the rest of what’s behind these soft layers of flesh and blood. He refrains, and slides his fingers out.
Dean carefully traces symbols on Cas’s skin in blood, while Cas attempts to regain control of his breathing. Once he presses the blade inside Cas again, the angel shouts and jerks, as if to buck Dean off, buck him out. Dean just grabs hold of Cas’s pants and continues to follow the pattern.
It’s as Dean’s cutting the final symbol that Cas speaks again. “And this,” he murmurs, eyes closed, “is what you give to me?”
Dean connects the lines of the symbol and steps back, admiring his work. It’s beautiful. All blood and lines, magic sewn into human flesh. He sets the boxcutter aside and allows his fingers to trail gently across the mark, smearing bloody trails. Dean raises his head to meet Cas’s gaze. The blue eyes plead for mercy from him, and Dean smiles.
He pulls Cas’s chains, loosens them, and Cas’s feet finally touch the cold iron floor. Cas groans as he puts all his weight on the balls of his feet. He’s stepping in blood, but he doesn’t seem to care. He lifts his head, and Dean steps forward, running one arm around Cas’s neck and pulling his face to his. Cas doesn’t seem to mind, eyes drifting half-shut as Dean brushes their lips together.
Cas smells like blood and hellfire.
Dean smiles against his lips, running his fingers up Cas’s side.
“Blow me, Cas,” Dean murmurs, and slams his palm against the sigil. Cas screams, exploding into dust and light and black feathers.
It’s beautiful.
----
Dean’s out of bed before he’s fully awake, his fingers already pushing the speed dial number on his cell. He holds the phone up to his ear, listening.
It goes directly to voicemail.
“You’ve reached the voicemail of,” the phone tells him, and then Castiel’s annoyed and bewildered voice:
“Wh-I don’t understand. Wh-why do you want me… to say my name?”
Dean doesn’t feel any better hearing the recording. Sam had called on their way back to Bobby’s, but there had been no answer then, either. It twists Dean’s gut. His chest aches from more than just his bruised ribs.
“Cas, it’s Dean,” he says when the tone blares in his ear, “I… I didn’t… It’s me. I’m me.” He swallows and holds the phone to his other ear as he steps out of the house and into the maze of cars and twisted metal. “Look, we called you earlier, but you didn’t pick up.” He pauses, his eyes drawn to the battered and bent black pick-up truck he and Sam had arrived in. He turns away. “We talked to Bobby, Cas. He told us…”
Dean pauses, staring into the lightening horizon. What should he say? That Bobby told them Cas was apparently suicidal? Told them that Cas was dead, and that Dean is currently talking to a busted phone that lies next to a burnt and broken body with two wings burned into the ground beneath it?
Dean inhales.
“He told us what your plan was Cas,” Dean says at last. “He said you might be… in trouble. So, call me back and let me know you’re okay.” Then Dean remembers Cas’s last words to him. He closes his eyes and grits out, “Or call Sam, or Bobby. Just… let us know you’re okay.”
The phone then promptly tells Dean he’s run out of time, and Dean’s jaw hangs open. He leans against an old blue Ford Taurus and stares down at his phone, looking down at the screen long after the backlight fades.
“You know it’s not your fault, right?”
Dean cracks a smile shaking his head. He looks up at Sam, who’s standing a few feet away, hands jammed into the pockets of his sweatpants. It’s then that Dean realizes he’s outside in nothing more than his boxers and a ratty t-shirt. Mud squeezes between his freezing toes, but makes no effort to move. Sam sighs and treads forward, booted feet crunching the gravel. He pauses just to Dean’s left, tugging his hands free.
“Seriously, Dean,” he begins, leaning against the car beside Dean, “it’s not. Castiel knew what he was doing. He chose to do this.”
“Yeah,” Dean says roughly, “after I bullied him into it.”
He hears a thunking noise, and turns to seeing Sam knocking the back of his head against the tire of the car resting onto of the Taurus. Sam finally turns to stare at him, jaw set and eyes narrow.
“Cas was a big-boy angel, Dean,” he says, “who’d seen years and years stuff. He’s older than either you or I could imagine. It wasn’t like he was a four year old you bribed with candy. He knew the risks.” Sam frowns, looking across the yard and to where the sunrise was starting. “He was the only one who really did.”
Dean stares at Sam before looking to the sunrise, watching the reds, oranges, and purples bleed across the sky. “Well, he seemed pretty bitter when he was tossing my ass around that alleyway.”
Dean feels Sam shrug, his shoulder brushing against Dean’s. “Yeah, well, I was pretty close to taking a swing at you myself.”
Dean’s lips twitch automatically into a smile. Then a bitter taste hits his tongue and he glances away and to the ground. “He… he said he had no faith in me,” he says after a minute. “He didn’t go in there to win, Sam. He didn’t go in there because he thought that I would pull it off. He did it because he wanted to die.”
Sam’s silent after that, and Dean can hear him swallow heavily. Dean lets loose a soft chuckle, lifting his eyes to the sky again. “How am I supposed to react to that? He’d lost his family, his faith, and then I…” Dean closes his eyes. “I take away everything he’d fought for. Everything he gave up, I told him that it meant nothing.” He looks back at Sam, and his brother meets his gaze. “How am I not supposed to feel guilty about that, Sam?”
Sam says nothing, because they both know that guilt. They both know that no amount of rationalizing, or talking, or revenge will make them feel any better about themselves. Dean knows that.
But it doesn’t stop him.
“In the alleyway,” Dean says, rough and quiet, turning away from Sam and back to the yellowing sky, “I wanted…”
He tries to say it, but it’s lodged in his throat. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him. “Cas said…” his brother begins, gently, “you asked him to kill you.” Sam pauses. “Are you… do you still-?”
Dean shakes his head. “No, it would’ve just made it easier to find Zachariah,” Dean says. Sam makes a surprised noise, but Dean ignores it. “That’s,” he begins instead, “that’s not what…”
Dean stops, gritting his teeth. Sam places a hand on his shoulder, the unmarked one, and gives him a little shake. “Whatever it is, Dean, it’s nothing. We’ll deal with it.”
It is nothing, Dean realizes, and his stomach clenches and his chest aches and his eyes burn, because Cas is dead.
“I wanted him,” Dean says at last, looking back at the sunrise. Light blue sky is starting to peak out from behind the orange and purple. “I wanted Cas.” Sam’s fingers clench and unclench on his shoulder, and Dean smiles slightly. “I still do.”
“Dean,” Sam says, voice rough and soft, “I didn’t know.”
Dean exhales an amused noise, closing his eyes. “Yeah, join the club.”
Sam’s hand squeezes his shoulder tighter, and doesn’t let go. Dean draws from it, from this newly-mended bond between his brother and himself, and, despite what experience has taught his about ‘talking it out,’ the pain in his chest eases.
They stay there, together, until Bobby calls them in to help with breakfast.
----
“Alright, boys,” Bobby says, wheeling out into the living room. Dean sets down his bottle of beer and looks up from the tome he’d been reading, while Sam pokes his head around the corner of one of the many bookshelves in the room. Bobby gestures out the window. “I’ve got a shipment of herbs, spices, and blades made of iron and silver that should be arriving any minute. You two are unloading the truck.”
Sam frowns, sliding out and around the shelves, arms full of books. “You’re going to let someone drive onto the yard?”
Bobby rolls his eyes and turns his wheelchair back towards the kitchen. “I had an iron line installed at the front gate after,” he pauses, and then waves his hand agitatedly. “You know. Unless the idjit crashes through the gate, they’ll have to cross it.”
Dean grins, eyebrows rising. “Early warning system. Nice one, Bobby.”
Bobby smirks and disappears into the kitchen. “I still know a few tricks yet.” Dean can hear him clanking around with the dishes from breakfast. “It’s only a few boxes, anyway. Independent guys, used ‘em before. They don’t ask questions.”
As if summoned, Dean hears a vehicle rumbling on its way down the gravel path. Sam huffs, looking down at the piles of books he’s carrying and back at the shelf in distress. With a smirk, Dean slides a bookmark into his tome and closes it, eager to get out of the room and back into the sunlight. Eager to be doing something.
As he steps out the front door, he sees a burly, dark-haried man unlocking the back door of the large, green minivan with dark windows. “This Robert Singer’s residence?” the driver calls as he makes his way towards him.
Dean nods, reaching out to shake his hand. “You’ve got the right place.”
The driver smiles and vigorously returns the gesture. Then he jerks his thumb at the truck, shrugging. “You want any help unloading? The caller said you wouldn’t, but I have to ask. Oh.” He pulls out a small booklet from his pocket. “And I need Mister Singer’s signature.”
“We’ve got it,” Dean says. He glances over his shoulder as Bobby wheels himself out of the house. “That’s Bobby.”
The driver smiles, nodding his head. “Thanks,” he says. “Back door should be open.” He walks past Dean and towards Bobby. Dean watches for a minute before turning back and heading to the van. He yanks the two back doors open and looks at the cardboard boxes stacked high, almost pushed against the roof.
“Should’ve gone with a larger van,” Dean mumbles, and gingerly pulls a box out from the top. It’s light, and Dean can hear something shuffling around when he shakes it. Herbs, he thinks, and turns around.
“Hello, Dean.”
And promptly drops it.
He’s standing in front of Dean, ruffled hair, trenchcoat, and wide, blue eyes.
Dean can’t breathe. The ache in his chest is crushing him.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” Dean finally chokes out.
Cas’s eyes narrow. “You’re supposed to be Michael.”
Dean grits his teeth against the hope flaring in his chest. “What are you?” he hisses, well aware that there’s a civilian only a few feet away. “Skinwalker? Revenant?”
The-thing-that-looks-like-Cas looks away. “There are silver knives in the van, Dean. Take one and test me.”
He’s going to do more than that. He’s going to ram it through this thing’s heart and watch it bleed out.
“Oh, jeez, man, totally forgot,” Dean hears the driver say, and flicks his eyes over his shoulder to see him jogging over to them. Dean says nothing, and keeps his eyes firmly on the-whatever-it-is. “This is Jimmy Novak. Found him in Minneapolis looking for a ride here. Said he knew you guys.”
Dean hears Sam and Bobby behind him. “Yeah,” Dean says, and it hurts to lie because this isn’t Cas. “Yeah, we worked together.” His eyes narrow at ‘Cas’. “Why didn’t you call?”
The creature turns its perfectly-colored eyes on Dean again. It’s Cas’s face, just as Dean remembers. He’s even missing his tie. But his shirt is different, Dean notices. He’s wearing a baggier, grey shirt. And he’s missing his suit jacket. And there are holes in the knees of his pants. Cas would never look like that.
This can’t be Cas, Dean thinks. It just… looks so much like him.
“My cell phone broke after…” Its eyes jump between the driver and Dean. “After our last job together. And I have no cash, Dean. I couldn’t have called you. Or Sam, or Bobby.” It pauses, reaching into its trenchcoat and pulling out a beaten, dented, and cracked cell phone. The creature carefully holds it out to Dean, who takes it, and instantly recognizes it as the same brand Cas had. Same color. Dean swallows, looking up to meet its eyes. “I was able to salvage the message you sent me, Dean.”
Bobby clears his throat. “You know, Sam and Greg can deal with the boxes,” he says, eyes narrowed at Dean. “You take… Jimmy inside and get him something to eat.”
Dean nods, bending down to pick up the box he’d dropped. “Here, Jimmy,” he says, shoving the box into the creature’s arms. It winces, and Dean’s jaw sets firmer and he grabs another box from the van. “C’mon.”
Dean walks slowly, matching pace with the thing wearing Cas’s face. He’s already pulled a silver knife out of the box, and he twirls it obviously, catching the eye of the creature. “Don’t do anything stupid,” Dean snarls. “Or I’ll make you regret it.”
Its lips quirk. “I never regretted anything, Dean.”
Dean closes his eyes, jaw clenching so tight he can hear the joint popping. “Now I know you’re not him,” Dean growls, tongue flicking out to lick scabbed-over skin on his lip. He yanks the door open, and it steps in ahead of him. Before the door fully shuts behind him, Dean drops his box and grabs its arm. It merely watches him, arm limp in his grasp, even as Dean lets the blade hover over his skin.
Then he cuts. It’s just enough to make it bleed, but that’s all-no shriek of pain, or sizzling skin. Just blood, dribbling down this creature’s arm.
Dean raises his eyes, looking over this too-familiar face with too familiar eyes and too familiar hair, and struggles to breathe. Because this can’t be real. Not for a second time. Not to Dean. Not to people Dean loves.
“Cas?” he asks, fingers clenching tighter around the arm, blade slipping between suddenly lax fingers.
Cas smiles. “Are you done cutting me?”
Dean makes no conscious motion, just lurches forward and engulfs Cas in his arms. Cas lets out a soft, shocked noise and Dean tucks his head against his shoulder, fingers clutching tighter to the worn, familiar trenchcoat. Dean closes his eyes tightly, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I can’t believe you’re alive,” he rasps.
It takes a moment, but Cas’s arms come up to return the hug. Dean feels Ca’s breath against his neck, feels his heartbeat. He’s stupidly happy. Stupidly, considering it’s the apocalypse.
“I’m glad you’re you, Dean,” Cas says, and clutches Dean tighter.
“Boy, what a heartfelt moment. Let me grab my camera,” Bobby snipes, and Dean flounders back. He knocks his elbow into the wall behind him. Cas merely smiles.
“Bobby,” Cas says. Bobby’s eyes drop to where the sigil would be on his chest before meeting Cas’s gaze again.
“Glad to see you aren’t dead, Feathers.”
Bobby turns to look out the door, and misses the sharp, sudden pain the flashes over Cas’s features. Dean doesn’t, but it’s gone before he can mention it, and the only sign is a lingering strain between his brows that it was ever there.
“Well,” Bobby says, breaking Dean’s thoughts and drawing his attention, “if you two are gonna keep playing grab-ass, at least go do it in your room.”
Dean glares at him but rolls his eyes and gestures to Cas. “C’mon,” he says, staring up the stairs, “we’ll talk up here.”
Sam and Dean rarely ever use their ‘rooms’ at Bobby’s place-normally, they camp out in the living room, close enough to the exits or the panic room. But sometimes a person has to sleep on a bed, if only to save their backs.
“Where is Adam?” Cas asks as they step into the darkened room. Dean frowns. Stilling in the dark.
“Michael has him,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” Cas says, brushing his hand over Dean’s shoulder.
Dean nods. “So’m I.”
He tugs on a dangling string in the middle of the room and light floods the small space, exposing peeling wallpaper. The window sills were lined with iron, and there was a gun rack attached to the side of the bed. It’s perfect, Dean thinks, and heads over to the small closet where he knows he has several t-shirts and jeans.
“Did you lose your jacket and shirt?” he asks, thumbing through the six shirts he has. “Or was there too much blood?”
“Too much damage,” Cas says. Dean can see him lingering in the middle of the room, shoulders hunched and arms dangling loose at his sides. Dean rolls his eyes and pulls a brown t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He turns around, holding the shirt and pants out. “These should work.”
Cas nods, and slowly shuffles forward. “Thank you, Dean,” he says. He comes towards Dean with small, quick steps, gritting his teeth. It catches Dean’s attention, because that’s… not right.
“Cas,” Dean says, narrowing his eyes, “what's going on with your feet?”
Cas’s eyes widen, and his hands drop to his sides, clenching his fists. He looks away for a moment before limping to Dean’s bed and sitting down on it. He exhales, reaching down and pushing his loafers off and letting his feet dangle. “I had to walk several miles to Minneapolis, Dean,” Cas says, lifting his gaze to Dean's face. “My feet… I have blisters.”
And Dean freezes. “Why were you walking?” he asks, a cold chill settling in his chest. “Why did you need to get a ride here?” This is Cas, Dean thinks, because it isn’t a shapeshifter. His stomach twists again when Cas turns his face away. “What… what did you do to yourself?”
Cas presses a hand to the center of his chest, where Dean assumes the sigil is drawn. He then turns on the bed, looking out the window and into the sky.
“The sigil is only meant for banishing angels,” Cas says at last, “but it does become more powerful if it’s drawn in angel’s blood, or a vessel’s blood.” Cas looks to the floor, but his lips are quirked into a small, smug smile. “The sigil’s strength grows with how much blood is used, and how much grace is burned in that blood.”
Dean wanders dazedly to the bed, sitting down beside him. “You used your whole body. You used all of…” Dean closes his eyes.
“I had wanted to power the sigil enough to banish Zachariah from the warehouse,” Cas says. Dean looks at him, and Cas’s brow furrows. “I didn’t have enough grace. I was more human than angel. I had enough to destroy the four angels there, but not enough to send Zachariah from where he was, hovering.”
Dean frowns, shaking his head. “Why? Why would you… We handled Zachariah, we had a plan. You approved of the plan.”
Cas smirks. “I said it was foolish.”
“But you didn't try to stop us,” Dean says, trying to smile. “That's as good as saying it's a good idea.” Dean then frowns. “And stop deflecting, Cas.”
Cas sighs, looking aside. “I wanted to…” He pauses. “If Zachariah wasn't there, then you could get to Adam and leave without ever dealing with him.”
Dean stares. “You were trying to keep me from saying yes.”
Cas looks at him, eyes narrow. “If I were to banish Zachariah long enough for you to escape, then your brother could talk sense into you. I trusted Sam to do it.”
Dean stares at Cas, meets his gaze. Anger flares inside him. “And you, Cas?” he snaps. “What would have happened to you?”
Cas lifts his chin, eyes narrowing. “Had there been enough of it, my grace would have burned me away, and I wouldn’t be sitting here.”
Dean scowls, looking at his feet. “So you'd just… kill yourself, sacrifice yourself, so that I couldn’t say yes to him.”
“Yes,” Cas says. “I would. I have. If I had anything left to give, I’d do it again.”
Dean grits his teeth, jerking towards Cas. “I want to see it,” he snarls.
Cas glares. “This isn’t something you can punish yourself over, Dean,” he says. “I made my choice to follow you. You don’t get to blame yourself for my decisions. Otherwise they aren't mine anymore.”
Dean reaches forward, fingers brushing against the shirt. “I just… need to see it, Cas,” he whispers.
Cas stares at his hand for a moment. “Fine,” he says, and shrugs off his trenchcoat. Dean watches as Cas grips the bottom of his t-shirt, and then hesitates.
“Dean,” Cas says, eyes wide and pleading. “This isn't your fault,” he says again. Dean nods, but they both know he’s going to blame himself anyway. Cas sighs, and pulls the shirt over his head.
Dean feels the blood leach away from his face. He’s barely aware of Cas tossing his shirt across the room, barely aware of anything but the markings so crudely carved into Cas’s flesh. He’s reminded of his dream, because the sigil is the exact same one he'd used here, the same one he'd used on Cas in the panic room. But instead of blood on cold metal, it’s flesh.
The marks are all singed and burned and scarred already, creating ridges of flesh on Cas’s chest. It stretches around the skin, pulling it. It looks uncomfortable, like the wrong twist of Cas’s torso could cause his skin to tear. It’s horrifying.
“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, reaching out and hovering over the mark. “I didn’t… I’m not worth this.”
Cas takes Dean’s hand in his own, drawing Dean’s eyes to his again. There’s something in them, something that makes Dean’s chest ache.
“You are,” Cas murmurs. “You’re worth everything I do. I don’t regret anything, Dean. Never.”
Dean swallows, closing his eyes. “Why?”
Cas’s laughter brushes against his face, and Dean looks up to see Cas only inches away. There’s amusement in his eyes, and a small smile on his face. “Do you have to ask?”
Dean leans forward, brushing his lips against Cas’s. Cas smiles wider, his eyes closing. Dean grits his teeth, bending his forehead against Cas’s, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck.
“I’ll give you everything, Cas,” he whispers, broken. “I’ll give you everything I have. Anything you want.”
“I want to never look into your eyes and see someone else, Dean,” Cas whispers harshly, his hands reaching up to cup Dean’s face. “I want to look at you and see you every time.” He pauses, tilting his head to touch his lips to Dean's. “Can you give me this?”
Dean places a hand over the marks on Cas’s chest, gently. He runs his fingers against the ridges and the scars, feels them scrape against his fingertips. He takes a shaky breath.
“Yes,” Dean says, feeling Cas’s breath against his face. “Yes.”
And he seals his mouth against Cas’s.