Shine

[zatnikatel]

Chapter 18

Dean shuts down, just like that, head lolling and body completely slack against Sam’s.

And Sam tamps down his wariness, ignores the tightening in his stomach, fear, and listens to the ache in his chest, because this is trust, this is his brother vulnerable and giving himself over into Sam’s care, and maybe there have been times when he thought Dean’s faith in him would never really be what it was. He pulls his brother close and safe, and he clamps a hand to the short hair at Dean’s nape and tucks his head under his chin, holds onto him. It’s a moment of peace and stillness at last, even if he can still feel a hum of something, power maybe, coursing under Dean’s skin, and emanating off him. It’s heated, the same buzz Castiel gives off, gave off, and goosebumps sprout on Sam’s arms.

He glances over at the other two men, and Castiel’s eyes are drifting closed, shadowed with his own exhaustion. “What is it with the rings?” Sam whispers.

Bobby glances from him to Castiel, rolls his eyes as the other man’s head starts to nod. “We can use them,” he says. “The cage is still down there. The rings can lock him back in there. Don’t ask me how, but that’s what Gabriel planted in your brother’s - Michael’s…” He grimaces. “Hell, I don’t know. But his head, anyway.” He eyes Sam for a moment. “The riddle, remember? He was talking about the Horsemen’s rings.”

Sam blinks back at him. “I’m not - I don’t follow,” he stumbles out past his dry throat and the crushing reminder that maybe the trust isn’t real at all, and maybe the ground between him and Dean isn’t as level as he hopes, as he remembers how his brother snapped Gabriel off the same plane of existence as them so that Sam wouldn’t know.

“Sam. Dean couldn’t tell you,” Castiel says, quiet but emphatic, eyes drowsy and half-lidded as he rouses himself briefly. He stifles a yawn even as he reads Sam’s mind loud and clear. “It was strategic. He couldn’t take the risk, you know that. We only had two of the rings.”

Bobby is turning the engine over, easing the truck out into hazy dawn light filtering down through thick banks of cloud. “He’s right,” he throws back bluntly over his shoulder. “If Lucifer had known about this, we’d never have gotten all four. Pestilence was right there under his nose, ring and all.”

“And you think Lucifer would have found out,” Sam says softly, but he doesn’t mention Detroit, doesn’t mention that he knows damn well why they all think that. “Because you think I would have told him.”

The old man is carefully neutral. “Not intentionally.” Sam sees his eyes flick up to the rearview mirror and back down again to the road ahead. “You didn’t know he was in Adam.”

Sam stares at the back of the old man’s head, and he thinks of Adam, not-Adam, how utterly convincing he was, because Sam never really knew him, and neither did Dean. It flits through his head, Dean’s face, implacable, after he zapped Gabriel who knows where, Dean’s words, you’re easily led, Sam. But even if he knows in his heart it was tactics, just like his brother said, Sam can’t help it, hurt flares up inside him, the pressure of it pulsing energetically behind his eyes, and his mouth tastes sour with it.

***

Sam doubletakes, because the last thing he can remember is his brother’s warmth sprawled across him, and Dean drooling into his shirt while his own eyes grew tired and lassitude crept along his limbs as he stared out the window of the truck at the destruction littering the highway. But now he’s standing on the red planet, pink and orange rock formations stretching out as far as the eye can see, and he spins as he hears a foot scuff on the shale behind him. And there is his brother, amused and smiling, looking damned pleased with himself. Dean is squinting in the boiling sun, and his cheeks are pink with it, sweat glistening on his skin and his tee stuck to his body in damp patches.

“I’m dreaming,” Sam says ruefully. “But why the Martian Chronicles fantasy?”

“We aren’t on Mars, idiot,” his brother retorts. “In fact, would you believe this is the Bright Angel trail?”

“The Grand Canyon.” Sam can feel sweat running down his own back, and he peels off his jacket and shirt. “How can I even think out loud if I’m dreaming?” he puzzles. “How can I be hot and dripping sweat in a dream?”

Dean leers at him. “Seriously? You’ve never worked up a scorching hot sweat while you were dreaming?”

Sam eyes him skeptically, because he’s heard his brother beg for mercy and scream out imagined agony so often in his dreams that he knows damn well it isn’t Dean who’s working up a sweat in them. He ignores the fake bravado. “Why are you even in my dream?” he asks instead.

“How do you know I’m me?” his brother challenges mockingly, and he crosses his arms, smug.

“Grand Canyon, Dean,” Sam says pointedly. “Only you would bring me here.”

Dean smiles, satisfied, looks up and beyond Sam, and he gestures. “See that stripe up top there? The yellow limestone? It’s the youngest layer, and it’s still older than the dinosaurs. Pretty cool, huh?” He bends, picks up a loose rock. “Check it out.” He points to the petrified remains of a shrimp-like creature picked out as lines in the surface. “This used to be sea.”

Sam studies his brother some more, and Dean’s face is bright and open and young, his eyes shining with awe, and he hates himself for saying it. “Dean. What is this? Why are you dream stalking me?”

Dean throws out an arm. “Sea,” he repeats enthusiastically. “Arizona was almost right on the Equator then. But further down it’s sandstone, Sammy. Widest fuckin’ beach you ever saw lay right there, two hundred and sixty million years ago, and-”

“Okay,” Sam says then, and he thinks fuck it, he’ll poke the bear if that’s what it takes. “Michael,” he snaps, and he pauses, lets it hang there.

“Low blow, Sam,” Dean replies, and he frowns, his eyes going hard for a flash of a second.

Sam cants his head in concession, just barely, and he looks his brother up and down. Dean on the outside, he thinks, but coiled-up murderous celestial energy on the inside, and he remembers the blinding light and the earsplitting noise of Van Nuys, remembers what he saw at Nivaeus, because this is the shell of something larger and more powerful than he can even really imagine. The prince of light, Gabriel called him, and it gives Sam a hollow feeling of dread and foreboding. “What’s going to happen to you?” he asks randomly. “Afterwards? What’s going to happen to you? Will I still have a brother?”

Dean shrugs, composure regained. “I don’t honestly know,” he says reflectively. He squats down, picks out a few more small rocks, studies them. “There wasn’t supposed to be an afterwards. I’m flying by the seat of my pants here.”

Sam ponders that for a second. “You mean with the rings,” he says.

“I mean with the rings.”

“You never told me about the rings.” Sam keeps his voice level, isn’t hurling accusations although the same stab of bitterness he felt when Bobby told him gets him in the ribs again.

“Nope,” Dean replies, and he’s just as neutral in return. “I never told you about the rings.”

Sam’s fingers twitch, and he has to clench his fists to stop the tremor as he counts back from ten, but when he answers his brother, he knows he means it. “I would have told him,” he murmurs. “I thought he was Adam right up until he wasn’t. It was the right decision.”

Dean is arranging his rocks in a small pile now, stacking them methodically, and he seems totally absorbed. “Yes, it was,” he says, and it’s offhand, no trace of censure or reprimand. “And like I said before, it was only ever strategy.”

Sam can’t honestly work out whether his brother’s apparent detachment is a deliberate avoidance technique or not, so he forces the issue. “You didn’t trust me because I fall for their crap every fucking time,” he says. “It’s my fault line.”

Dean makes a noise Sam can’t quite decode, shakes his head. “You want to see the good in people, Sam,” he replies simply. “It isn’t a fault line, not really. Soon this is going to be over. And maybe seeing the good in people will be what keeps you sane, what keeps you from barricading yourself out in the boonies with nothing but rotgut whiskey and attack dogs for company, like Rufus and Bobby do.” He nods, to himself maybe, because he still isn’t looking at Sam. “Maybe seeing the good in people means you’ll be able to have that normal life you always wanted.”

Sam teeters on his back foot for a minute, because he can’t quite wrap his mind around the concept of a normal life, can’t even remember ever wanting that, and he thinks it might not really be an option for him any more. “Don’t sidetrack me, Dean,” he says bluntly. “I haven’t wanted that for a long time.” He sees his brother huff out minutely as he’s rumbled. “You thought he’d find a way to turn me, like you said before Van Nuys,” he persists carefully. “You thought that because you saw me. In the future.”

Dean’s shoulders stiffen, and his voice goes harsh. “Did Castiel tell you that?”

Even if Sam suspected Castiel wasn’t telling him everything back at Nivaeus, it still stings, and the words catch in his throat when he replies. “Cas knew about it?”

His brother looks up at him at last, and a flash of understanding passes through his eyes. “I needed to talk to someone about it,” he says quietly. “He’s my friend. He’s a good listener. And I didn’t want you worrying about it.”

Sam regards him for a long moment. “Cas didn’t tell me,” he says finally. “He hinted… at least I think he did. I know he didn’t want me going to Detroit, anyway.” He smiles ruefully. “But he didn’t tell me. Cas is all yours, Dean. He’s always going to choose you. Every damn time.”

Dean watches him, silent, his expression unreadable.

“Anyway,” Sam continues. “He told me. Lucifer.” He swallows thickly, forges ahead more cautiously. “It, uh… wasn’t all he said.”

And Dean suddenly barks out a brittle laugh. “Yeah? Well, all of it’s true.” It’s flippant but there’s an edge to his voice, annoyance, hurt maybe, and he reaches up, rubs at his brow.

“You don’t even know what he told me,” Sam says faintly.

“I can guess.” Dean snorts. “Let me in, Mary…” he taunts. “Say yes. I’ll watch over him, take care of him… if you say yes to me.” He fixes Sam with eyes that flash with a sharp gleam. “That sound about right? Just for starters, I mean?”

Sam feels his mouth go slack and he sits down heavily on the ground a few feet away from Dean. He’s dazed, his skin suddenly chilled, and his guts are roiling inside him as he runs a shaking hand through his hair. “You aren’t my brother,” he whispers.

Dean regards him for a moment. “I wasn’t then,” he clarifies calmly. “That was - before.” He narrows his eyes at the frigid look Sam sends blasting his way, throws up his hands. “Look, Sam, I’m sorry, but I don’t know how else to explain it,” he says, and his tone is almost defiant now. “What do you want me to say? There isn’t anything to say. This is a done deal. It’s just - how it was. And this is how it is.” He furrows his brow. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

They lapse into another silence and after a few minutes, Sam looks up, sees Dean’s gaze focused intently on him, the same inhuman laser focus Castiel has always fixed on Dean, a mix of interest, and hope, and affection. And in that same second it hits him in his heart that it’s the same human laser focus Dean has always fixed on him, the same mix of interest, and hope, and affection he’s seen in Dean’s eyes for as far back as he has the capacity to remember. “You’re looking at me like Cas always looks at you,” he ventures grudgingly. “You’re looking at me like you’ve always looked at me.” He looses a long, slow breath. “Like my brother looks at me.” He sees Dean visibly relax as he exhales. “What’s it like?” he prompts softly. “Being him? What does it feel like?”

Dean sucks his bottom lip in. “It, uh… feels normal,” he says warily. “It feels like being me. Since I am me and all. Like I keep saying. I know you don’t like it, Sam, but… this is who I was meant to be.” He smirks again, but this time it’s weak at best. “He completes me.”

It fills Sam with a sort of confused dread, and he feels a sudden burn in his eyes. “Don’t, Dean,” he grates out. “Please don’t start that destiny crap again. Because if this is who you’re meant to be, then what about me?” He scrubs a hand through his hair, feels frustrated beyond belief as he remembers Lucifer’s words in the dream. “I asked you to end this for me,” he says desperately. “But you fixed me. And now you’re telling me that everything he told me is true, and you’re talking about destiny. But what does that mean for me? Who am I meant to be? Did you bring me back to say yes to him? Because he completes me?”

Dean fixes him with a serious look, furrows his brow, bites his lip. “Sam, look, I didn’t-”

Sam cuts in, but his voice cracks dryly when he speaks. “When they were trying to get me to say yes I had this - movie, almost, playing in my head. Like all these memories, all running together, good times, bad times, hunts. You and me together… the deal. You went to Hell for me.” He falters, has to work to suck in breath because his chest is constricted so tight it’s like he has a metal band wrapped around it. He’s aware of Dean watching him, impassive, and he reins his emotions in, clenches his jaw so hard it makes his teeth ache. “I’m trying to keep a grip on things here, Dean,” he says, low and controlled now. “Was any of it real? Did you deal for me because there was a plan? Did you fix me because you were supposed to? For this?”

Dean leans back on his hands, and Sam sees his gaze roam about the landscape, settle on the horizon. “I remember when mom and dad came home from the hospital with you,” he says, and it’s so out of leftfield it throws Sam totally off guard, and he flounders, bewildered.

“Jesus,” Dean breathes. “You were so fuckin’ loud… all you did was cry, and feed, and puke, and fart, and shit everywhere.” He stops, shakes his head, rolls his eyes. “And there was this one time, maybe week two or three, when mom was changing your diaper and you pissed in your own eye. Right in there, and it didn’t phase you one bit. You didn’t even blink.” His lips quirk up in an easy grin. “You looked proud of yourself. It was a high point, damn impressive. And right then I thought to myself, I can work with this guy. And man, for a whole week after that every time I went to the can I tried to piss in my own eye, and I never could.”

He stands up, walks away a few paces. “This is where I had my rendezvous with Death,” he remarks matter-of-factly. “Remember what I said? In the car on the way to Bobby’s after Van Nuys?”

And Sam does. “On some scarred slope of battered hill,” he echoes his brother’s words. “Jesus, it was only a week and a half ago.”

“Would you believe, it’s his favorite place,” Dean says. “He might even be here now. He brought me here because he knew I always wanted to see it. You knew that too. I wanted to see the Grand Canyon with my brother, with you, just one time.” His voice goes wistful, and he glances back over his shoulder at Sam, and his eyes are gentle and indulgent, because he’s looking at Sam the way he used to when they were kids and two weeks holed up in some roach motel off a back road, with their dad four states away, was as bad as it got. “I know what Lucifer told you,” he says. “Now you hear this. You’re in my blood, my cells, my bones. And you’re in my heart, Sam. And I don’t regret anything I’ve done, because I did it for you and for me. Not for them. And not for the plan.” He finishes up slow and deliberate. “I’m your brother. In all the ways that matter. And it was real. All of it.”

Sam stares at Dean, and it starts as a flare of apprehension but then abruptly he feels something give way in his chest, as he realizes what this is so sharply and so keenly that it winds him better than any punch to the guts ever could. He gasps with it, and he already feels lonely, feels the ache of loss. “You’re saying goodbye to me,” he chokes out. “That’s why you brought me here.”

Dean steps across the small distance between them, eases down again gracefully. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, Sam,” he offers again, his expression impassive. “But I want you to know I didn’t fix you because I think you’ll say yes to him, or because I want you to.” His tone switches then, to resolute. “I fixed you because I need you with me for this. Team Free Will, remember? Free will, because maybe I have this feeling you’ll never say yes to him. I’m not even going to ask you to promise me you won’t do that…”

He trails off, and Sam can almost hear the words that hang unsaid. “But you’re going to ask me to promise you something else,” Sam murmurs. “Something I won’t like.”

Dean’s gaze softens again. “You have to promise to let me go, Sam, if that’s what it takes.” He raises a hand as Sam starts to protest, and he smiles. “Sam. This is right, it’s how it’s meant to be. Not because of any hidden agendas or prophecies, but because I started this. That’s why I have to finish it. And that’s why you have to let go of me if that’s what it takes.”

Sam clears his throat, reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, and he feels hollow inside. “I, uh. Don’t think I can do that, Dean. In fact, I know I can’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Not interested, Sam. You let go, and you live your life. Keep seeing the good in people.”

“Like the last time?” Sam chokes out. “Like that turned out so well? Like I’m not going to see the good in the next demon who-”

“You can let go, and you damn well will,” Dean jumps in, and his eyes are flaring annoyance at Sam now. “This isn’t like the last time, Sam. This isn’t going to be about you tearing yourself apart inside over me dealing for you, because I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing this for me. I began this, it’s on me, not on you. And if anything happens to me, that isn’t on you either. There is no guilt. Do you hear me?” Dean is agitated, his eyes huge and intense. “There is no losing yourself in grief and demon blood this time. You stick with Bobby and Cas, you keep it together.” He’s breathing fast, and he stops, takes a few deep breaths to calm himself.

Sam takes advantage of the pause, makes his own voice firm. “What about you?”

Dean’s expression shifts to puzzled, and he cocks his head, thrown off kilter himself. “What about me?”

“This goes for you too, Dean,” Sam says. “You sold your fucking soul for me. Do you have any idea… Jesus. Jesus.” He finds he’s swallowing down bile, that even the memory of it, the thought of what his brother endured for Sam to throw it all back at him, still makes him feel like he might start screaming and never stop.

He sees Dean flush slightly and his eyes fall away for a few seconds. Sam scrunches his own eyes shut, palms his cheeks for a moment, finds some semblance of control before he fixes his brother with a flat stare. “We’re going up against the devil,” he says. “Anything could happen, to any one of us. That means you have to be prepared to let go too. I want your promise too.”

Dean blinks at him. “Okay,” he replies carelessly. “I promise.”

Sam eyes his brother speculatively, because he knows Dean can lie as smoothly as anyone on the planet without any tells in the equation. And right out of the blue he remembers how his brother couldn’t kill Crowley, so he pushes. “I want to you swear to it,” he rasps out. “On your Father’s honor. Michael.”

And Dean looks briefly, faintly shocked, and he frowns, huffs out a derisive sound of disbelief.

“I mean it,” Sam insists. “Look me in the eye. Say the words. And no deals either.”

Dean smiles a wry, unwilling smile that leaves his eyes icy cold, and a muscle in his cheek twitches. “I swear, on my Father’s honor,” he says.

“Swear to what?” Sam says determinedly.

“I swear on my Father’s honor to let you go if I have to.” Dean’s voice is quiet, almost a whisper. “And no deals.”

It’s genuine acquiescence, as far as Sam can tell, and he knows it’s as good an assurance as he’s likely to get. He nods, satisfied, pulls his legs up and hugs them, leaning his chin on his knees, and he drinks in the view, the utter silence of the gorge that surrounds them, the many hues of the sun-baked red dirt and rocks that stretch out and rise up as far as he can see. “We should come back here when this is over,” he says, with a forced cheer he hopes sounds convincing. “After all this goes down. Do the whole tourist thing, mule ride, whitewater rafting. What do you say?”

Dean clears his throat beside him, and his reply comes out rough, with a tremor, because he isn’t fooled at all. “That’d be good.”

A few minutes stretch out into the silence, and Sam sees his brother cast a furtive look his way. “Sam, hear me out,” Dean starts hesitantly. “If this does go badly, if something does happen…” He sighs, chews his lip. “I need to know you’ll watch out for Cas. Bobby said he will, but Bobby - well. He doesn’t have the best track record. If anything happens, Cas isn’t going to cope with it. In the future, he was a drunk, basically. And he’s, uh… getting lost, I think. It’s starting already. So please, just - take care of him for me.”

Sam meets his brother’s gaze, and Dean’s expression is earnest, naked in a way he hasn’t seen since the hospital parking lot when the hurt ached out of his brother’s eyes as he told Sam they could never be what they were. “Nerd angels,” Sam says softly. “They get under your skin, I guess.”

Dean smiles nervously, shrugs, and it’s maybe a tad defensive. “You’re my heart, Sam,” he says. “But he knows me in ways nobody else does or ever will, even you. He’s - I don’t know. My soul, I think. I guess it’s the Hell thing… I’m marked, he’s marked. Just - you know. Make sure he’s okay.” He makes his voice stern then. “And he can help you too. You need to all be together after this. No lighting out by yourself this time, Sam.”

Sam hesitates for a second. “Nothing is going to happen to you, Dean,” he says, low and intense. “Not while I’m around. I’ve got your back.”

Dean exhales long and feelingly, squares his jaw, looks down at the ground, nods in acknowledgment before he huffs out in frustration. “I wasn’t kidding when I said this feels normal and right, Sam. But, uh, at the same time?” His voice is sincere but reluctant too, like he isn’t sure whether he should be confiding in Sam at all. “It’s sort of like a curse or something. The world is too loud, and too bright. People are transparent, and I see into their souls, see things I don’t really want to see, see that some of them maybe aren’t worth saving. And you and Bobby, you look at me and I know you’re both trying to deal, but you’re not, not really.” He frowns. “You two both look at me like I’m not me any more. I’m being pulled in all directions. So, anyway. I have - doubts.”

It crashes in suddenly on Sam, and he places a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Jesus, Dean, I’m so sorry,” he says quietly. “We’ve been so damn busy thinking about how this was affecting us, we never even wondered about-”

And Dean interrupts, and it’s like he never even heard Sam. “But you know what sucks most about all of this?” he says. “That a twenty-year-old kid who could have actually had a normal life has Lucifer hitching a ride inside him. Because of us.” His tone is a bleak mix of anger, and sorrow, and self-loathing. “He’s the only one of us who’s innocent, Sam, and he’s in there screaming for help. And when I end this, do you know where he’s going? Where his soul is going to spend eternity? In a box, in the cesspit of Hell. With only the devil for company.”

***

Sam’s eyes snap open, but he stays absolutely still because Dean is still a dead weight slumped across him. The truck’s motion has stopped, and Bobby’s low snores vibrate across from the front of the cabin. He glances out the window, sees moonlit gravestones stretching out and uphill. Colt’s cemetery.

He drifts his gaze across to Castiel, and the other man’s arm is running the length of the front seat, his cheek resting on it as he watches Dean sleep. He seems unaware that Sam is awake, and even if his eyes are still bleary, his expression is as open and unguarded as Dean’s was in the dream when he asked Sam to take care of Cas, as open and unguarded as it has always been. And it tightens Sam’s chest all over again as he realizes Castiel is the only one of them who still looks at Dean like he always has.

“I don’t get what you and Dean have, Cas, not really,” Sam breathes out into the gloom, and Castiel’s eyes flick up to meet his. “But I know that you love him. And he loves you. So if anything should-”

“I’ll take care of him,” Castiel cuts in gently. “I’ll keep him safe. You have my word. It’s what I was sent here to do, after all.”

Sam smiles. “That isn’t why you do it, though. I don’t think it ever really was.”

“No,” the other man concedes. “That isn’t why I do it. And I don’t really understand it myself, Sam, if it’s my connection to Michael or… something else.” He smiles back, and it’s wistful, maybe almost rueful too. “It’s just - how it is.”

“Well. Whatever it is, he never really had a friend before you,” Sam murmurs. Castiel is still staring back, his gaze unyielding. “And I never thanked you,” Sam says hesitantly. “For giving him back to me. Thank you.”

Castiel inclines his head just barely. “You’re welcome, Sam.”

Dean is shifting slightly against Sam, mutters out the word no, and Sam rests a hand on his arm, feels him go still again. But the word hangs there, makes him think of screaming, frenzied nightmares, and pleading, makes him think of forty years of torture and suffering. And the desperate, terrified face he sees in his head blurs, and merges into Adam’s, and he shivers.

***

Dean wakes up and smells the coffee, hears paper rustling from up front, the sound of the radio, volume turned low. He peels himself carefully off his brother, pulls Sam’s jacket up to cover his sprawled bulk, marvels silently at how big Sam grew and remembers the first day he ever saw him, and how the sole of his newborn brother’s foot fit on his four-year-old palm.

Bobby shoots a baleful look back, lifts up a bag. “We found a diner with power,” he whispers. “But I guess you aren’t hungry.” His eyes track down. “How’s the…” He motions his head.

Dean pulls up his torn tee, examines his ribcage and belly, prods at the long red slash, faintly puffy but sealed now and only vaguely tender. “It’s good. I’m good.”

Bobby sniffs, snaps off the radio. “Well, the world has gone in the shitter while you recharged,” he grunts. “Power’s cutting in and out across the upper Midwest… weather’s crazy, storms, twisters, blizzards, landslips, floods. Whole towns destroyed, hundreds dead.” He’s subdued, but his voice just edges into belligerence. “Castiel says it’s the aftershocks from your little pissing contest with Lucifer. So I guess we can expect more of the same.”

Dean contemplates the old man gravely for a moment, ponders the wisdom of pointing out that even plan B comes with collateral damage that simply can’t be avoided. But Bobby is pale, exhausted looking, past the point of understanding any of this, because it’s too big for him to comprehend. Naturally, Dean stalls. “You look tired,” he observes. “And where is Castiel?”

If Bobby is aware he’s being diverted, he doesn’t let on. He nods out the window. “Taking a leak up against that tree.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Castiel eats like a fuckin’ horse,” he comments randomly. “He eats even more than you do. Did. And I got no sleep with his nightmares. Him neither. Had to keep rousing him so he wouldn’t wake you and Sam. I always heard you never went back into the same nightmare if someone woke you up.” He sighs. “It don’t seem to be true for him. Like it wasn’t for you afterwards.”

Dean can see Castiel outside now, windmilling his arms and stamping his boots on the ground. “It’ll get better for him,” he says.

It can’t have been as convincing as he hoped, because Bobby huffs doubtfully. “You think so? It isn’t just Hell for him. He’s lost a part of himself. It don’t seem right.” The old man taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “It’s not a natural state for him,” he mutters. “He isn’t meant to be this. And he’s been asking me for booze.”

Dean sighs through the wave of resignation. “Well, don’t give him any.” He rolls his shoulders, reaches for the door handle. “I don’t have time for this,” he adds shortly.

The line creasing the bridge of Bobby’s nose deepens, and he sags visibly. “You ain’t Dean any more, are you?” he says softly. “Not really. He’s gone. If he was ever really here.” He studies Dean with a brief, critical eye. “I parked up near the grave,” he says, suddenly brusque. “It’s just to the left of us.”

And Dean nods, slides out of the truck.

Colt’s cemetery is as cold and desolate in the gloom as he remembers it, and even though he doesn’t feel the chill on the air he shivers and hugs himself as he walks over to stand in front of the mausoleum where it all went down. He tracks his eyes over to the gravestone Yellow Eyes flung him into, where he slumped, and shuddered out his revulsion, and wondered if his brother might not be one hundred percent pure Sammy any more even as he pulled the trigger and loosed the bullet that sent the demon screaming out of existence. And there is where John Winchester gazed at him with eyes that brimmed with his love, and maybe with his knowledge of Dean’s own deal.

Bobby is crunching his way over dead leaves and gravel, glowering at his wristwatch and frowning up at the overcast sky. “It’s ten-thirty in the morning,” he observes irritably. “Why is it getting so dark?”

“The sun is going to switch off,” Castiel says, from a few feet behind him, and he glances meaningfully at Dean. “And the moon shall not cause her light to shine either. It’s a solar eclipse. One of the portents.”

Dean shrugs. “This is how it starts,” he says distantly. “Everything is lined up as it should be. It’s a new moon, in conjunction with the sun. The totality is going to hit right here.”

Bobby grimaces. “According to your prophecies.”

Dean can sense it emanating from the old man, that odd mix of curiosity, fascination, love and distaste he’s been giving off since Dean rested his hand on Bobby’s leg and knitted his severed spinal cord back together with nothing more than his own intention and desire to do so, regenerating cells, reattaching shredded bundles of nerve fibers, reawakening his numbed lumbar and sacral regions, reestablishing the get off your butt and walk messages Zachariah had shut down.

Bobby squats, starts rooting in his backpack. “I have sunglasses somewhere,” he mutters. “And what’s the plan? Lucifer can’t find us, can he, so how are we getting him here? Or will he know because of the eclipse?”

Dean stares up into the murky gray, chews his lip before he cants his eyes down at Bobby. “It’s time for you to go,” he says.

Bobby looks up. “Say what?” he queries confusedly, and a flicker of alarm skates across his face, his eyebrows meeting in the middle and tenting upwards under the peak of his cap.

“It’s time for you to go,” Dean repeats, louder and more firmly. “You and Castiel. I’ll send you back to the lot, and if this doesn’t work-”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Castiel announces, predictably and mulishly, as Bobby shoots upright and pins Dean with flinty eyes.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” the old man barks out sharply. “We ain’t leaving you to do this alone. You can forget it.”

It’s to be expected, Dean supposes. Bobby never has backed away from trouble and he knows damn well the old man is still suspicious he’ll light up the roast instead of using the rings. And he knows Castiel will throw himself into the flames for him because he has before, and will again if any variation of Zachariah’s future plays out. “No,” he raps out decisively. “None of this is your fault, either of you, and ending it isn’t your job.” He stares them both down as they gape at him. “Lucifer will use any and every means to try to stop me, and you could be hurt or killed.” He shrugs. “And anyway, I won’t be alone. Sam’s staying. I need him for this.”

Bobby’s face goes puce with annoyance. “Well, the words big and britches come to mind. Boy, you got more neck than a fuckin’ giraffe, do you seriously think I’d-”

“I’m not your boy,” Dean cuts in gently. “Not really, Bobby. Not the one you want, anyway.” He sees the barely perceptible flicker of guilt in Bobby’s eyes. “And once this begins, I will use any method at my disposal to distract him, to divert him, to deceive him, to stop him.” He pauses for them to absorb what he’s saying. “Any method,” he emphasizes. “And that means you could be hurt or killed.”

Castiel clears his throat pointedly. “In point of fact, this is partly my fault,” he says placidly. “I helped start this when I let Sam out of the panic room. And as far as I’m concerned, that makes helping to end it my job also.” He crosses his arms, raises an eyebrow, and it’s insouciant, Dean thinks, it’s I like past you, and it makes his guts curdle. “Team Free Will, remember?” Castiel challenges. “Trot out your smiting voice and laser eyes all you like, Michael, but you won’t be using your magic finger on me.”

Bobby tracks his eyes across to the younger man, and then back to Dean. “I could have stopped Sam from leaving to kill Lilith and I didn’t,” he offers gruffly. “Far as I’m concerned, I’m in the chain of blame too.”

Dean nods slowly, breathes in deep. “I keep wondering if anything will change,” he says quietly. “Or if we all end up where we’re supposed to in the end, because all roads lead to Rome.” He slants his gaze up, and they’re both glancing what the fuck is it now? at each other. He swallows hard. “Okay,” he starts. “Sam isn’t the only one I sugarcoated it for.”

They turn their attention back to him now, and they’re staring at him, quizzical.

“So here it is,” he continues. “I don’t know exactly what happened to you, Bobby… your place was a mess, derelict, overgrown. Your wheelchair was there, all shot up. Bullet holes through the back of it, bloodstains.” The memory of it takes his breath away for a second, and he falters briefly before plowing on. “I don’t understand it, because you were in the photograph of the camp. You must’ve had to head back to Sioux Falls for some reason. Anyway, that’s where they got you. Croats, I guess… everything was smashed to bits, it looked like their special brand of crazy. Though I guess it could have been demons.”

Bobby’s reply is faint, cracks slightly. “Dean, for-”

“Whatever, you weren’t at Chitaqua with the rest of us… by then, anyway,” Dean goes on. “But you were, Cas.” He smiles as his focus shifts, even if his eyes are blurred and stinging now. “I never told you everything either. You were fallen, like now… drunk or stoned most of the time, fucking anything that moved, and when I said jump, you asked how high. And I sent you into a nest of demons so I could get my shot at killing the devil.”

His voice sounds strangely loud in the peace and quiet of the cemetery, and Castiel is staring fixedly back, silent, solemn, and utterly still.

“You were cannon fodder, a diversion,” Dean mutters. “You were my only friend, the only one who meant anything to me anymore, and I didn’t even blink about sending you to die. And you didn’t blink about going, and I think you knew what the deal was, I could see it in your eyes. You were scared. And you still went, for me. And you died, for me.” His throat is closing up, and his voice is harsh now. “I’m not sending you out to die for me here too.”

Castiel doesn’t shift his gaze. “Life,” he murmurs, “can be - stifling.”

It’s a loaded statement, and Dean clenches his hands into fists. “But you know where you’ll end up,” he tries. “It might be a one-way trip this time.”

There’s a long pause as the other man still stares back at him, and it’s a complicated, heavy look. “Be that as it may,” he says eventually. “I never left you before, and I’m not leaving you now.” His eyebrows rise slightly, and he’s emphatic. “You know I can’t do this without you. Nor do I want to. This is my choice, Dean. My own free will.”

Dean reaches a restless hand up, scrubs at his head, and scowls. “For God’s sake,” he grates out, exasperated. “You both die. Don’t you get it? All roads lead to Rome. This may not be exactly what Zachariah showed me, but if you stay, you’ll die. I meant what I said. I won’t have time to stop and pick you up if you fall. Fuck it, I may not even notice if you fall. Both of you will die here.” He lapses into mute seething, strumming the air now with angry fingers.

Castiel is undeterred. “Then we should prepare to flunk most heinously,” he replies amiably, airquotes and all. “Although I do think we should retain some degree of optimism. After all, Michael is to Lucifer as Justin Timberlake is to Justin Bieber.”

Dean goggles at him, derailed for a moment. “Dammit, Cas, you’re going to say the C word aren’t you?”

Castiel grins wryly. “Bieber may top the charts at present, but it’s Timberlake we’ll all still be humming a decade from now. According to Crowley.”

Bobby moves to stand next to him, so he’s shoulder to shoulder with the younger man, and he shrugs, rolls his eyes over at Dean. “I have no idea who he’s talking about,” he remarks. “But I got balls that clang, you should know that by now. So I’m staying too.”

And fuck, Dean thinks, before at a time like this he’d have set sail along the river denial, mainlined coffee, scarfed down all the pie on the menu at the nearest diner, or maybe - no, definitely - climbed inside a bottle, but none of it will hit the spot anymore. And so he opens himself up to it, the reassurance of company, support. None of them will die alone, at least. He can’t help the swell of gratitude and he lets it seep through him, ease his tension. And his tranquility brings him back to clarity, his task, and he heaves out a sigh, feels suddenly, utterly, calm. “The eclipse will last longer than normal,” he says. “As long as it takes to put him down. You’ll need to be careful if you’re sticking around.”

“But a solar eclipse should only last seven minutes tops,” Bobby offers. “The moon should keep moving. It can’t just stop.”

“It stops today,” Dean says quietly. “This is the day of the dead sun. It’ll last a damn sight longer than seven minutes, so don’t look directly at it, no matter what, even with your sunglasses on. It’ll damage your eyes, even if the sun’s covered and you’re just seeing the corona… and if you look at the diamond ring, you’ll be blinded.”

Bobby nods as he takes it in. “Duly noted. So… like I said. How do we get him here?” He tugs at his beard. “I take it he isn’t going to show up to his own execution willingly.”

Dean drifts his focus over to the truck for a moment, and he can just about pick out his brother’s head wedged up against the window. He considers, clears his throat. “He’ll come,” he says. “I have what he wants. All I need to do is dangle it under his nose and he’ll show.”

Bobby’s face flushes as he makes the connection, and his mouth goes thin and pissed off. “Is that what you meant when you said you needed Sam here for this?” he sputters out hotly. “You’re going to stake your brother out for him? Are you sure that’s wise? Because I think it’s stupid.”

Dean almost expects the old man’s fists to come up and he braces himself, sets his jaw. “It isn’t stupid, it’s strategy,” he says crisply. “And it’s necessary. And if you’d let me beam you out of here like I wanted to, we wouldn’t even be discussing it.” He stares Bobby down with eyes he knows have gone cold and hard, and he doesn’t waver for an instant.

Bobby’s eyebrows shoot up. “What do you think of this plan?” he barks over at Castiel.

Castiel tilts his head, thoughtful, as Dean watches. And Dean knows Castiel is his, that Castiel won’t be in any way conflicted about this, that Castiel will choose him every damn time.

“I think it makes perfect sense,” Castiel says finally. “You can’t set a trap without bait. Unfortunately.”

Bobby scowls. “Well, you excel at fuckin’ loyalty, don’t you,” he mutters sourly. He ignores Castiel’s aggrieved look, directs his ire back at Dean. “Have you asked your brother what he thinks? He might have-”

“I’ll do it.”

Dean swivels a startled gaze in unison with Bobby, and Sam is leaning up against the truck, weary looking, hair wild, watching them with earnest eyes.

“I’ll do it,” he says again, and he sounds purposeful, maybe even hopeful. “It makes perfect sense. It can work.”

***

Chapter 19