FIC: Remaining Grace, Chapter 13: Lullaby [13/20]
Title: Remaining Grace, Chapter 13: Lullaby
Author: todisturbtheuni
Rating: NC-17.
Genre and/or Pairing: Angst; Hurt/Comfort; Romance; Castiel/Dean Winchester
Spoilers: Through the end of season 5, but some minor for season 6.
Warnings: Explicit sex; graphic torture scenes, which I'll warn for at applicable chapters; minor/side character death (neither Dean nor Castiel).
Word Count: 110K (total)
Summary: Sam's missing his soul, Castiel has a pissy archangelic nemesis, and Dean wonders if he'll be spending the rest of his life making sure the Apocalypse doesn't go ahead as scheduled. Still, though. He's happy to see Cas. Indiana wasn't really working out. Unabashed six-fix, in a universe where Castiel made a different choice, and things snowball from that point forward.
Masterpost!
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“Your arms are too stiff.”
Cas squinted sideways at Dean, huffed, and made a visible effort to relax his arms. Dean could hear his irritation, prickling sharp and steady at their bond, and it was hilarious, really, teaching a being as ancient as Castiel how to fire a handgun, and to listen to his utter petulance through the whole thing.
“You never practice such careful form when shooting at things,” Cas pointed out.
“I am not just learning. Do it right before you do it different. God, you don’t have to be so resentful,” Dean muttered, and stepped up behind Cas, mirroring his stance. “Look, it’s not that hard.”
“You’ve been wielding firearms since you were six,” Cas said reproachfully. “Of course it isn’t hard for you. I have all the technical knowledge of how this device works, but putting it into practice is-”
“Just relax.” Dean pressed a kiss into the crook of Cas’s neck, right where skin slipped beneath t-shirt, sweat glistening in the South Dakota sun, and Cas’s arms loosened, elbows unlocking.
They were near the back of the salvage yard, the Impala pulled up beside them, trunk open; Dean had spent the last hour teaching Cas to break down and build up the handgun again, watching him until he could do it without a hitch. It had been over a week since his brawl with the hellhound, the scratches had healed nicely, and Dean had felt him getting impatient a few days ago, squirming to start learning about how humans became hunters.
He still didn’t like the idea, and Cas was more anxiety than excitement; he could feel it, the hum of uncertainty emanating through the quiet connection that stretched between them. In spite of that, though, Cas was determined, and Dean had made a promise.
“See?” Dean grinned, reaching around to shift Cas’s arms just to the right, closer to one of the bottles lined up fifteen yards away.
“You’re cheating,” Cas rumbled, but he didn’t really seem to mind; Dean saw the smile struggling to stay hidden at the corner of his mouth.
“No such thing.” Dean nudged a foot between Cas’s legs, pulling his right foot back to rest slightly behind the line of his left. “The stance you had was fine,” he said, hearing the unformulated confusion. “Better center of balance, better mobility this way. We need to move a lot when we’re firing. Ghosts are fast; they don’t need to run. Wendigos have inhuman speed. Werewolves are much stronger than we are-all the things we hunt are more powerful than us. More powerful than you. Use every advantage you have.”
Cas nodded, just a slight, sharp jerk of his chin, but Dean knew he was listening, attentive to every word. The angel wanted to be taken seriously. Dean could feel the drive to hunt, bright and sincere, even under the fear; it was so genuine, so honest, so untarnished. The things that drove Dean to hunt seemed so petty and human in comparison, dark and furtive: revenge, guilt, the killer in him, the slaughter that had been wrought deep in Hell and had never really gotten scrubbed out-and the only way he could unleash it, the only way, was to just kill the things that were evil, save the slaughter for the black spots on the world.
“Okay,” Dean said. “Remember that it’s going to bounce back at you when you pull the trigger. Not like a shotgun, but it’ll give your hand a good push. Just be prepared. And until you get used to the noise...” He dug bright green earplugs out of his pocket, and when Cas just looked at them in confusion, he put them in Cas’s ears himself. “Still hear me?”
“You’re muffled,” Cas said, with a note of surprise.
Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah, genius. Your ears are sort of new, technically speaking, and guns are loud. Don’t want you blowing an eardrum.” He took a half-step back, mirroring Cas’s stance, watching closely.
“Should I...?”
“Just aim and pull the trigger, Cas.”
For a handful of seconds, Cas focused, the line of his thinly-muscled arms tensing and releasing, sweat gleaming on the back of his neck, glistening in his hair; Dean breathed in the smell that was still faintly angel under the deodorant, and then an old beer bottle exploded, shattering bright specks of colored glass glittering into the sunlight.
Dean whooped, and Cas smiled, pleased, quick and then gone as he pulled the gun back to his body, the way Dean had shown him. “That wasn’t so bad,” he allowed, and Dean had to agree; he held the gun less gingerly now, his hands comfortable in the cradle they formed around it.
Dean clapped a hand to his shoulder, left it there in a squeeze. “It’s yours.”
Cas turned to him, a brief flicker of surprise reaching out. “What?”
“You’re going to need more than my stash of weaponry. As many handguns and shotguns as there are hunters; that’s the rule. Better to be overprepared. It’s the same model as mine, but, you know. Newer.”
“Did you steal it?” Cas asked, voice wry, and Dean pretended to be affronted.
“No. Bought with hard-earned money. Well, money earned hustling pool, which, for us, is hard-earned money.”
Cas smiled again; his thumb flicked the safety up and he carefully set down the gun in the trunk of the Impala. “Thank you, Dean,” he said sincerely; he reached out, and his fingers caught around Dean’s wrist, squeezing tight for a moment. “It is...good to have your support in this.”
Dean tugged him closer, grinning, and Cas came, smiling quietly, until Dean wrapped a hand around his hip and pulled him in for a kiss. Cas tasted like sweat and adrenaline, skin salty against Dean’s nose, lips soft beneath Dean’s mouth, moving eagerly against him, and things weren’t perfect, probably never would be, but moments like these, everything kind of seemed okay, more okay than it ever had. The Apocalypse was behind them, an archangel was on their side up in Heaven, Bobby’s soul was safely in his possession, Crowley’s bones were well out of his, and maybe they hadn’t sprung Sam from the box yet, but Dean could taste it, something like hope, there on the warmth of Cas’s lips.
“S’what I’m here for,” he muttered when he pulled back. “The Model 1887 is the store version. Maybe someday I’ll let you build your own.”
Cas squinted up at him, still half-smiling. “I’m fairly certain I could build a shotgun, Dean. I’m just not sure how good I’ll be at firing it.”
“Yeah, well. Let’s save the parts you already know for later. This is more fun.” Dean nodded to the new Colt lying alongside his in the trunk, listening to a car pull into the front of the lot; by the sound of the engine, it was Sam, back from the salt-and-burn he’d been taking care of in a nearby town. “You’re not done yet.”
Cas let go of his wrist, fingers prying apart one by one, and picked up the handgun again. Dean leaned back against the trunk and watched, with more than a mild sense of pride, as Cas hit more targets than he missed, sending up a spray of broken glass with almost automatic precision. Bobby had been in touch with his ID guy (Dean thought his name was Frank, but Bobby was closed-mouthed on the subject), taken a few necessary stock photos of Cas against a white sheet draped in the living room, and all the forms of identification he’d ever need as a hunter were now neatly piled in the glove box with Dean’s. He would have to make Cas practice pulling out his ID right, so it didn’t end up upside-down, and thought that maybe it would be smart if Cas was the silent partner for a while, watching and learning until he got to know people a little better.
Partner.
He watched as Cas modified his stance, just slightly, and shot again, at a target further off. It was the first time he’d ever put a definitive name to the two of them, and it didn’t matter that it was more a professional term than a private one; partner fit. It felt equal, solid, reliable, and even if it made him flinch to think of how many times he’d introduced Sam that way-this is my partner, Mr. Whatever-His-Name-Is-Today-it was different, somehow. Sam had always been the partner who hadn’t had a choice, bound to him by blood, dragged through the hunt because circumstance wouldn’t allow him anything else, but Cas had chosen him, over and over.
“And I would again,” Cas commented, shifting his aim to another target.
Dean heard Sam’s footsteps long before he edged around the Impala; his boots kicked up dirt, grating and quick, and when he ducked around the trunk he had a quick, perfunctory smile for Dean. Cas tensed in reaction, picking up on the falter in Dean’s good mood, and missed, hitting a tree a few yards behind the bottle.
“Not bad,” Sam said, clearly attempting to sound supportive. He leaned back against the trunk beside Dean as Cas took aim again and, this time, hit his target.
“He’s learning,” Dean said, and had to work to stifle the pride in his voice; it felt a little misplaced, a little strange, when he was still not thrilled about the idea of Cas, the hunter replacing Castiel, Angel of the Lord, but it was still something to be there for his rite of passage into humanity.
And there was something still ethereal about him, about the way the sun caught in his dark hair, about the hint of silver flashing at his belt when his shirt lifted, about how very blue his eyes were-something still so angelic about him, despite the ache that Dean could feel in his shoulders, the slight discomfort at the sweat trickling into his t-shirt.
“Get rid of the ghost?” Dean asked, rolling his own shoulders back.
“Pretty standard,” Sam confirmed, folding his arms across his chest. He looked no worse for the wear, his too-long hair-Dean swore he hadn’t cut it since he’d evicted Sam from Stanford-pushed back from his face, no hint of blood or dirt, his clothing still worn but immaculate. Sam had been a good hunter-maybe not as good as Dean, but only because he’d taken four years off, only because he was younger and more inclined to research-but now he outstripped Dean and Bobby, possessed a ferocity that Dean was half-envious and half-afraid of.
“Look,” Sam said, and he didn’t look at Dean as he spoke, searching the ground instead, “I know you guys have been working really hard on getting my soul back.”
Dean glanced sideways; Sam’s eyebrows were drawn together, tense, as he considered his boots. Cas had turned from his target practice, thumb catching to turn on the safety and then tucking the gun into the back of his jeans, the way he’d undoubtedly seen Dean do too often.
“And I really appreciate it,” Sam continued. “I just want to know if...if you’ve figured anything out. About what it would do to me.”
“Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves,” Cas pointed out, half a smile on his lips as he removed the earplugs. Sam shrugged, almost apologetic.
“Look, there’s no point in lying to you,” Dean said bracingly, watching Sam trace a boot into the dirt. “You know what Hell did to me.”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” Cas said matter-of-factly, and Dean shot him a warning glare. Sam looked caught between a laugh and a cringe.
“Yeah. Whatever. Point is, it’s worth it to hang onto your soul. And I know I’m not exactly the poster-boy for mental health, but I made it through. I’m okay. And when I’m not, I’d still rather have the thing.”
“It’s confusing,” Sam confessed, looking up, between the pair of them. “I know I’m supposed to care about some things...I’m supposed to care about both of you. I remember caring. And I feel like I should, you know, get that back. But...” And Sam trailed off, hesitated. Dean wondered how much of that was a carefully-scripted act, and how much was genuine; it was almost impossible to tell.
“But what?” he prompted, when the silence stretched on.
“But what if it kills me?” Sam asked, and Dean hoped that it didn’t show on his face, how the bottom dropped out of his stomach. “Look, I’ve heard you two talking about it. I know what the angels have said.”
“We also doubted Dean’s survival, during our siege of Hell,” Cas said, with an apologetic glance at Dean. He shrugged back. “We knew that he was a...favorite...of Alastair, who was arguably the cruelest demon in existence. Lucifer is worse, undoubtedly, but his methods will also be very different from Alastair’s. Overall, I believe that you have a good chance of survival. No worse than Dean’s.”
“Dean’s turned out so well,” Sam said, exasperated.
“Hey,” Dean protested. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a high-functioning alcoholic,” Sam said, unconvinced.
“To be fair, he displayed signs of alcoholism before Hell,” Cas said clinically, ignoring Dean’s irritated look.
“At least I have the ability to feel bad about it,” Dean snapped. “I’m not straight out of a Čapek play.”
Cas tilted his head just slightly to the side, the lines around his eyes half-amused, as though Dean had surprised him. Sam just snorted.
“Is it that great, feeling bad about it?”
“No,” Dean said honestly. “It fucking sucks. But at least it makes the good moments that much better. At least there are good moments. Look, I can promise you, Sam would have wanted his soul. He wouldn’t have traded it to be a better hunter, and that’s all you’re getting out of this deal.”
“Sam drank demon blood to try and stop the Apocalypse,” Sam returned, letting out a sigh as he got to his feet. “Are you really trying to convince me your brother didn’t do whatever was necessary, no matter the cost?”
“That was different,” Dean said, even though his mouth had gone suddenly dry. “There’s nothing on the line, now. There’s nothing to trade for.”
“But can it even be done?” Sam pressed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Without letting Lucifer, and Michael, and the entire damn Apocalypse back out again?”
“We’re looking into it,” Cas said, firm and reassuring. “It won’t be easy, but if it can be done, we’ll find a way. I got part of you out with no repercussions-there should be a way to retrieve your soul in a similar way.”
“All right,” Sam muttered, giving in. “Just make sure nothing else gets out.”
“We’ll fix it,” Dean said, reaching out to clap a hand to Sam’s shoulder. “Okay? Trust me. You don’t have a moral compass right now, so believe me when I say this is the right thing to do.”
Sam smiled again, quick, perfunctory, a curve that didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure, Dean.” He nodded to Cas and headed off around the Impala, trudging back to the house.
“He’s fucking weird,” Dean muttered under his breath, watching Sam go.
“There’s still something Sam-like about him,” Cas mused, coming to stand beside him. “He’s very...stubborn. Points out your flaws to draw attention away from himself when he feels attacked.”
“Hey,” Dean said, affronted.
Cas looked sideways at him. “He’s right, you know. You have good weeks and bad days, but it’s accurate.”
“It’s a hunter thing,” Dean defended, because it was useless to pretend that he didn’t know what Cas was talking about.
“So you wouldn’t protest if I, hypothetically, mirrored such behavior?”
Dean saw a flash of 2014, of drug-hazed blue eyes, ever-present pills and bottles, a blissed-out, vacant smile on the face of his angel. “That’s different,” he said firmly.
“It’s not,” Cas said mildly, touching his shoulder. “And you know it.”
But he dropped it, because that was Cas: he knew when to push and when to back off, when a battle wasn’t worth fighting, but Dean knew it wouldn’t be the last time it came up.
Angels became such nags when they Fell.
“I heard that,” Cas murmured, half-amused and half-annoyed, but Dean just slipped an arm around his waist and pulled him near, planning ways to make him forget.
Long after Dean had gone in to make dinner-if he still drank, well, at least he was eating more home-cooked meals of late-Castiel stayed, by the light of the Impala’s headlights, setting up new bottles, close and far away, reloading the Colt until it felt almost natural in its repetition, until the trigger gave under his finger like it knew him. There was a serenity in it, the act of adjusting his stance, his grip, finding the right position in his arms; he thought it was a good sign that Dean had left him alone with a loaded weapon, a sign that Dean trusted him.
He would need that, in the months ahead of them, every little reminder of Dean’s support.
“I know you’re there, Gabriel,” he said, squinting at a bottle fifty yards in the distance. He pulled the trigger, and a heartbeat later, the bottle erupted, shards of glass peppering nearby trees.
“Still have some freaky angel senses?” the archangel joked, stepping out from the shadows beyond the Impala as Castiel turned to face him. His eyes drifted to the gun, even as Castiel flicked on the safety and tucked it back beneath his belt; he didn’t enjoy the feeling of the cold metal against his back, felt the bulk of it was too foreign, and thought about asking Dean if a holster was possible. “Not wasting any time, I see,” Gabriel commented. He seemed halfway between disapproval and admiration.
“I planned to become a hunter when I Fell,” Castiel replied, pushing himself up to the hood of the Impala. “Dean has been less than thrilled about the idea, but accommodating.”
“Whatever floats your boat, kiddo. Guess you’ve earned it.” Gabriel leaned back against the Impala beside him. “The mood around here is better.”
“The situation with Crowley has been resolved. It’s a weight off all of us.” Castiel pressed his hands into the cool, black metal, and it felt like comfort. As an angel, he’d been half-convinced that the Impala had its own soul, quiet and unassuming, as though grown out of Dean’s own, and even human, he could feel it, the soft welcome that it reached out to him, reassuring.
“And Sam?”
Castiel glanced sideways at the archangel. There was an unhappy frown between his eyes, wrinkling his brow. “Still searching,” he said at last. “Do you have any suggestions?”
Gabriel looked up, and his hazel eyes flashed briefly in the light, sliding to amber and then gold. “Are you asking for help, little bro?” he said, his voice not quite up to his usual sarcasm.
“Yes,” Castiel said flatly. “If you’re offering it.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Gabriel complained, looking toward the rows of shattered bottles. “There are a few things I know for sure have the juice to get him out, no problem. Death, for one thing.”
“The horseman?”
“He’s partial to Dean,” Gabriel said, and wrinkled his nose as though the sentiment was beyond him. “They made a deal and Dean didn’t back out of it. The trouble’s getting in touch with him-even I can’t help you there. He hates me.”
“I’d imagine he’s not fond of me, either,” Castiel commented, amused. “We’re both disrupting the natural order.”
“So is Dean, but he’s not complaining about that,” Gabriel muttered. “Then there’s God.”
“God doesn’t have the power,” Castiel correct. Gabriel shot him a look of surprise, and he glanced away, avoiding the searching gaze.
“The Crown wasn’t really a passive weapon, huh,” Gabriel guessed, almost sympathetic.
“It took us back to where it was forged,” Castiel explained. “He was...already weak. He expended the majority of His remaining power in creating the Crown, and the rest on resurrecting us, removing Sam and Dean from Lucifer’s escape. I doubt He possesses the ability to survive Hell.”
“Well,” Gabriel huffed. “Scratch that off the list, then. Death. Just Death.”
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “What about you?”
Gabriel hesitated a split second too long. “It’s a bad idea,” he said at last. “I’d probably stand a better chance of success than you did, but it’s not a guarantee.”
“What if we could give you an easy way into Hell?” Castiel countered. “Clear the path, make getting to the box simpler?”
Gabriel cast him a reluctant look. “How would you accomplish that, kid?”
“We have Crowley’s bones,” Castiel said smoothly. “And he’s a recently ousted King of Hell. We could convince him to draw attention to himself; most of Hell would rise to attack him. You could slip in virtually undetected.”
“Convince. Blackmail, you mean. You’re making a powerful enemy, Castiel.”
“He’s a crossroads demon,” Castiel replied, frowning. “King of the Crossroads, yes, but not more powerful than that.”
“No one’s certain,” Gabriel warned. “Crowley has been...ambitious...for a relatively young demon. Powerful, for a dealer. Don’t underestimate him.”
“Could it work?” Castiel pressed, disregarding this.
Disgruntled, Gabriel shrugged. “It might,” he relented, a sigh heavy in his voice. “God knows it’s heartbreaking to see the damn moose like this. Freaky. Reminds me of when I killed Dean all those times and he went off the deep end. Total serial killer, even with a soul. He’s like that.”
Castiel stared at Gabriel, who stared back, unapologetic. “You killed Dean,” he said flatly.
“A hundred times or so, yeah.”
“You’re joking,” he said, searching Gabriel’s smirk.
The archangel shrugged. “Technically, he doesn’t even remember it. It was a time loop, a trick. Back when they still thought I was a Trickster. Sam’s the one who had to live with it.”
Castiel frowned deeply. “I don’t see how that makes a difference. Sam is important to me, as well. That was...unkind of you.”
“I was actually trying to help him, believe it or not,” Gabriel said grumpily. “Those two, they never learn. That the other is their Achilles’ heel, that the bad guys always know it. I thought it would give him some perspective. Just made him nuts about finding me and getting revenge.” He snorted. “But even with that serial killer vibe, he still had the worst puppy eyes. Bet this version couldn’t pull that if he tried.”
Castiel’s eyes narrowed; he studied Gabriel, surprised at what he had surmised. “You care for Sam.”
Gabriel barked a laugh. “God, kiddo. Being human has made you so sappy. I identify with the bastard. You and Dean, you’re the righteous ones, the ones with purpose, the ones with the mission. Me and Sam...” He paused a long moment, considering the trees illuminated by the Impala’s headlights. “We just wanted to keep our families together,” he said at last. “Ran away when it wouldn’t happen.”
“You have a mission now,” Castiel pointed out, gently as he could.
“What, fixing Heaven? It’s been broken as long as it’s existed. Well. As long as humans have existed. As long as they’ve been thought of.” When Castiel opened his mouth to protest, Gabriel waved him off. “I don’t resent the little monkeys for it. It was there to be broken. We’re...I’m...obsolete. You’ve got a soul, so I guess you hit the evolutionary jackpot.”
Castiel hesitated, and then, curious, asked, “Are you sure?”
Gabriel reached out, pressed two fingertips to Castiel’s temple, and flinched. “Soul,” he confirmed. “More soul than Grace, though I don’t think you’ll ever lose all of it. I’d guess trueform angels will still blind you, but I’m betting you can see demons.”
“And hellhounds,” Castiel murmured as Gabriel pulled his hand back.
“You really wanted this, huh,” Gabriel said, and it was curious, a little sympathetic, only a hint disparaging.
“After I learned to want, I think, I wanted this.” Castiel looked down at his hands, felt the soft ache in his upper back where muscles unused to firing a weapon were sore, the low trickle of warmth at Dean’s distant presence. “I disliked the condition when my superior skills were needed, but I have always loved humanity.”
“That’s why He stopped making angels, after you,” Gabriel muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Couldn’t get crazier than that.”
Castiel inhaled sharply. “What?”
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Keep forgetting the younger ones are all kind of unaware of this. You were the last angel He ever created.”
Castiel could feel his pulse, hard and fast, against his ribcage. “So it’s true. The rumors.”
Gabriel’s features darkened suddenly. “Raphael?”
“I suspected,” Castiel said faintly, his voice thin; it was suddenly hard to breathe. “He must have made me…He must have made a mistake. For me to want this.”
“No,” Gabriel said sharply. “That’s a lie, conceived by Raphael to undermine you. Father...” He hesitated, the lines around his eyes softening again. “The younger generations are more inclined to rebellion for a reason. He was trying to make you more like them, in the hopes that you would adore them more-love them, more than you loved Him. The way He wanted us to. The closer He got to humanity, though, the thinner a line He walked. He couldn’t make an angel who loved humanity more than you without forcing them to Fall the moment they were created. It was a surprise that it took as long as it did, that Anna rebelled first, but I guess you needed Dean.”
Castiel’s sight had blurred, and Dean’s presence faltered in the distance, listening, worried. There was a prickle of water on his skin, and he brushed the back of his hand over his cheek, surprised when it came away wet.
“He didn’t make me wrong?” His voice was thick, funny, his sinuses burning.
He’d never seen Gabriel look so sympathetic, so sad, his features twisting into an unhappy frown. “No, kiddo,” he said gently, resting a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “He made you the best He could. Raphael knew it, too, that bastard,” he added, an afterthought, and Castiel laughed, sudden and wet, the sound a little choked.
“Cas?” That was Dean’s voice, shouting from the distance.
“That’s my cue to leave,” Gabriel muttered, squeezing Castiel’s shoulder before letting go, but Castiel reached out, catching his elbow.
“You’ll help?” he asked, and the archangel sighed in defeat.
“I need some time to prepare, but yeah. I’ll give it my best shot. Just be ready.” He smirked, snapped his fingers, and vanished with the rustle of wings.
Castiel wrapped his hands around his knees and took a shaky breath, trying to compose himself. He could hear Dean getting closer, boots scuffing into the dirt as he approached. He’d never felt something quite like this keen sense of grief before, sorrow and relief all tangled up and pouring out of him in shuddering gasps, and maybe he’d needed a soul to really feel it, but it hurt, aching in his chest beside his tapering heartbeat, more than his shoulders and arms, more than the peculiar itch in his healed scrapes, more than all of it combined, bone-deep, sinking into him until he felt buried in it.
When Dean came around the hood of the Impala and found him, he was wiping a shaking hand across his eyes again, still trying to stop the salty flow of tears. “Cas,” Dean said, and it was unaccountably gentle, a little worried with an edge of anger. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing, he wanted to say. Everything’s fine. But he just choked out a wet laugh, incapable of forming words through the peculiar sensation of his throat being stuck, and Dean heaved himself up on the hood, draping a warm arm around Castiel’s shoulders and pulling him in until his face was buried in Dean’s shirt, the soft spot between chest, shoulder and throat, and he shook while Dean murmured to him, soothing nonsense words, streams of “it’s okay” and syllables that all ran together, and he tried, through their bond, to impress on Dean what had happened, what Gabriel had told him, the more important thing, the news about Sam, but he couldn’t clear his mind enough to focus, enough to tell Dean that it would all be fine.
“Don’t worry,” Dean murmured, a few minutes later when Castiel’s head ached and he couldn’t breathe through his nose. “Gabriel makes me feel like crying, too.”
Castiel laughed again, short and weak; it was all he was capable of. He felt wrung out, tired. “Gabriel,” he tried, and had to clear his throat; his voice had come out utterly wrong. “Gabriel will help us. Retrieve Sam’s soul.”
Dean looked at him, arm still around his shoulders, his green eyes shrewd. “I got that. Enough of it, anyway. What I didn’t get was whatever set off the waterworks.”
Castiel swallowed. “It isn’t important.”
“Like Hell.”
“He told me...” Castiel cleared his throat again; his voice was more gravel than ever, and it hurt, his voice aching as he spoke. “He told me that my generation of angels, the younger generations, was God’s attempt to make us love humanity more than Him. And I was the last, because if He had made an angel love humanity more than I did, that angel would have Fallen immediately.”
Dean grinned, and it was proud, and pushed Castiel dangerously close to breaking down all over again. “Told you He made you best.” He slid down from the Impala and held out a hand to Castiel. “Come on. I made lasagna. Sam put vegetables in it.”
Castiel smiled when Dean’s nose wrinkled in distaste and took his hand, letting the hunter pull him down. Dean slung an arm around his shoulder again, warm and reassuring, as they walked back to Bobby’s house. He thought that he could have borne not knowing, that the rumors and insinuations would have bled to the back of his mind someday, but he preferred this: to keep some semblance of faith in his Creator, to retain some little love of his Father, even if it had been long eclipsed by humanity, and to feel that he was justified in it, because he had been loved in return, loved enough to be set free.
Dean leaned sideways, just enough to brush a kiss against his temple, then let a hand trail down Castiel’s back before pulling the handgun out of his belt. “I’m starting to rethink the idea of storing a gun like that,” he muttered, laying it on Bobby’s battered coffee table as they made their way inside, and Castiel just smiled.
Go on... Chapter 14: Echo.