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Castiel wasn’t a fool. He knew what must be done. Knew the price, knew the poetic quality it took on. He supposed the repetition gave his existence a cohesive shape, and despite the part of his mind - the part he’d been paying more attention to as of late - cried out in the great injustice of it all, the older part of his mind - steady and dutiful - knew. He could do it alone, lay up his grace to be torn away and although he could wish that his...well, whatever was left of an angel after this sort of thing - he might wish to survive, but he doubted very much the likelihood of that outcome.
No. He would go, head level and he would die.
And he would not return this time, because sacrifices do not survive. Not even angels. Certainly not Castiel, who hardly qualified these days.
Perhaps this is why he’d been brought back, again and again.
Maybe to fix it.
The words echoed back from so long ago, and he sighed. Fixing fixing, always fixing.
He prayed that this final act would be enough to clean his slate. There was, after all, no more that he could offer.
Castiel became aware again, slowly, of his surroundings. Heaven raged above and Hell shook below and there he was with Dean and Sam in a great field, just outside of Lawrence, Kansas (Now wasn’t that always the way of things), and Cas was reminded forcibly of the Wizard of Oz. He remembered the small stir the movie had caused in it’s own time, color, and all that - and Dean’s insistence more recently that he experience it first hand. Cas, man, it’s a classic.
He inhaled and then pushed the air out, shaping them into words he knew would...well...it didn’t matter how they were received, it didn’t change a thing... he remembered a time when he could have simply flown off without explanation.
But now...
“There’s a way,” he pushed the air out harder to be heard, and the Winchesters turned to him, “I can stop it - I can get between them and...And I’ll put my grace there and it should, should blow both gates shut, or at least cause a big enough explosion to give you time. But it should work - it should close them if I understand the tablet correctly. Metatron said - you weren’t there, but -”
Dean was staring at him and it was exactly the expression he’d prayed never to see again, the exact expression Castiel knew he’d make. He looked to Sam - large and broken and weak and Castiel wanted more than anything in that moment to fix him. And this would - this would fix him. He could sacrifice himself and Sam would heal and be free from Heaven and Hell and Castiel wanted so much to do that for Sam...let him grow old, whole and human.
“No.”
“It’s the only way, Sam.” Please, let me fix you. Let me save you.
He tried his best not to shake his head as Sam protested.
“We’re running out of time.” Castiel stepped towards Sam, trying to be gentle as he pulled his forehead towards his own lips. All will be well, Sam.
Sam didn’t argue, didn’t struggle, and Cas was grateful. A low, churning ache was building inside him, and he didn’t want to think about what would happen after he turned away from this calm acceptance - too graceful and kind for this moment and precisely what Castiel needed.
“Goodbye, Sam. Thank you.”
Sam stood upright again, slowly, “Bye, Cas.”
The building ache clenched painfully at his vessel’s body, and he looked to Dean.
Dean.
I’m sorry.
I don’t want to leave.
I’m sorry for hurting you.
I’m sorry that I can’t stay with you.
I’m sorry, Dean. So very sorry.
Sam stepped away from Dean, and again the sweet tendrils of thanks soothed the edges of the burning ache in Castiel.
Dean’s eyes had gone red around the edges and he was crying, the tears making tracks across his face when the wind pushed at them. And they were dirty and tired and so sorry, all of them, but Dean...Cas thought of the bright soul he’d wrested from Hell and this man in front of him - beautiful and so convinced of his own mediocrity, and so, so perfect in his flaws. Still so bright. I know you wanted me to stay and I want to but I want you to live more. It’s all that's left.
“Cas...don’t...” He was so bright and so sad, and Cas wanted him to be peaceful, just once, just once before he left.
“I am sorry that it’s ending this way, Dean,” something caught in his throat and he bowed his head to clear it, “But...I don’t regret it.” He sought Dean’s gaze again. Blinking, red and green and wet and Cas needed Dean to see him as he said this, needed Dean to understand - to know how very much Castiel cared. “Not one instant. Do you understand?”
Dean was still, with everything but his eyes that raged no no no and oh, Castiel wished to heed them, but he needed them to stop and he needed to say goodbye.
He stepped forward. He didn’t know how Dean would react. The social customs varied so much across time and countries he didn’t often trust himself to employ his vessel correctly - to give physical affection or affirmation. Mostly he was a tool of destruction. Killing was simple enough when you’d been trained to do it for so long.
But this was Dean, and he wanted to tell him something he couldn’t say - wasn’t accustomed to saying. So he trained all his concentration on his hands, setting them as carefully as he could against Dean’s face, one thumb pushing away a tear, the other resting just under the curve of Dean’s jaw. And it felt so...natural to seek closeness, to let his lips push against Dean’s, to bury his face in his friend’s as if that might protect them both from this broken reality.
And Dean let him. And Dean reached back for him and he felt his own sleeves pulling at the elbows by shaking hands. Castiel wished he could leave him some tiny measure of his grace, something to remember him, something to protect him and stay with him and Dean had Sam, of course, but Cas was selfish...he wanted Dean to carry him in that sacred way.
His own closed eyes stung and pulling back just a little, his breath shuddered out of him. He didn’t want to leave...not Dean, not now, not ever. Dean’s own breath pushed against his and he looked up into his friend’s searching gaze.
For everything. For Sam. For you.
He stepped back, nodded, and turned away.
He felt Dean’s eyes keenly on him, so he kept his head up, shoulders set, walked evenly through the torrent of grass and waited. Waited for the ever-faithful gaze of the self-proclaimed faithless man- the gaze that never gave up, never stopped looking, never stopped trying to save him - waited for that gaze to falter.
It did.
Castiel flew.