Chapter Text
“You look at me reproachfully—and you're right. You know, I once read how twelve of you were hanged... Twelve... and I yawned. And the second time I heard the news about a row of white bags, I ate a ripe plum. I took a wonderful juicy plum in my fingers... and felt its pleasant sweet taste in my mouth... You see, I don't even blush, my face is white, like yours, because horror has sucked all the blood out of me. I don't have a drop of hot blood left for those living dead among whom you walk like a bloody shade. Go away! I’m tired.”
Kotsyubinsky, Intermezzo.
He always knew the death he’ll meet won’t be peaceful. Angels just aren’t capable of dying this way—so different from humans in every aspect of existence, from creation, to life, to their ultimate demise.
What brings blissfulness into human death is the calmness that goes along with its forthcoming. It’s something people can’t explain, the things they see and hear on the verge of death; some call it visions, some—hallucinations, mirages or delusions, but what unites them all is the comfort that they bring to one. Humans don’t know it, but it’s what Reapers bring with them.
Reapers don't come to angels, though. The ‘Warrior of God’ is not a title that holds within itself the promise of a quiet, peaceful demise in the arms of loved ones.
Therefore, the bloodstained finale was always expected by him, although the feasibility of going away with the dignity of a soldier always made the acceptance of the fact easier.
What he did not expect, however, was the slow end of rotting from the inside, attainted with his own sins.
The weight of those sins, the guilt and regret is what led Castiel to want to do one last good deed, to be useful—if not to his heavenly family, then at least to his earthly one.
They were on a routine hunt and as it often happens with routine vampire cases, you can never predict the exact size of the pack awaiting you in one of those warehouses monsters always seem to choose. As it was, when the last head had dropped, the dust of battle had settled, and the ecstasy of the just-ended combat had set their minds free, he and Dean realized that Sam did not get up.
“Sam?” Dean calls for him as he shuffles closer to his brother, the machete falling out of his hand with a clutter, metal sound cutting the eerie after-battle silence.
Sam is on his side, a palm cupping the side of his neck, yet the blood seeping through his fingers had already formed a maroon puddle. They rush closer to the younger Winchester as his hand starts to relax and fall to the concrete beside his head, and as if the dam had been broken, blood gushes out of the wound with terrifying speed.
Dropping to his knees, body wholly engulfed with visible panic and exhaustion, Dean presses his hand over Sam’s wound, trying to slow the bleeding down as much as he can but the tear is too deep; Castiel knows it won’t do much.
“C’mon, Sam, Sammy, don’t pass out, just don’t pass out,” Dean is rambling at this point, eyes running between Sam’s ashen, clammy face and the relentlessly growing crimson pool. “Cas, call an ambulance.”
Staying over Dean’s shoulder like the angel he indeed was—once God’s, and now this man’s—he knew the endeavors were useless. One way or the other, but they can’t avoid this catastrophe. It’s not just Sam’s life that’s fading away now but also Dean’s because ever since the very beginning, their lives had been tangled together into a tight knot that no one but them would be able to untwine. His little brother’s safety was and always will be Dean’s #1 priority; it’s how he was raised, it is what John Winchester made him believe defines his worth as a human being, so Sam dying will not just cause immense pain to Dean, it will strip him of his very right to exist. Or, at least that's what Dean believes.
The acceptance of nearing death made itself at home in Castiel’s mind a long time ago, perhaps long before the Grace from that angel’s slit throat started rotting inside of him, infiltrating his every fiber and poisoning everything it touches. So the choice of exchanging his life for Sam’s isn't exactly hard—and maybe it’s not an immediate substitution, but he knows the time he would have left after is basically a deathbed—but there’s also more behind it. This exchange is most precious to Dean, of course, because despite knowing that Dean cares about him a lot, Castiel also knows that there is nothing in this and any other universe Dean would put before Sam. But such a choice is unfair and cruel in itself, not one Dean would ever be able to voice but one that Castiel is convinced will always live in the hunter’s heart. It’s something Cas will never want and be able to put someone he loves most through, thus the decision he shall make himself.
“Dean, move away,” he says in a quiet yet unyielding voice while placing a firm hand on Dean’s shoulder. The man isn’t moving, still focused on the task—quite literally—at hand, clamping the wound as tight as he can, as if the sheer force can stitch the edges. Shaking Dean’s shoulder a bit, Castiel repeats with more might, “Dean!”
“What?” Dean finally reacts, voice basically a whimper, turning so roughly to look at the angel it makes Cas’ hand fall from his shoulder. His eyes are glassy, beautiful green shining with emotion Castiel would rather never see on this man’s face.
“Move away,” he repeats himself again. A furrow of confusion appears on Dean’s face as Cas kneels down next to him, covering Dean’s hand with his own, and continues, “An ambulance won’t be here in time. I need you to let me help him.”
Eyes never leaving Castiel, he shakes his head, “No offense, buddy, but you aren’t in your best shape right now.”
“I have enough power.” When Dean still hesitates, glancing from Cas to the wound and back, Castiel feels his own nerves reaching their edge as he shouts, “He’ll die, Dean!”
And finally, finally, Dean steps aside, his hand sliding from under Castiel’s and letting him replace it with his own on Sam’s neck. Cas shifts closer, knees getting soaked in the warm and sticky liquid that covers the ground and with his free hand carefully lays Sam on his back.
His grace may be venomous for him but it can never be that for a human being—divine as ever, though not as powerful perhaps. He summons it all, down to every flicker, reaching to its very corners and gathering its essence in his one hand.
As the light pours out of his palm, Castiel closes his eyes to concentrate, to let himself perceive the way his grace permeates every lesion. Closing ripped blood vessels first, then repairing the broken cartilages of his throat, speeding up reproduction of the cells to coalesce torn tissue, making it form small tendrils that reach for one another, intertwining in tight patterns. Reaching red bone marrow to accelerate maturation of the cells while keeping the heart beating, thus renewing blood structure and pressure. Despite keeping his eyes shut, he can feel the color coming back to Sam’s skin.
It’s harder with every second for Castiel not to crumble himself, the extraction of yet good grace only leaves him with rotten parts, nothing to mediate the deep pain and exhaustion it causes, but he wills himself to keep going until he finally hears Sam gasp for air.
~
Dean was watching the whole ordeal so intently, he felt like not only his breath was on hold but his heart as well. The hot yet cold blinding light coming from the angel's palm forced his eyes to water, bringing with it a stinging sensation as if the photons that were coming out of his hand carried small needles on themselves. Nevertheless he persistently kept his eyes open, unable to look away. The gut-churning fear of accidentally missing even a second—a second that could be crucial—and the uncontrollable fascination of the majestic act Cas was performing, truly angelic in all literalness and metaphor, were simultaneously holding him in their steel claws.
As soon as the wheezing gasp escapes Sam's mouth and his eyes fly open, it's like the strings that were holding Dean upright got cut. That feeling when the heavy weight gets lifted off your shoulders, but you can’t let yourself relax just yet because now it’s a tsunami-like wave that is coming your way, and it’s only going to be easier for it to sweep you off your feet. And oh, was that wave coming.
“Sammy?” Dean just got the words out, gripping his brother’s sleeve as Sam tries to prop himself up on his elbows, when Cas collapses onto his side with the noise of a stifled gasp that got stuck in his throat, a painful, wounded thing. Cas’ forehead bumped into Dean's shoulder, and he let out a long, steady exhale of choked down ache. Instinctively, Dean's other hand went to the angel's arm, holding him steady.
Attention divided between the two and paralyzed with uncertainty of which one of them needs him more at the moment, Dean is saved from making a decision by Sam sitting up on his own, hand feeling over his neck and eyes full of disbelief running back and forth between his brother and the angel.
“Sam? You okay?” Dean asks, grip relaxing slowly and slipping away from Sam's jacket.
“I—yeah, ” Sam says, shellshocked. He takes in his surroundings, all the blood covering everything, Cas’ weakened form against Dean’s side—“What the fuck?! Cas?”
With his other hand now free as well, Dean readjusts his grasp on Cas, throwing the guy’s arm around his own shoulders. The angel just complies this time around, evidently not even having enough power to be his usual stubborn self and try to downplay the issue. “Sam, I, uh—gotta get him back to the car. Are you—are you really okay? You can walk?”
“Yeah, yes I am. I, uh, a bit shocked maybe. But I’m fine.”
“Okay. Good, good. Can you then, uh—” he gestures in the general direction of the vamps’ bodies. His voice feels so raw, “take care of it? It’s too many to be bothered with graves, so…”
“Yeah, sure—”
“—just burn it all down. Would be easier.”
Sam just nods in acknowledgment while getting up on his still wobbly legs. Dean himself follows suit carefully, despite being weighed down with another body, lifting himself and Cas up to one foot first, then the other. With soft murmurs of encouragement, he manages to set Cas on his feet. The angel, meanwhile, seems to regain some composure and is already trying to talk Dean off, but it’s neither their first rodeo nor is Dean naive enough to believe a thing that comes out of Cas’ mouth right now. After all, he’s no stranger to these excuses either.
The Impala is waiting for them in her usual glory, looking so utterly out of tune with the reality of the disaster they had once again found themselves in. Dean fumbles with his car keys as they get closer and opens the passenger door.
He has to sit Cas down carefully, bending his own head slightly to slip out from under the angel’s arm, both of them covered in blood of different stages of dryness that got smeared even more during the whole commotion. The slumped arc of his shoulders and the aura of bone-deep tiredness made Cas’ form seem so small, so fragile—a look that Dean could’ve never imagined seeing on his friend and would’ve laughed at the face of anyone who dared to tell him he would ever witness what unfolds in front of him now. Cas is dying, and the realization hits him so hard he has to kneel down again, hands covering the angel’s knees.
He’s kneeling here, staring into those blue eyes that now seem to lose their usual vibrance. The eyes of the holy creature whose gaze used to be so sharp it could pierce steel, whilst for some reason turning so damn fond while staring back at him. The eyes of an angel he caused to fall, of a friend he’s already failed in so many ways and still, here he is again, with his last sin that will finally take the angel to the grave that was not even his to begin with. What a truly Dean Winchester feat—to ruin something that was supposed to be eternal.
“How long?” he manages to ask, though it’s hard to push the words out of his throat; they feel like a lump stuck in there. It’s just two words, but of course Cas understands him. Words were never a necessity for them to understand one another.
“A couple of days, perhaps. If I’m lucky.”
“Cas—”
“Dean,” Cas says, and the way he can turn just his name into a complete sentence has never stopped amazing Dean, even after over half a decade of knowing each other. However, this particular time such finality feels trapping.
“C’mon, Cas, we can save you. Let’s find another angel’s grace or, or make a deal with Metatron—”
Cas begins shaking his head almost immediately as Dean starts talking, not waiting long to interrupt him, “No, Dean—Just leave it, please.”
Just leave me, is what he hears. He grips Cas’ knees tighter.
“Why?”
“I’ve accepted death a long time ago. I don’t want to get involved with Metatron any more than I already have, and any other attempts to cure me will only result in more suffering for my kind and this is the last thing I want now,” Cas says with a sigh. He glances down at Dean’s hands, then adds softly, “My life isn’t more valuable than any other.”
“It’s more valuable for me!” Dean blusters before his brain-to-mouth filter can even react.
Cas’ eyes snap back to him so quickly and are filled with such genuine confusion it causes something deep inside Dean’s bosom to constrict with an ugly feeling of guilt and remorse. His throat feels full of rocks as he swallows and blinks his gaze away.
In his periphery he sees Cas shake his head, saying, “I do not deserve to be saved at somebody’s expense.”
Oh, right, and here we go. Dean has to blow some air through his nose despite himself at the irony of the words, a grotesque sound more likely to be a scoff than anything else, “You’re such a fucking hypocrite.”
Cas huffs slightly, annoyed, “This is different.”
“Yeah, how so?”
“You’re good, Dean. Inherently good. You have made so many sacrifices for this world, the least you should get in return is good things happening to you.”
“And you aren’t good? You didn't make sacrifices?” Dean challenges.
“Dean, I was created to be a tool, a weapon in God’s hands. I know how to be good because of you. You taught me how to care—about humanity, about everything. What good I have in myself–the credits go to you.”
Bullshit.
“My sacrifices are my redemption and repentance for my doings in the name of Heaven. My death now would be an atonement to the angels who fell victim to my rebellion. I just want to do it right."
Cas smiles at him, a small, sad thing that slips away as soon as it appears. They just stare at each other with stubborn determination for a long moment, trying to transfer all the thoughts and emotions through the blue-to-green connection only, and Dean feels his eyes getting glassier.
You had said you gave everything to me, you had said you were doing this for me, because of me. Then why are you never listening to me? Once a rebel, always a rebel, aren’t you? I asked you not to work with Crowley, and yet you did anyway. I begged you to give up the powers of the millions of souls and you told me I’m not your family. I searched for you and prayed to you every night in Purgatory. I told you I needed you, and you still refused to leave with me. I was begging on my knees for you to return to me, repeated the sentiment again, while wanting to say the other three words, but they would only mean a death sentence for you, wouldn’t they? Being loved by a Winchester has always had one end. I needed you like I need air and you still left me in that crypt, breathless.
Why are you always so eager to get away from me?
When Cas is the first one to break eye contact, averting his gaze with what seems to be sorrow, Dean thinks some part of his mind might’ve been actually transformed into some sort of prayer the angel was able to hear.
“Dean, I’ve made my decision and I’m asking you to respect it,” he says in a quiet voice, eyes still away.
It spikes a flare of anger in Dean again, and he pushes himself up in a sharp movement, causing Cas to sway slightly.
He's giving up, isn’t he? Just like that. Not because there’s no way anymore but because he simply doesn’t want to keep fighting. And if even Cas—the person who ignited in Dean this will to resist and not to relinquish halfway through, all the way back to the Apocalypse round one—gives up, then how can Dean not?
You, guys, aren’t supposed to be here. You’re not in this story.
Yeah, well. We’re making it up as we go.
Where did that sharp determinance go? Castiel was ready to lay his life for the idea but never to hold a worth to that life. And Dean is at fault for this.
The states they’re in now are similar, aren’t they? They have this thing inside of them—the Mark of Cain for Dean and the rotten grace for Cas—that is the consequence of their own actions and decisions. An infiltrating venom that asks for more macabre or would start eating you alive instead. They kept fighting, kept delaying the unavoidable with small sacrifices for the sake of achieving a little bit of extra time to wrap things up at least, but Cas has had enough it seems.
Here comes the main difference though—crucial in itself, actually. When Cas gives up, he just dies. With honor, accepting his punishment. If Dean gives up, though, he would only end up a sanguinary monster.
Just as Dean wants to throw something snappy at Cas, to let the anger take hold of him, he’s interrupted by another voice, coming somewhere from behind.
“Hey, guys?” Sam calls for them and Dean blows air through his nose, like a bull waiting for something to provoke it, for a reason justifiable enough to attack. Instead, he forces himself to bottle this anger up for a better time and turns around to face his brother, who meanwhile continues, “I set the bodies on fire and the building is gonna catch up soon too, so we gotta go.” He pauses, looking between them, “How’s Cas?”
“Freaking fantastic,” Dean says, unable to help the venomous sarcasm and the tight-lipped smile stretching his face. He has to close his eyes immediately and exhale, backtracking, “Nevermind. What about you, Sam? You alright?”
Sam now has a frown of worry on his face, looking between him and Cas, whose piercing gaze Dean could feel on his back. Apparently deciding not to comment on anything of this sort, he just replies with a small smile, “Yeah, I’m totally fine. Thanks to Cas.”
Dean deliberately does not look at Cas’ expression, instead throwing, “Good. Get in the car, then,” and walks around to the driver’s seat.
A few seconds later both doors on the passenger side slammed shut, and not wasting any more time, Dean, hands knuckle-white on the steering wheel, drives away.
~
About an hour and a half of tense (though pretty much preferred by Dean) silence, around the time when everyone’s mind has switched from fight-or-flight mode to something more capable of actual thinking, Sam, unfortunately, decides to open his mouth.
“Hey, Cas? How, uh, how’re you feeling?” he asks, shifting in his seat a bit.
Previous frustration rises up inside of Dean again, but the only way he lets it out is a hardening grip on the steering wheel and a clenching jaw. His eyes straight on the road, avoiding the rearview mirror as if it’s shattered and one look would promise him 7 years of misfortune. From the backseat Cas replies, “I’m fine. Thank you, Sam.”
Dean scoffs, unable to help it. Bitterness of words bordering on venom, “Oh, yeah, fit as a fiddle, aren’t ya, Cas?”
“Dean.” Cas says with a warning.
“What? I’m just saying, you know. You’re a big boy, you can put all the reckless abandon you want into your decisions. It’s not like you have people around you who might be worried.”
“Just stop it.” Cas says, his gravelly voice laced with irritation. Good.
“Stop what? I don’t get what’s wrong, Cas, ‘cause everything’s fine and is going to be all right, isn’t that what you were saying?” Dean forces himself to stop and cool down, exhaling through his nose. He licks his lips, eyes still stubbornly on the highway in front of them and the skin so tight around his knuckles it becomes translucent to the white of bones.
Cas snaps, “I did what I had to, Dean!”
“No, Cas, you just got into another self-sacrificing suicide mission!” Dean snaps in return, “We've talked about this a million times before, and each time you just wait for the opportunity to throw yourself into the next available meat grinder!”
His eyes flash to the rearview mirror before he can stop himself. Cas’ gaze, that meets his own there, has regained at least an ounce of its usual blue vibrance, in the form of cold, angelic fury.
Sam keeps quiet for the rest of the ride.
~
The echo from the faint purring of the killed engine bounced off the walls as Dean parked the Impala in her usual spot in the bunker’s garage. They all got out of the car, slamming the doors shut.
For the entire ride back, regardless of Dean’s continuous endeavours of keeping his mind coherent, thoughts in his head kept whirling in a loop–you try to concentrate on one, but it’s already replaced by another. And another. And then another. What has been said and done, the pools of blood on the warehouse’s floor, the smears of scarlet and mahogany on hands and sleeves and knees, the way Cas looked, staring at him from the backseat with his baby blues, sunk into himself and defeated, along with ruminations of how now Dean is supposed to find a solution—all of this has been floating around, superseding one another behind his eyelids, resulting in a completely unstructured mess.
Dean is about to turn around and try to talk some sense into Cas again, when Sam’s voice interrupts him.
“Dean, wait.”
Aborting his previous movement, Dean looks back at Sam, impatient. “What?”
Sam puts his hands on Baby’s roof, spreading his palms open, “Dude, just tell me what’s going on.”
“Not now, Sam—”
“No, Dean, now.” Sam snaps, pushing himself from the Impala and rounding her hood. “I almost died—I probably should be dead now but Cas managed to pull some magic trick off and fix me. But now you two are fighting and doing this—this thing again.”
“What thing?”
“This—when you’re fighting, you’re always so bitchy to each other and sulking and neither of you will talk to me!” Sam says as he becomes more and more agitated, arms thrown in the air. “It’s—it’s like I have two living parents for once but I’m not mature enough yet to know mommy and daddy’s business!”
“Sam.”
“What, Dean? Am I wrong here? Or should I search for couples counseling for you? Because it happens all the time. I’m used to you two being weird about each other but I'm sick of being treated like a child!”
Dean licks his lips in frustration, looking away from Sam and catching on his periphery an empty spot where he expected Cas to be. He turns around fully only to confirm what he just saw—while Sam was playing a guitar solo on his nerves, Cas had left.
Throwing out his arms, Dean snaps, trying to ignore how obvious his attempts at changing the subject are, “Great! Add to the pile, now I have to search for him all over the bunker. Thanks, Sammy.”
“You're deflecting again, Dean—” Sam starts but Dean isn’t listening to him anymore, spinning on his heels and storming out of the room instead.
~
For the first time ever, his room, bare of anything even remotely personal, seemed for Castiel more welcoming than any of his usual spots in the bunker. He never quite actually used his room for anything but as a temporary hideout, and it isn’t any different now either, just a place to conceal once again. He only hopes it would win him some time in peace to relax a bit. Anything for a little respite from the tense silence that was hanging like a stormy cloud over their heads for the entire ride home.
Despite his best attempts to make Dean if not endorse then, at the very least, accept his decision, Castiel knows it wasn’t going to be easy; nothing ever is with Dean. This man at times can be even more stubborn than himself, the two of them as if in everlasting competition to outdo the other. Thus, even hoping Dean would abandon an issue regarding something as crucial for him as family would be naive at the very concept. Dean’s itch to say or do something felt almost physical for the entire time in the Impala, especially after Sam had spoken up, yet the exhaustion of, well, nearing death, was so great that Castiel couldn’t bring himself to meet it. Not now anyway. So, as the coward that he is, he hid.
For some time he was just lying on the covers of his bed, fully clothed—too exhausted to even lay down properly—and just staring at the ceiling, deep in thought, when the quiet knocking came. And here his repose ends.
He decides not to respond though, small hope at heart.
“Cas?” The door creaks open and a head peeks inside.
“Sam,” Cas says, swaying his legs off the bed, “It's you.”
Sam slides fully into the room, shutting the door behind himself, “Yeah, uh, how are you?”
He tries to appear casual but everything about him—his posture, his rigid shoulders, the jaw he forces to unclench before speaking—screams how on edge Sam is.
“I'm f—”
“Don't tell me you're fine, just—cut the crap, ok? Tell me what's going on,” Sam demands with a sharp note of dismay in his voice. “Dean refuses to talk to me and I just need someone to explain everything to me. So just—what's up?”
Caught by surprise, Castiel just stares at him silently for a moment. The frustration that visibly embraces Sam's entire demeanor, Castiel notices now, goes in pair with the kind of desperation that comes with understanding what kind of bad news is going to be delivered to you, though no one neither confirms nor denies it. The awful feeling of limbo.
“I’m—” Sam deserves the truth, “Well, I traded my life for yours, basically.”
Sam is just silent for a long moment, after which he only asks, “Why?”
He takes a seat near Cas on the bed.
“I couldn't just let you die. I would've died regardless—perhaps not this soon, but I still would.”
“And you are…okay with this?” the younger man asks with a careful hesitance.
“I am,” Cas confirms. “I made my peace with it a long time ago. I just—I don't want to save myself at the expense of another angel's life. I've hurt so many of them already, humans, too. I have burdened both Earth and Heaven with so many bloody consequences of my mistakes—I can't add more to that. So if my life will save someone—it's the least I can do.
“Moreover, I did not save only you but your brother as well. Dean would not be able to live without you, and if I'd died soon after and left him alone—I just couldn't do that to him. So it's one life for two, not that bad of a deal, isn't it?” he smiles at him ruefully, shrugging in a barely noticeable movement.
Sam exhales. He seems to have to gather himself before he speaks, “...yeah. Yeah, I suppose it's not.”
“I tried talking to Dean, to make him accept—but he just won't listen. You do understand me, don't you, Sam?”
Sam watches him with an unreadable expression, something raw that Castiel isn't used to seeing on the younger hunter's face, but also as if a lot of different things are going through his head right now. He swallows and starts nodding, “Yeah, Cas, I think I do. I get this—I feel like I've been through it so many times. I can't judge you.”
“Thank you, Sam.”
“I'll try talking to Dean, maybe get him to calm down, at least—”
“I…really don't think that’s a good idea,” Castiel says slowly.
“Why not? You said it yourself, he won't listen to you.”
“Yes, but he’s not—” Cas sighs, “You know him, Sam. He won't hear it not because he doesn't understand but because he just plainly disagrees. Dean values life too much.”
Sam seems quiet, so Castiel adds, “I just appreciate someone being in my corner right now.”
~
The dull hum of the machinery, hidden deep into the bunker’s innards, radiates from the walls, filling empty corners of the premises and the mind. Dean tosses the kitchen rag back to its place near the stove, industrial lights reflecting from the surface of just-cleaned counters. They weren't that dirty to begin with.
Cas is going to die.
That argument with Sam earlier has thrown him off and shook his determination about getting to talk to Cas again. He couldn’t set his head straight ever since that warehouse, but after added vex there were not so many thoughts that stayed still in his mind.
Cas is going to die.
Perhaps, it'd be better if he clears his own head first.
He shifts the lid on the pot with the cooking chicken broth, letting some steam out.
Cas is going to die.
Dean heads to the fridge, rummages through the shelves and drawers, pulling some potatoes, Sam's broccoli, dill, carrots, one onion. Some garlic too. It's good for the immune system.
Cas is going to die.
He slams the door shut. Bottles rattle inside.
He rinses veggies in the sink. Peels the potatoes, carrots, garlic. Onion too.
Cas is going to die.
He starts chopping. Skims the foam off the broth. Takes out a bay leaf. Adds potatoes, carrots.
Cas is going to die.
Broccoli.
He takes the onion, starts cutting it in half. The knife gets stuck on the way and Dean has to push it harder. The blade hits the wooden cutting board with a dull thud.
He takes one piece and places it flat on the board.
Cas is going to die.
Thud. The knife hits the hard wood again, simultaneously slicing through the rough skin of Dean's index finger.
The hiss of pain escapes through his clenched teeth as he snatches his hand to his mouth and sucks on the blood that starts pouring out of the wound almost immediately. The onion juice from the blade makes it sting like a bitch.
“Ugh, shit.”
“Hey, what's up? You ok?”
Dean spins to watch as his brother enters the room with a concerned look on his face.
“Yeah, uh,” Dean sucks on more blood coming out of the cut, nodding at the direction of the cabinets where they stock a first aid kit, “Grab me some band-aids, please.”
“Sure,” Sam replies as he complies.
In the meantime, Dean walks over to the sink and finally puts his injured finger under the faucet jet, letting the water wash over the wound, falling in now red-colored streams into the shell.
Behind Dean there's the sound of a cabinet door opening, some shuffling, then the creak and thump of Sam closing the door shut. Dean rubs the water off on his apron, leaving darkish wet stains on its crispy white fabric.
“Here,” Sam says as he hands the hydrogen peroxide and a bandage to Dean.
Dean takes them, grumbling a quiet “Thanks”.
In the meantime Sam rounds back to the kitchen island and positions himself on one of the bar chairs, the one closest to the exit. Dean sticks on the band-aid and can feel the heavy atmosphere of unsaid and unresolved that Sam has brought with him.
“So I talked to Cas—”
“Don’t.” Dean interrupts him. “Just don’t, Sam. Not now.”
His younger brother is quiet for a couple of seconds, and to solidify his reluctance in having a conversation right now, Dean turns back to the cutting board, picking up the knife and starts cutting the onion again.
“What, uh, what are you cooking?”
“Soup.”
“Since when do you make soups.” Sam chuckles as he responds with the classic sibling mocking tone and an audible smirk.
“This is what you’re supposed to do when someone’s sick, right?” Dean says, keeping his focus on the cooking. He throws chopped onions into the pot and stirs the contents.
“You’re—you’re making Cas a soup?” comes the reply and Dean can practically hear Sam’s brows shooting up to his hairline.
“Yep.” The garlic’s shell cracks open as he smashes it with a blade.
“Huh.”
“‘Huh’ what?” Dean asks, placing the knife down and speaking over his shoulder.
“Nothing,” Sam says. His voice sounds a bit too nonchalant. “I think I’ll go take a nap.”
“Wait,” he calls after his brother as he starts slipping from his seat. Sam stops and watches him expectantly, until Dean continues, voice diligently calm and insouciant, “Is Cas in his room?”
“Yeah,” Sam confirms and for a bit he looks like he contemplates saying more, but in the end just settles on a quiet, “Don’t be hard on him.”
~
After three knocks on the door with the copper number 15 on it, Dean lets himself in and then stops dead in his tracks.
Cas is lying on the bed, seemingly unconscious, with his hands folded neatly over his stomach. It doesn’t look like his chest is moving.
Choking on his own breath, Dean rushes closer, hurriedly placing the soup on the bedside table, liquid slushing over the edges.
“Cas?” he starts shaking the angel by the shoulders, holding up his face, trying to feel his pulse. Do angels even have a pulse? Do they breathe? “Cas!”
Just don’t be dead Just don’t be dead Just don’t be—
Cas opens his eyes.
“Thank God,” he slumps onto the bed next to Cas who’s now watching him with bleary confused eyes. Oh those eyes.
“Dean?” the angel asks as he lifts himself up on one elbow. “What’s wrong?”
“Yeah, what’s wrong?” Dean asks with a kind of hysterical little laugh.
“Dean, I was just taking a nap,” Cas says and looks at Dean like he's the crazy one here. Like naps are such a normal thing for angels. Like the only times Dean saw him sleeping weren't when Cas was cut from Heaven and briefly human, all those years back to the Apocalypse; and that one night at the motel at Rexford after another one of Dean’s fuck ups, about a year ago. He couldn’t sleep that night, floating in guilt and reflections, and caught himself staring at Cas’ sleeping form on the other bed, mostly draped in dark shadows, with only a few beams of pale moonlight illuminating his face. He stopped bitching at Cas for watching him sleep after that night. “I’m tired.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. Cas has now been fully sitting on his bed, the covers still up and even the trenchcoat is still on. “Lay down properly, then, at least. God. Take this off,” Dean says, slightly pushing the lapels off Cas’ shoulders.
The angel starts shifting on the bed to kick his shoes off and shed the coat away as Dean stands up and glances over to the mess near the bowl. The silence slowly starts becoming awkward as he just stands there, fidgeting with the hem of his flannel. With a sigh, Cas speaks up, “Dean, if you came to argue with me again—”
“No, no—Um,” Dean stammers weakly. Nodding at the bedside table, he continues, “I, uh, made soup. For you.”
Cas just stares at him with wide blue eyes and the back of Dean’s neck starts prickling.
“I’ll go grab something to clean this up,” he says in a rush and immediately heads out of the room when Cas calls after him.
“Dean.”
He turns.
And so so earnestly, Cas says, “Thank you.”
Trying very very hard to shut any noise in his head and ignore every stray (or very much pointed) thought, Dean makes his couple of minutes trip to the kitchen and as he comes back, Cas had already lost his coat and suit jacket and now sits with his back to the wall, the wool blanket draped over his legs.
Walking over to the night stand where the bowl is placed, sitting in a little puddle of the spilled liquid, Dean lifts it up, cleaning the bottom edges with the paper towels he just brought, then throws them onto the wet spot.
“Here,” he says as he hands the now-clean bowl of soup to Cas.
“Thank you.”
Dean tries to keep his eyes away and suppress his—daring to say—excitement about the angel finally trying his cooking. It feels utterly inappropriate, considering the circumstances.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Cas take a spoonful of the dish, squinting his eyes in that adorable way that he does, trying to understand something human.
Keeping up the act of nonchalance, Dean scoops the towels, simultaneously wiping the surface, and throws them into the trash can in the corner of the room just as he asks, “Can you even taste it?”
The angel is quiet as he slowly lowers the bowl onto his lap and it's the answer for Dean as itself, though Cas’ lightly murmured “I'm sorry” only confirms it further.
“Nah, it's fine, it's not like you can control it—” he says as he sits on the edge of the bed again.
“Still,” Cas replies, a soft apology laced with regret. “If it makes it better, the way I feel it is different from the way it usually is when I am fully powered,” the angel's eyes are casted down, looking at his soup, where he's mildly fidgeting with the spoon between the tips of his fingers. He looks up, “Usually, I can taste every separate molecule and it's, quite frankly, disgusting,” he chuckles, looking away again.
“Now it's just—nothing. It tastes empty.” Cas says in a dolent tone, mourning what he could never have. Will never have if Dean doesn't do anything about it.
Dean searches Cas’ face for a long moment, eyes roaming across the map of sharp features that had softened with the years, not because of the change in appearance but because of the change in heart. No, not a change. The angel's heart remains the same, it has only become freer over the years.
His gaze momentarily drops to Cas’ lips, and at that instant in the corner of his eye he catches the deep-blue tie, still vined around the other man's neck. It's rumpled and loosened just per usual, but it peeves Dean regardless.
“Dude, why haven't you—” Dean begins, reaching out without even thinking. He loosens the fabric further, pulling it off as he continues, “Take this thing off too.”
“Dean,” Cas grumbles in that reprimanding voice of his, batting Dean’s hands away with a full eyeroll.
“Hey, don’t you roll your eyes at me!” shoots back Dean, baffled. “You’re—you—” On your deathbed. Literally. Unable to say this, Dean gestures up and down to Cas’ form on the bed, “that and you dare—”
“Yes.” The angel says with a sigh and another eyeroll.
Dean huffs a laugh, partly annoyed but also just in no power to hold back the wave of affection that engulfs him. The feeling of his eyes prickling signals certain unwanted emotions and to cover it he presses his thumb and middle finger over his eyelids, wiping the wetness that began gathering in the corners. The edges of the plastic band-aid scraped lightly over the sensitive skin. His other hand stayed on his lap, fiddling with the silky fabric of the taken-off tie.
“What’s with your finger?” Cas asks with a concerned look on his face. As absurd as it is.
Instinctively glancing to where the bandage is on his hand, Dean answers “ ‘s nothing. Just a scratch.”
But Cas has already reached for his wrist, attempting to bring the injured hand closer. Seeing right through what the angel was about to do, Dean snatches his hand back as if from a burning fire, just a moment before the other man’s fingers could reach him.
“No. Don't you dare,” he says firmly, though his voice is trembling. “I’m not gonna contribute to your suicide. I’m certainly not gonna be what’ll end you.”
The only sound that comes from Cas for a long moment is a shaky exhale. He doesn’t look at Dean either, eyes wandering around the room. Finally, he sighs and says, “I’m sorry.”
Dean huffs, shaking his head, “Just eat your damn soup already.”
This makes Cas’ eyes soften in that way where his lips don't need to move for you to know he's smiling. He picks up the spoon and the bowl and returns to eating.
The silverware clinks against the ceramic edges, merging with the white noise inside Dean's head as he silently stares at his best friend. Despite Cas’ demeanor, it's hard to ignore the pale, dull skin with dark circles under his eyes, his heavy breathing, and this still-present aura of exhaustion that burdens the angel yet from that warehouse.
«A couple of days, perhaps. If I’m lucky.»
Dean looks away. The tie still in his hands, he turns to see the trenchcoat draped over the footboard, and puts the neckwear on it.
His eye, though, catches the outline of the cellphone in the front pocket.
They both stay silent, neither willing to ruin this fragile peace, even if it's built upon delusion. Though the new idea embedded itself into the hunter's head firmly, burning at the back of his mind where he diligently shoved it. But oh, how tempting it looks now, at the lack of anything opposite.
Cas reaches the bottom of the bowl eventually, and as he finishes his dish, Dean gets up, scooping the coat and the tie and transporting them to the back of the chair that’s been tucked into the table in disuse.
“You should try to sleep again,” Dean says. In a swift motion, he pulls the phone out of the trenchcoat and slips it into his jeans pocket.
He walks back over to the bed, where Cas holds out the empty bowl to him, saying, “Thank you. I wish I could truly appreciate your cooking, though.”
Dean takes the bowl with the feather-light brush of their fingers.
A moment later, he notices blood pouring out in a vibrant stripe out of the angel's nose.
~
Dean strides back into the kitchen, throwing a pack of paper towels he brought for Cas earlier on to the counter. They were able to stop the nosebleed quick enough—it wasn't that bad—but considering Cas’ initial state it was a red flag as big as China's.
With a clutter of ceramic against metal, the soup bowl goes into the sink to join the rest of unwashed dishes that have piled up from his cooking earlier that day.
In one rough motion Dean swirls to lean with his lower back onto the counter, simultaneously pulling the stolen phone out of his pocket.
He turns it on and just stares at the thing, a finger hovering over the screen, not daring to unlock it. It's not that he's afraid someone would catch him snooping—Sam's long asleep, Cas had gone to bed too—but it's just— it's too much. It might be a solution but he's not delusional enough about the consequences that will come from it. But Cas will live.
He unlocks the phone. From the homescreen wallpaper, at him stares a familiar plushie. In the photo, that grumpy cat they chose for Claire's birthday just a couple of weeks ago was sitting on the shelf next to a book on angelic lore and the Grigori's sword. Dean knows this photo. Cas showed it to him when Claire first sent it—was so freaking happy about it. The girl hasn't talked to either of them much, which is no surprise considering what she had been through—what they had made her go through. Thus even this little photo of her decorating her own room and settling down at Jody's, a tentative step to forgiveness, meant the world to the angel.
Dean has to blink away the wetness that welled up in his eyes as he opens and scrolls down the contact list until he reaches the right name. Hesitation fully gets to him here, the trembling in his hands making Dean squeeze his palm around the device until it turns off again. Pushing himself off the counter and facing it instead, he braces himself with his fingers gripping the edge of the cool surface.
His head bows to his chest as he forces a steady exhale. It's impossible to contain a quiet “Shit” that falls off his lips in the process.
Dean shoves the phone back to his jeans pocket, turns on the faucet, and busies himself with the simple, repetitive task of dishwashing.
Hot running water makes the edges of the band aid on his finger peel off slightly, but he only sticks them back in place.
Cas’ cell phone burns a hole in his pocket the entire time.
~
Bright fluorescent light reflects off the old bathroom tiles in a sickly yellowish tone that makes Dean kind of nauseous. Or maybe it’s not the light’s fault. He puts his clean clothes on the side of the sink in an unnecessarily neatly folded pile, one thing right on the other.
The phone feels more and more like a monkey’s paw to him as Dean thinks about it, running each and every possibility in his head. The thing is—the pros and cons are about the same for him. But at the same time, who said he can trust his judgement, considering how hot the Mark burns on his arm lately?
Dean sheds his t-shirt and notices some stained blood still left from the hunt. He hadn’t noticed it on the black fabric earlier, only taking off the overtly bloody flannel and jeans, and washing some off of his face and arms.
He undresses fully, bare feet on the cold floor, turning the water on when something occurs to him. The band-aid would peel off during the shower anyway, so in one motion Dean takes it off.
The cut is gone.
~
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Dean's voice boomed in an echo from the concrete empty walls of the badly lit bedroom. His hair is still damp from the quickest shower in his life, the skin still flush from the burning-hot water. “I can't believe you—Goddammit, Cas, what the fuck is wrong with you?!”
The angel was just staring up at him from where he sat on the bed, eyes tired and with prominent dark circles rounding the faded blue. They didn’t seem as deep before. “Dean, please—”
“‘Please” what?!” Dean snaps. He’s pacing from one dark corner to the other now, taking slow and controlled breaths in and out in between the shouts, his chest heavy with an unseen burden, weighted to it. “How do you want me to react to this? Do you really expect me to just be calm and fucking make my peace with it?! With my best friend killing himself?”
Cas only sighs, “No, of course not.”
“And how’re you even so calm?” Dean blusters. “You don't even know what's waiting for you! You certainly are not going to hell or heaven—for all you know you could just cease out of existence!”
“That’s already more than I deserve.”
The words hang between them, as stubborn eyes stretch the ringing silence.
“Just—please, I don’t want our last interactions to be like that.”
Oh, a rare thing to hear Cas do. Begging. He’s fucking begging.
“Oh, you know what? Fuck you, Cas. Fuck it all,” Dean spits out and clenches his fists with all his might as the fire lights his veins, converging at a single point on his forearm, burning.
Running a hand through his hair in sheer frustration, the hunter curses under his breath one more time and flounces out into the hollow corridors of the bunker, a hand left with a cooling dampness.
Dean makes his way back to his room, changes his pajamas back to jeans and some jacket, and not wasting any more time grabs Cas’ phone from where he left it, hidden in the drawer of the nightstand. If Cas wants it to be this way then so be it.
With no hesitation this time around, Dean unlocks the phone, doesn’t even spare a second for these goddamn wallpapers, and opens the contact list. He scrolls down until he reaches ‘Hannah’.
MESSAGES
You: we need to meet up. it’s urgent.
You: Rd 800 & Rd, Red Cloud, NE 68970, Dane Church
Hannah: I can be there in an hour or so. Will you explain what’s going on?
The answer comes when Dean is already back in the garage, setting Baby’s engine once again to purring. He doesn’t answer, only turns the key in the ignition and reverses out of the parking spot.
It took him less than forty minutes to get to his destination. The plain field of fresh May grass with a single dirty-white building in the middle of it and just about a dozen granite graves feels like the definition of ‘the middle of nowhere’. Cloudy sky and darkness of a deep night ensure the silence that will cover everything.
Dean parked the Impala behind the farther walls of the Church so a newcomer car would not see it right away. He blankly stares out of the windshield for a second, then opens the glove compartment, rummages through it, and tugs out the small first aid kit box. Taking out a tiny bottle, Dean holds it out before his eyes and a dusky gleam of the Impala's interior light, shaking it once to try and see through the dark amber glass. It's almost empty. Perfect.
Throwing the kit back to its place and shutting the compartment with a bit more strength than necessary, Dean opens the door and gets out of the car. He strides towards the church, unscrewing the little cap and pouring the leftovers out of the bottle, then stuffing it in his jacket pocket.
The church's doors are locked but that has never been a problem for him. An old plank creaks under his weight as Dean steps in, the bunch of still-lit candles on the altar instantly catching his eye. What a stupid thing to do, to just leave them there like that.
With at first careful footfalls, the man starts walking down the rows of wooden benches, turning his head around, and taking in all the cheap and tattered interior of the sanctuary, with just one source of light in the middle of it. So much like his own life.
Reaching the front rows, he kicks the corner of a folded carpet in frustration, stumbling on his way and watching at the high. The irony of it all makes him laugh quietly, if not a bit hysterically. He shifts his gaze back to the altar then—an old but so well-kept icon is in its middle.
Dean walks up right in front of it, “God, my ass… Not even your own angels believe in you anymore,” he starts muttering under his breath like a curse.
Once he starts speaking, the words keep falling from his lips in a waterfall of pent-up offence and disgrace, all that he was holding back for years, “And now I'm on your holy land…” Dean says, and his voice drops into bitter mockery. “What, should I pray to you, huh? Put a sacrifice on your altar? Would it make you care?”
A bit of silence passes as the hunter stares at the slowly extinguishing candles, melted wax has formed small hills at their bottom. His voice breaks in a barely-there tremble, “The man I love is dying. And oh I have to make a sacrifice now.”
Some sort of uneasy chuckle, a titter, bursts out from the depths of his chest, his tone rises to a sharp edge, “So should I ask for help, or beg you for forgiveness?”
A loud creak of the prising door announced a newcomer and made Dean look over his shoulder straight into the dark, intact by muted light.
“Castiel?” a male voice comes out. This little mismatch makes Dean squint into the gloom, trying to see the face of a person he knew has been a woman before. Instead, a shorter man of Middle Eastern appearance walked out of the shadows.
“You Hannah?” Dean asks, taking a couple of tentative steps closer.
“Dean Winchester,” the angel straightens up, his presence adopts a previously absent caution. “Yes, I am.”
“What happened to the old vessel?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, I suppose not,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets.
“Where’s Castiel?” the other man asks, still eyeing Dean suspiciously. Yeah, it seems Hannah has not forgotten about the last time they saw each other. Well, Dean’s not a fan of her either.
“Yeah, see, that’s what I wanted to talk about,” the hunter continues, beginning to close the distance between them again. Inside the pocket, he holds a tiny bottle in a tight fist. “Cas is about to die and I need your help.”
The angel’s expression shifts into worry with these words and he asks, “What can I do?”
Despite the lump in his throat, Dean speaks, “I need your grace.”
It seems the words take time to register, Hannah’s face gradually goes through several shades of emotion, from blank to confusion to realisation. It was the first mistake.
The second mistake was not to take the weapon out fast enough.
Dean pulls both hands out of his pockets and with a quick sharp motion, an angel blade falls into his palm from his sleeve, just like Cas had shown him, and the next second a rapid slash cuts through the angel’s stomach. A dull thud of knees hitting the carpet-covered wood fills the space as Dean causes yet another angel to fall.
The white light mixed with blood pours out of the wound that the other man tries to cover with his arms. Alarmed, he looks up at Dean but the hunter doesn’t hesitate and grabs in his free hand a fistful of short hair, hitting the man's face against his knee once. Disorientated, the angel doesn’t resist when Dean tugs his hair, opening his neck. He slits a side of Hannah’s throat and pulls the bottle out of the pocket, letting a tender glimmer of grace fill the glass container, then screws the lid back on tightly. Dean pushes the angel to the ground.
Then he leaves and the candle stubs go out.
~
Breathing felt more and more like a redundant act.
Curled up, with his hands folded under his head, Castiel was lying on his side, fighting the sleepiness that was becoming more weightening with each passing minute. Though, he knew it was not slumber calling after him.
Maybe it’s weird to fight it now, but the possibility of going away without seeing Dean again, leaving things with him so sour, frightens the angel more than he ever thought it would.
He doesn’t have much power in him anymore, even the parts of his true form, eaten by the rotting grace, have stopped hurting. He just feels empty.
Castiel doesn’t notice it but his breath falls in hollow rasps.
The door bursts open and Cas isn’t conscious enough now to actually perceive what is happening fully, but he does understand the anxious urgency painted on Dean’s face and a small bottle that he forces to the angel’s mouth. Every instinct tells him to push the thing away and he does, as much as he can—with weak, uncoordinated hands swatting Dean's own away. Castiel mumbles barely comprehensible ‘no’s and turns his head away, but the power distribution is so wrong now—he can’t withstand it.
Dean says something too, but Castiel can’t understand him as the hunter pins down his head with a single hand on the angel’s forehead, pouring the bottle’s content down his throat.
His entire body feels like it was lit on fire with a hot familiar power filling voided gaps. The air infuses his lungs as he gasps for a deep inhale, he coughs and his eyes snap wide open. Pushing himself up hastily, the angel gropes his chest and throat, a horrified, bewildered gaze flying up to the hunter.
With his voice rough and hoarse, with underlying fury, he asks, “What have you done?”