Chapter Text
It took him three hours to convince Sam that he’s capable of going out by himself
“Sammy, it’s a grub-run. I promise, I won’t kill the pimply faced teenager at the drive-thru.”
“Just let me go with you!”
“Sam! I swear to god, I just need to get out and get some fresh air, and you breathing down my neck the whole time won’t help a damn thing!”
Sam relented. He let his brother go but Dean’s phone pinged with a new text every five minutes as a consequence. An hour. He just needed an hour.
The gas station is nearly empty except for one other guy mixing half a gallon of creamer with his day-old coffee. Dean walks over to the freezer cases, looking for a decent case of beer. He wants something a bit better than the cheap piss-water Sam always buys. He might not have much time left, might as well drink like it. He scans the selection, completely underwhelmed by the choices. He backs up and looks around, hoping the other cases might have something that will redeem this place. No, just some frozen meals and milk.
One of the cartons is cracked. There’s a pool of white collecting on the floor.
Dean wonders for a moment why shards of glass aren’t glinting around it. Why he doesn’t hear the numbers being called from across the room.
“Excuse me …” The man with the coffee is attempting to push past Dean to one of the freezers.
He snaps back to reality, nodding and moving out of the guy’s way. In another moment, he has a case of beer in hand and is heading for the cash register.
That damn story.
***
There isn’t a place on this earth that will ever feel more like home. The worn leather of her seats hug him tight. His baby welcomes him—not caring about the mark or all that he’s done. She loves him unconditionally. He nestles in, leaning his head back as he chews on the last bite of his burger. It’s easier in here. He can drive away if he wants to. He can go towards something if he wants to. In here, he has choices, and the only one he’ll ever let down is himself. He hums as he swallows his food—trying to ignore the hunger that’s still writhing inside him. The sound vibrates his ears and fills the cab up with an ease that he’s been missing for some time. He hums again—longer, slower, letting his mind wander back to the gas station, the milk, the story. He would have liked to own a motor cycle. His thoughts drift with the noise thrumming from his throat. Hell, racing them sounds like it would be a crap load of fun. He would probably be good at it too. Dean thinks about Sammy coming out to watch him race—he would still have Jessica around of course. If he were care free enough to race motorcycles, well, there probably wouldn’t be monsters in the world. Cas could come and watch too—if he wanted. He would probably be confused by the whole idea: strapping yourself onto a hot engine just to whirl around a track at deadly speeds. His Cas wouldn’t understand that, but he’d be happy to see him try. Dean would have loved to be able to share those moments with the guy and his brother. Hell, he would just like to be able to love and care for someone like the fictional-him did. He’s too selfish for that though. He’s too dependent to let any of them go.
Wise men say …
The tune carries in his head. The words mock him. He’s not wise, neither was his father. He was never told not to rush into love, just not to love all together. Loving someone would get them killed.
Take my hand …
Has he ever really held anyone’s hand? Anyone who wasn’t dying? Even the fictional-him couldn’t manage … only gripping tightly to Cas when it was too late. He was such a fucking, idiot. He wasted so much time.
Take my whole life too …
That’s all he has left to give at this point … and that’s not worth anything. God! He’s wasted all his life, saving his own ass—depending on his brother, making Cas fall … and all for what? To make them feel guilty when he fucks up for the final time? Making them have to take him out once and for all?
Like the river flows surely to the sea, darling so it goes, some things, are meant to be …
What was his life meant to be? Who was meant to gain from it? Anyone? No …
He feels his eyes burn, and even now, alone in the only safe place he knows, he chokes back the tears. He can’t cry. He doesn’t deserve it. He would only be doing it over himself anyway. Fuck! What’s wrong with him? He can’t stop this self-absorbed pity—when there’s Sammy to think about, when there’s Cas and his fading grace. Cas is dying! Dean straightens his body, choking on the spit that’s pooling in his mouth. Cas is dying. He knew that, but he feels like it’s only just sinking in. Cas's grace is borrowed… or stolen, however you want to look at it; but it won’t last. If he doesn’t get his own back, he’ll die. He’ll actually die! And if Dean dies, or loses himself to the mark, the angel won’t have a charge anymore. There'll be no reason for God or, whoever, to bring him back again. Cas is actually dying!
The tears fall. Dean feels himself break like water on rocks. He can see him now—really imagine him, weak and withering, gurgling on his last breaths. What would he do? What would he do to ease his pain? There is no song he could sing to him. There isn’t any film he could play … does he even have any pictures of Cas? He doesn’t have anything to share with him—nothing, even the mark on his shoulder is gone! Dean buckles in the middle, lurching forward to pound the steering wheel. His forehead presses into the backs of his hands, and he chokes. He spits out words that mean nothing. Nothing—just like him. Cas is dying and he has given him nothing. He’s ripped his wings away, pushed him out into the cold—called him childish and then turned his back. He turned his back on the one person who brought him out of hell. He saved Sammy for him, he’s done everything—given everything, and Dean doesn’t even have a picture. He doesn’t even have a song.
“Dean?”
Dean jumps, jolting back in his seat and pressing against the door. Castiel is staring at him from the passenger side, his eyes curling with the sight of his friend’s tears.
“Are you alright? I heard you praying …”
Dean can only shake his head and turn away, trying to hide his smeared face.
“You weren’t praying?”
Dean huffs and shakes his head again, still jolting from his run away breath.
“But …” Castiel sounds confused, and he probably is. Dean is confused too and horribly uncomfortable that the guy is seeing him like this.
“I’m f-fine Cas.” Dean chokes, “You can go.”
Castiel is still, and Dean feels his weight pulling down the Impala’s suspension—he knows the angel isn’t going to leave.
“Dean … you’re upset.”
Dean feels the words inch into him like worms in rotted fruit, digging away and forcing out more hurt, more disgust, and he feels more tears squirm from his squinted eyes.
“Is this because … because of what happened the other night with Claire’s attackers?”
Dean breathes in, low and rattled. He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t move. Cas is so quiet, it almost makes him look over to see if he’s still there.
“No … this is something else, isn’t it?” the angel whispers, narrowing his eyes.
Dean only stares out the window; the outside looks blurred and unfamiliar.
“It couldn’t be Sam. You would say if something were wrong with him …”
The angel continues with his deduction, and Dean finds he’s calming with the sound of his friend’s voice. It’s melodic and peaceful, like water … like a river.
“You don’t cry often. It has to be something serious for you to be so upset, but if it’s not Sam and it’s not the mark …” Castiel strains with his thoughts.
Dean finally feels him move, shaking the cab a bit as he readjusts, as if he can fidget into Dean’s brain and pull out the roots of the problem.
“Dean, tell me what’s troubling you.”
He can’t. He just can’t.
“Dean?”
He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to stop these damn tears, but they won’t go away. He’s too far gone.
He listens to Cas sigh. He sounds heavy, like he’s tired; but he shouldn’t be … not unless his grace is wearing thin. Is it already happening? Is he running out of time?
“Dean, shall I stay?”
“Fuck!” he barks out in a sob. Castiel flinches as Dean breaks down again. “I’m so sorry, Cas!”
The angel reaches out to him, laying his hand on Dean’s shoulder as he shakes and cries. He doesn’t speak—maybe he doesn’t know what to say; but most likely, he knows Dean just needs him to be there.
“I don’t have anything … I don’t have anything to give you …” he spits between spasms, and he feels the angel’s fingers grip him tighter. “I don’t have anything!”
Castiel slides across the seat, closer to his side until Dean can feel the warmth from his body, sneak across the remaining gap between them. “You don’t need to give me anything, Dean.”
“But you’re dying!” Dean yelps, finally turning to look at the large blue eyes, much closer now than they were a moment ago. He takes in Castiel’s face … it isn’t withered and the grip on his shoulder isn’t weak—but, there’s a dimness swimming in and out of the waters that wash him over, confirming Dean’s fears. His angel is fading away.
Castiel softens, smiling a little while staring at the man. “Not yet.”
Dean blurts out an annoyed laugh, rolling his soggy eyes and shaking his head. “Yet? Do you hear how fucked up that is? You shouldn’t be dying at all! You should be in heaven! I shouldn’t have made you … I shouldn’t have—” Dean chokes.
“My not being in heaven is not your doing. You know that.”
Dean knows that others were involved, but it is mostly his fault.
“This … all this can’t be about me. What is really going on?”
Dean shoots a watery glance to the angel at his right, feeling his jaw slack a bit. “Of course this is about you!”
It’s Castiel’s turn to gape. “I—I don’t understand.”
“You’re dying, Cas … I can be upset that you’re dying! You mean enough for me to be pissed off about that!”
The angel doesn’t blink; he only cocks his head to the side and leans in closer to the man—trying to find some comprehension in Dean’s eyes. “So … you are crying over me?”
“Fuck! Cas, yes! Okay! You happy? I’m crying like a god, damn baby over you! I’m sad because your grace is about to crap out and not only can I not do shit about it, but I’m so fucked up, you have to worry about me instead of yourself! Instead of Claire or heaven—I’m fucking balling my eyes out because I’m screwing you over right and left! And you’re so, damn, good … you just let me!”
“I don’t let you do anything Dean. I want to help you. That is my choice.”
“Fuck choice!” Dean punches the steering wheel again with heel of his hand. “You’re still dying! You’re dying and I can’t even give you anything to make you feel better!”
“Why would you give—”
“Because that’s what people do, Cas! That’s what friends do when one of them is fucking losing everything! They help and they give each other things to try and make it easier!”
“How would that help?”
Dean stares up at the roof of his car, searching for the words that will make sense to this clueless, angel.
“I don’t understand what you could give me that would make passing easier, unless you had my original grace—but of course, I wouldn’t be dying then.”
Dean sighs, slumping into his seat, feeling drained and exhausted from the conversation, from the tears, from the lack of sleep—everything. “Never mind, Cas.”
“I’m sorry, Dean … I just don’t know what you could give me that would lessen my death.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It obviously does if it’s causing you this much torment.”
“I said, never mind!”
Cas presses in. “Dean?”
“I don’t know, Cas! I don’t know what I’d give you! That’s the whole fucking point! I can’t give you anything because all I’ve done is take, take, take!” Dean booms, busting through the lump in his throat, replacing it with anger and bile. “And then I lost everything! I lost it all! So I can’t give you anything but more crap to clean up when I’m gone! I got nothing!”
“I don’t want anything from you, Dean. You have already given me so much … I wish you understood that.”
Dean turns and looks at his friend, hoping to see sarcasm strewn about his expression, but of course, the angel is serious. “If you think I’ve actually been good for you, then I’m sorry for that most of all.”
A silence settles over the cab and they sit there a moment—trying to sort through the words that hang between them, but Dean can tell that Cas is uneasy. The guy won’t relax until he understands this a hundred percent. Dean thinks they might be here until they both keel over.
“Can I ask … what started all this?” Cas shifts again against the leather and Dean eases at the familiar sound of his coat, rustling beside him. “Surely, you have more pressing matters than my eventual demise.”
“Cas …” Dean slides further, until his neck is crooked against the seatback. “You really need to realize that you are a pressing matter to me.”
Castiel turns and slumps a little in his seat as well, leaving them both looking deflated and tired. If Dean wasn’t still so angry with himself, he might have laughed. But instead—he stays still, stewing more in his own self-pity.
He listens to the angel breathe, thanking anything divine that it doesn’t sound gargled or raspy—it’s clear.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?” he sighs, finally gaining some composure over himself.
“What would you give me … if you could?”
Dean turns and looks at his friend. His blue eyes stare ahead, dancing back and forth a little, exposing his own nerves with the question. Dean can’t help but laugh.
“I don’t know, man” he finally says, settling back into place. He joins the angel in staring out the windshield.
Cas sinks beside him and Dean instantly feels guilty.
“I—I wouldn’t know what to get you, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, maybe? Or a burger.”
Cas smiles and Dean grins as he hears the content, little puff of air escape the guy’s nose.
“I do like burgers, when I can taste them.”
“Yeah …”
“What else?”
Dean laughs, “Now we’re just getting greedy!” Castiel blushes and tosses him a quick glance. He sighs and thinks for another moment, understanding that his friend really does want to know. “Maybe a cat … or something with bees on it.”
“A beehive, perhaps?”
“What the hell is a dying angel going to do with a beehive?” Dean chuckles, looking over at his friend, wondering how long it’s been since he saw the guy genuinely, grin.
“What would I do with a cat?”
“It’s more cuddly than a beehive.”
“True.”
Castiel sits up once more, obviously enjoying the ease that rests between them now. As he straightens out, Dean feels hidden in his shadow, allowing his shell to finally crack … he lets himself be raw and exposed, just for a moment, just this once. They’re two dying friends in the safest place on earth. What does he have to lose?
“I’d sing you a song.”
Castiel locks up and Dean feels him gazing down at the top of his head, but he doesn’t move.
Dean holds onto the bravery that made him say it—it might be the only thing he can actually give away—something he wasn’t even aware he had.
“What … what song would you sing?”
Dean laughs, knowing that might be the first question the angel asked. He reaches over, still resting low in the seat, and lays his hand on top of Castiel’s.
“You’ve heard of Elvis, right?”