Chapter Text
~1861~
The day was straddling the line between spring and winter, sunshine warm and bright while a cool wind brought a chill that snuck into any gap it could find. An especially icy blast slithers down Dean Winchester’s collar as he steps out onto the front porch to face the “guests” come to see him.
“You’re just in time, Azazel,” Dean greets his neighbor as the man pulls up just shy of the porch railings, flanked by his son and daughter. “I’ve just finished up baking a pie with the last of my store of apples.”
“Mighty kind of you, Winchester,” Azazel replies. “But we both know I’m not here for a social call.” Casually, he unholsters a gun and uses the barrel to push the brim of his hat up.
In the normal scheme of things, Dean would be small beans and hardly worth the effort of intimidating off of his modest homestead. There was plenty of land around, even for someone as greedy as Azazel. Except that Dean was not built to step aside and keep his head down. He’s been trouble for Azazel ever since he arrived in town. Stepping in and helping other folks, getting involved in fights that had nothing to do with him, that's the way he was built.
Now Azazel has come to take care of the problem, once and for all.
The door behind Dean opens with a soft creak; the sound of a pair of boots stepping onto the porch fills the silence. He does his best not to tense, not to betray any sign that it matters to him that Dr. Castiel Novak has just stepped into harm’s way.
Dammit, Cas. Dean had told him to go, soon as he had spotted the horses coming up the path. Figures that the man wouldn’t listen for once in his life. Dean didn’t exactly have a solid plan for surviving this, and his odds just dropped exponentially now he has to worry about Cas as well.
“Doc Novak,” Azazel greets the new arrival. “Winchester, here, has been giving me a lot of problems. I’m sure you’ve patched him up enough to notice. I would have been perfectly happy watching his back disappear over the horizon. Before. Now? Now, I want there to be pain.” He holds up the gun for Dean and Cas to see. “I’ve had the hoodoo put on this here Colt. Been told that whoever dies by it, their soul will suffer eternal torment. Lovely thought, isn’t it? I’ve no intention of finding out the truth of that myself, but it will make me happy imagining Winchester in that position.”
Cas clamps his hand on Dean’s shoulder, as if by doing so he could keep Dean safe from such a threat.
There is no more time for thought. Azazel acts with seeming indifference, taking aim and firing straight at Dean’s heart. Cas shouts something, Dean’s pulse thundering too loudly to hear what. Dean is shoved out of the way, his palms stinging as they slap against the weathered boards of the porch.
Dean scrambles to his knees. “Cas? Cas!”
“Dean?” Cas is sprawled on the porch next to Dean, looking dazed and unfocused. Dean pats his hands all over Cas, looking for blood, for injury. Azazel and his children fade from awareness, forgotten.
No blood. No blood. Dean feels a spark of hope. Then… a wisp of light rises from Castiel’s chest. The blue of his eyes begins to glow, brighter and brighter. Dean refuses to look away. “Cas…” His voice cracks.
“Dean.” With surprising strength, Cas reaches for Dean’s hand, clasps it in his own. “Dean. I love you.”
The threads of light twist together and hover for a moment over Castiel’s chest. As Dean watches with a mix of awe and sorrow, the glow speeds back along the path the bullet had taken moments ago. The Colt flares blue as the light seeps into the engravings. The cold shock of it causes Azazel to drop the gun, the light fading to nothing as the weapon hits the dirt with a soft thud. Azazel turns his horse and rides off, leaving Dean alone in his misery.
~Present Day~
Dean flails awake, confused and panicked. His living room is dark, the only light coming from his television. He blinks a few times, but that doesn’t clear his blurry vision. He reaches up to rub his eyes and finds them wet with tears.
He has never had such a visceral dream before. His pulse is still pounding wildly, and it feels like his chest has been cracked in two from grief. This felt like more than a dream. This felt like he was there .
Tipping himself out of his recliner, Dean stumbles his way to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. He’s been on a Clint Eastwood kick lately. Now that his vision isn’t blurred by tears (embarrassing) he can see that The Good, The Bad and The Ugly is still playing.
Right. Right. That would explain the western themed dream. He takes his water, turns off the TV, and heads to bed. He’s good at pushing down grief, at ignoring it. How hard can it be to forget some dude conjured out of his own imagination?