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Dean huffed out a breath, looking up at the sky in awe. “Angels,” he choked out to his younger brother. “They’re falling.” No, no, no. This couldn’t be right. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen! Streaks of gold were being painted across the sky, leaving wisps of smoke in their wake. The angels weren’t just falling—they were burning. “Cas,” Dean breathed from in between clenched teeth, and for a moment, he forgot about his dying brother lying on the ground. If Cas fell—if Cas died—no, Winchester, don’t think that. You can’t afford to lose him again.
He looked down at Sam, and silently chastised himself. He wasn’t allowed to worry about that right now. He needed to worry about his brother. “Come on, Sam,” he murmured, linking an arm under Sam’s armpits and half-dragging him into the passenger side of the Impala. Sam was still staring up at the sky in wonder, his eyes red and watering.
“Dean,” Sam coughed, his voice hoarse-sounding and weak. “What about Cas?”
Goddammit. Did this kid ever think of himself? “He’ll be fine, Sammy,” Dean promised, despite the fact that he had no idea if he would be or not.
“Is he gonna be okay?”
Had this thing—these trials—reverted him back to the nagging twelve-year-old he’d once been? Jesus. “I don’t know, Sam,” Dean answered truthfully, helping his little brother into the Impala. “We can worry about that later, alright? Just… worry about yourself for now, okay?”
Sam wet his lips. “Yeah,” he near-whispered. “Okay.”
Dean ran around to his door and flung it open, throwing himself into the seat and slamming his key into the ignition. Before Sam could forewarn him to be careful, they were speeding off, tires squealing and rubber burning as they all but ran away with their tails tucked between their legs.
It wasn’t until the next morning, after Dean had gotten Sam into the bunker, after he’d gotten Sam’s vitals stable, after he explained to Kevin the situation, that Dean remembered the little nuisance back at the warehouse. “Crowley,” he groaned, glancing over at Sam. He was sleeping. Maybe if he hurried, he’d be able to leave and be back before Sam woke up. It was a long shot, but he couldn’t just leave the demon-gone-human in that place.
He left with a huff, arriving to the warehouse a mere ten minutes after he’d embarked on his journey, and slamming the doors open hastily.
“Squirrel!” he heard a scratchy voice yell. “You came back for me!”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, don’t get your hopes up,” he remarked. “I only came back to make sure the wrong person didn’t find you and set you free.”
When he looked over to Crowley, the demon was grinning at him weakly. “The point is that you came back, though, yeah?”
“Whatever.” Dean took a few swift steps forward, warning Crowley as he did so. “If you so as make one move to harm anything—and I mean anything, be it a fly or a goddamned blade of grass, I will not hesitate to kill you.”
Crowley laughed, and it was a short, pathetic thing. It almost made Dean feel bad for him. “I wouldn’t put it behind you, Squirrel.” Then, looking up as if making a revelation, asked, “Where’s your Moose?”
“Home, sick,” Dean responded gruffly, cutting the ropes that were binding Crowley to the chair he was sitting in. “Now come on. And you better not say anything to Kevin. I wouldn’t doubt he’d kill you without motivation. Not that you haven’t given him enough already.”
Crowley made an offended sound in the back of his throat as he rose on shaky legs, but made no other comment. Dean dragged him out to the Impala and threw him not-so-gently into the backseat, making his way around to the front. In ten more minutes, he was back at the bunker, and as he pulled Crowley in by his binds, he heard someone shuffling around in the kitchen. He dragged Crowley down to the dungeon and chained him up, murmuring, “If you’re good, maybe we’ll let you out,” as he walked back up the stairs into the kitchen.
“Kevin?” he asked, but as he rounded the corner, he saw it was actually Sam. “Sam, what the hell? Why aren’t you in bed?”
“You don’t have to coddle me,” Sam rasped, hacking immediately afterwards.
Dean rolled his eyes—second time in ten minutes. “I’m not coddling you, you dipshit. I’m trying to make sure you don’t kill yourself!”
“I have no intention of killing myself, Dean.”
And, God, it sounded so much like something Cas would say that Dean’s breath hitched in his throat. He paused for a moment, looking down and clearing his throat, before quietly saying, “I know that, Sam. I’d just appreciate if I didn’t have to clean up the shit mess we made on my own.”
“You mean this shit mess I’ve made.”
Dean’s gaze snapped back to Sam’s face, and his eyes burned holes in Sam’s. “What the fuck, Sam? You don’t get to take all the credit for this one—no matter how much you want to. I have no idea what the hell happened, but I’m sure as fuck that you did not do it on your own.”
Sam took a deep breath and let it out through his lips, like he was taking a drag off a cigarette. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, and then shook his head. “Whatever, Dean. I’m gonna go back to bed.”
“Damn straight.”
After Sam left the kitchen, Dean went straight for the cabinet, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and taking a long pull from it before heading to his room. He downed the whole bottle within a couple of hours, and then, at three in the afternoon, he lay drunk on his bed, contemplating where Cas was. If Cas was.
*
It was like that for several days. Dean would make sure Sam was okay, check on Crowley (and eventually let him out) and see little to no Kevin. God knew where he was. Although, when he found Crowley in the dungeon, everyone in the entire state of Kansas knew where he was.
“What the fuck?” he had yelled—near-screamed. “Who sanely let this bastard in here? Dean? WHAT THE FUCK?!”
Dean had clambered down the stairs, almost tripping—he’d already consumed enough alcohol for two, explaining to Kevin in a slurred voice, “I couldn’t just leave him in that warehouse! What if someone found him and let him go? And I couldn’t just let him die.”
“Why not? My mom and my girlfriend are dead because of this son of a bitch!”
“Kevin, I know that. And I can promise you, if he does one thing out of line, you’ll be the first to know. I’ll personally letcha kill ‘im. Just—for now—leave ‘im alone, wouldja?”
Kevin clenched his teeth and narrowed his eyes, but nodded (jerkily, but nodded nonetheless), stomping back up the stairs. It was a multitude of days after that that Dean could convince Kevin to let Crowley out of the dungeon.
Sam was slowly getting better, and as Sam progressed, Dean got worse. He drank more, ate less. “Accidentally” broke things more often, slept virtually never. Everyone noticed, but no one said anything. Not even Sam, who was usually the first to open his mouth and drag Dean into emotional conversations he’d been avoiding like the plague.
He just didn’t know what to say. Was Dean grieving Cas? They’d gotten no word from him in the month since The Fall, so it was only logical to presume that he had…perished. Dean seemed to have had made that connection before anyone else.
Sometimes, Sam would peek in on him when he was quiet, only to see him staring at the wall, chugging alcohol like there was no tomorrow. Sometimes, he would hear numerous crashes coming from the library, and would make his way there, only to see Dean throwing things. Everything he could get his hands on—it was being flung across the room. Sam never stopped him when he found him during fits like these, just assuming he would only make it worse.
Sometimes, Sam would be walking down the hallway, or making his way into the kitchen, and he would spot Dean, frozen to the spot (almost as if someone had pressed pause on him), with his right hand pressed firmly into his left biceps. Sam never got to see Dean’s face in these instances, but he could only imagine the state of it—considering nearly every time Sam caught him in this position, he’s almost-imperceptibly trembling.
Sam didn’t know how to help. He wanted to—he wanted his brother to be better, to be himself again—but he just didn’t know how. He snuck up on him once in the kitchen, where Dean was grabbing a bottle of liquor, quietly calling attention to himself by clearing his throat.
Dean stiffened, but didn’t turn around.
“Dean?”
And then Dean let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping in resignation and the bottle of liquor slamming onto the counter. Because Dean knew that voice. It was Sam’s We’re-About-to-Talk-About-Something-You’ve-Been-Deliberately-Ignoring voice. Dean was not a fan of this voice.
Dean turned, and Sam had to suppress a gasp at his brother’s features. His skin was sallow, his cheekbones too prominent, the bruises under his eyes dark and heavy, his hair wild—he’d obviously ran his hand through it one too many times, and as Sam’s eyes flickered down to examine the rest of his brother’s crumbling body, saw scabs over his knuckles. What had he been punching?
“What is it, Sam?” he asked in a tired voice—one that sounded as if he had been screaming for hours on end.
Sam knew he was making the sympathetic face that pissed the hell out of Dean, but he couldn’t make it stop. “Dean,” he began gently, and Dean was shaking his head before Sam could even get any more words out of his mouth.
“No, Sam, I’m not gonna.”
“You aren’t going to what?”
“Have a goddamned pity party, okay?”
“But, Dean, we need to talk.”
Dean laughed, and it was hollow. Sam had to repress a shiver. “About what?”
“Cas,” Sam answered simply, refusing to dance around the subject.
Dean flinched, and then stated, “No. Not happening. You think I’m just gonna release all my inner demons in one tear-filled speech about my manpain? It’s not going to happen, Sam. Just let it go and leave me be.”
“But, Dean—”
“Goddammit, Sam, no!” Dean shouted, and Sam flinched back a little. Then he was yelling right back.
“Look at yourself, Dean! You’re tearing yourself apart! You’re crumbling, and pretty soon, there’s not going to be anything left!”
An angry glint shone in Dean’s eyes, and then he took a step forward, growling, “Good.”
Sam’s eyes grew wide, and he took a step back. “You don’t mean that, Dean.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head before responding, “You don’t even know, Sam. You have no fucking clue how much I really do.”
Taking the silence as an opportunity, he slipped past Sam, making his way back to his room. Turning and yelling after him, Sam tried desperately to hold back his obnoxious tears. “He’s gone, Dean! Killing yourself won’t bring him back!”
Dean flinched violently, took a deep breath, and kept walking. Only after looking back at the counter did Sam realize Dean had forgotten the liquor.
*
Every mirror in Dean’s room was broken—thanks to his fists. Granted, he didn’t have that many mirrors in his room, but what he had had was now destroyed beyond repair. Dean lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, or the wall, or the little box containing inky black feathers on his nightstand.
It was all he had left of Cas. He didn’t even have that godforsaken trench coat. Three fucking feathers that were graying every day. Fuck.
“Cas, um,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “I know. I know it’s dumb as fuck to be praying to you because… Because there’s no way in Hell you can hear me.” He paused, taking a deep breath and gathering his thoughts. “I just want you to know that I’m sorry. I know you would think I’m wasting my goddamn life away like this. But the point is, I just… I don’t want to live.” Dean swallowed. “It’s like—and God forgive me for how gay this is going to sound, but—it’s like when you’re not here, everything’s a little bit grayer. Nothing is really worth doing if you’re not going to be there with some bullshit comment to make, or not understanding the reference, and, God, Cas, I… I miss you.
“I miss you so fucking much and now I’m really starting to regret some of the crap I never said to you because I was too much of a chickenshit. I never got to tell you how much I missed you. When you were in Purgatory and I wasn’t—it… it felt wrong to even breathe the air when I was on Earth and you were in that goddamned place. Every breath felt like a mistake.
“And then I started to see you. In dreams, on the side of the road, everywhere. I was beginning to think that I was going crazy, but, that, maybe… Maybe it wouldn’t really matter if I was insane, because at least you’d be there. Then you came back, and you cleaned up, and, fuck, I never really told you how hot you looked after you’d cleaned up, did I? Fucking tragedy. Had to hide my godforsaken boner in front of Sammy.” Dean paused for a moment, chuckling wistfully. Then, sighing, “And then you told me. You… you told me that you thought you might kill yourself. And I didn’t see you for a long time after that.
“Sammy doesn’t know how wrecked I was for that time. Didn’t really let it show, you know? I thought you were dead, Cas. I really did. But I held myself together, because, you know, you were known to disappear from time to time. But when I saw you again, you—you weren’t the same. You weren’t my Cas.” Absently, Dean wondered if it was selfish to claim Cas as his own—only coming to the conclusion that it didn’t matter. Because Cas was his. And Dean would have been Cas’, if he’d let him be. “Then,” Dean gasped out, laughing a little hysterically, “then. The goddamned crypt.
“You beat the shit out of me, Cas. I mean, you’ve beaten the shit out of me before, but not like this. Not with… Not with the intent to kill. I knew you weren’t you. You wouldn’t have done that to me, would you, Cas?” Dean paused, as if waiting for confirmation, then continued. “I meant every word, by the way. Me and Sammy do need you. We are family, and I never wanted to lose you. But I, specifically, need you, Cas. Please believe me when I say that. Please.
“I don’t care what happened, okay? I—I won’t be mad at you, I swear to God. Just please. Please come back. How many times am I going to have to say it before you finally get it, man?” Dean waited a moment, bathing in the silence before saying clearly, making sure to pronounce each syllable, “I. Need. You.
“You got that, you bastard? I need you! I don’t think I’m ever going to stop needing you, so would you please just pull yourself out of whatever shadow you’re hiding in and come back?” Dean sighed.
“A-fucking-men.”
*
Dean jolted awake, having fallen asleep unexpectedly, and sat up in bed. Something was pulling at him, nearly tugging him by the arm up and out of the room. He stood, swaying on his feet, and stumbled to the door, swinging it open and staggering down the hall to the front door.
It was late—everyone was asleep (even Crowley). He knew if Sam woke up and found him like this, he would most likely be deemed crazy. But it was worth it. It was so worth it if what was behind that door was what he thought it was. Sam already had a long list of things to be worried about him for; might as well add that list, eh?
He reached out and grazed his fingers over the doorknob after unlocking it, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “It could be nothing,” he reminded himself quietly, his fingers gripping the doorknob seemingly without having been told to.
The next thing he knew, he was pulling the door open and staring at a very disheveled, very human Castiel. Dean’s eyes were raking over his face and body before either had a chance to say anything. Cas looked healthy. His eyes were clear, his hair was messy, his skin was tan, he looked strong. He wasn’t wearing any of the clothes Dean was so accustomed to seeing him in, but he did seem to have his trench coat slung over one of his arms.
Cas was in cargo pants, of all things. And while Dean had never expected that to be Cas’ choice of style, he couldn’t deny that seeing him in them only made him want to rip them off his body.
The former angel was the first to speak, sucking in a deep breath and giving Dean sad eyes. “Dean,” he murmured, and his voice was different. Not as gruff. “What did I do to you?” His eyes were currently grazing over Dean’s knuckles, and instinctively, Dean clenched his fists.
Dean wet his lips—which were cracked and busted, and averted his gaze to the ground. Cas took a step forward, into the bunker, and cupped either side of his face with his hands, forcing Dean to look him in the eyes.
“Dean,” he whispered, concern leaking into his tone. “What’s happened to you?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, and even to his own ears, he knew it was bullshit.
“Oh, Dean.” Cas was so quiet. He pressed his nose under Dean’s jaw, and Dean’s arms came around to hold Cas to him.
“Cas,” he finally choked out. “God, Cas, I missed you so much.”
“I know,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry.”
Dean ran his hand up Cas’ back and into his hair, where he curled his fingers into it, lightly tugging Cas’ hair back so it his face was angled up at Dean’s. “Please don’t leave again,” he begged, but before Cas could get a response out, Dean pulled him in for a kiss, slotting their mouths together as best he could trembling.
Cas’ lips were soft, Dean almost melted where he was. He licked into Cas’ mouth, trying to be slow—trying with every fiber of his being to be slow—but Cas would have none of that. Before he knew what was going on, he was being pushed back up against the wall, Cas licking and biting at every opportunity. It was different—goddamn it was different—from kissing anyone he ever had before, but he’d be damned if it wasn’t the best kiss he’d ever had in his life.
When Cas finally pulled back for air, Dean panted, “Fuck. Close the door.” Cas, without even turning, kicked his leg out behind him, caught the door with his foot, and shoved it closed.
“Better?” he asked sarcastically, and Dean almost cried from joy.
“I missed you so much, Cas. Oh my God, I missed you.”
Cas leaned forward and pressed a kiss into the corner of Dean’s mouth, effectively shutting him up. “I know, Dean. I know.”
He grabbed Dean’s hand and pulled him from the wall, leading him down the hall towards Dean’s room. Once they arrived, Dean closed the door, and Cas pounced on him again, pushing him up against the door and kissing him, only this time, more languidly. His tongue searched Dean’s mouth, and Dean was happy to let him explore, more than happy to let him chase whatever taste he couldn’t seem to get enough of. Soon, a thigh was inserted in between his legs, and he groaned into Cas’ mouth.
Cas’ lips traipsed down from Dean’s own to his jaw, and down to his neck, where he began to kiss, bite, and sooth with his tongue. Dean’s hips bucked in a desperate search for friction, and he could feel Cas’ lips curve into a smug smile. “Patience, Dean,” the fallen angel murmured against Dean’s skin.
“Please, Cas,” Dean groaned, and he wasn’t really sure what he was begging for, but he seemed to be doing a pretty convincing job nonetheless.
“Shh,” Cas shushed, and Dean was quiet, only making small noises of pleasure in the back of his throat occasionally.
Cas stripped himself of his own shirt, and then helped Dean out of his own, working his lips down his chest and his abdomen, where he began to worship his hips.
“Please,” Dean whimpered, and he would have been embarrassed had Cas not been an expert with what to do with his tongue.
“Always so impatient,” he whispered as he began to unfasten Dean’s jeans.
*
When Dean woke up and someone was curled around him, lips pressing into the back of his neck, his first instinct was not, surprisingly, to jump up, get his gun, and start shooting. Instead, he pressed back into the lips and hummed in appreciation.
Last night. Holy shit, last night. Dean couldn’t even remember half of it, but he knows that it was completely and utterly mind-blowing, and that any sex with any person any other time will never amount to the way it felt to be with Cas.
“Cas?” he murmured, and he heard a hum of recognition. He was awake. “Where were you?”
Cas stiffened, but almost immediately relaxed afterwards, breathing into Dean’s skin. “I’m not really sure. Many places. But every time I tried to find you, I just felt... lost. I thought that possibly you were searching for me, but I realized that that was selfish, considering you have Sam to take care of.”
“It wasn’t selfish, Cas,” Dean replied quietly. “I just didn’t know where to start looking.”
“Yes. It was most strange, Dean—I know I am no longer an angel. I don’t have my Grace any more. But yet—I still heard you praying.”
Dean’s face was immediately engulfed in flames. He hadn’t meant for that to be heard.
“Your prayer, Dean… It’s what brought me home.” Another kiss is planted at the knob of his spine.
“Home? But, Cas, isn’t Heaven your home? Aren’t you pissed about being kicked out?” Dean turned and looked Cas in the eyes for this.
Cas nodded. “Yes, of course. I was very angry at first. I still am, really. But, it was a few weeks into travelling and still not knowing where I was, that I realized I had never felt more at home than I had the times that I was by your side.” He paused for a moment. “I love Heaven, but I think… I think God made me for this purpose.”
“To be the angel on my shoulder?” Dean asked, barely hiding his disgust. “What the fuck kind of role is that? God made you take care of me?”
“No,” Cas laughed quietly. “God made me to be yours.”