Chapter Text
Dean is only vaguely aware of the light and the noise; of Sam’s muttered curse, and his retreating footsteps. He doesn’t realize he’s dropped to his knees until he feels the fabric of his jeans getting damper and damper with dew.
It’s summer, but Dean thinks he may never be warm again.
He looks up, hoping to see - a falling star, maybe. Or some sign Chuck actually cares. Hell, he’s already prayed to every angel he knows, to Chuck, to Amara; he’s promised stuff he doesn’t have in wordless, broken sentences, but the sky is empty.
No one is coming.
It’s over.
Dean can’t bear to look at Cas, but he can’t move away, either.
He remembers that weekend he spent at his desk, rewinding that stupid tape over and over again so the songs would start at the exact right moment, without silence and scratching between them. He thinks about the look in Cas’ eyes when he’d first turned the thing over in his hands.
“Dean, I don’t,” he’d said, slowly. “I never listen to music. Every song humanity has ever written - I know them. I don’t need tapes to hear them.”
“Yeah, these are not just songs. They’re the best, okay?”
Cas had looked up.
“Led Zeppelin - your favorite band. I know, but I still -”
“Just take it, sunshine.”
Dean had almost spit the word out, dragging the vowels long and poisonous so he could play it off as a joke, because, whatever, Sam wasn’t there and when Sam wasn’t there everything that came out of Dean’s mouth was always two seconds away from being embarrassing and girly and the truth, and he couldn’t help it - because he couldn’t stop himself, he’d known the tape was a stupid idea and he’d done it anyway, and it’s pathetic, really, this need he has - how he simply had to, even in that moment, reach over and touch Cas, pat him on the shoulder, make sure he was -
“Dean.”
Dean doesn’t look up. There’s something in Sam’s voice - more bad news, for sure, and also sadness and worry, and maybe a touch of impatience, like this isn’t the first time Sam’s said his name. And Dean wants to stand up, he really does, but his fingers are closed on the sleeve of Cas’ trench coat and somehow they’re frozen solid and Dean can’t -
Sam sort of hunkers down by his side, much too close - Dean can suddenly feel the entire weight of his brother’s freakish body pressing against his own, a neat, solid line of warmth going all the way from his shoulder to his hip, and this is the moment he’d usually move away because one thing he’s not, okay, he’s not in the mood for talking and sharing and whatever fucked-up thing Sam will go on and on about and -
“We’ll get him back,” Sam says, but there’s no conviction there, and Dean shakes his head.
Again, he sees Cas turn the tape in his hands, sees him thumb Dean’s name on the label. The serious frown on his face, the slight smile tugging at his mouth.
“Where,” Dean says, and then he has to stop and press his free hand on his face because goddammit, he won’t fucking cry.
“Gone,” Sam says. “And he wasn’t a kid, either. He looked around seventeen. Maybe older. White skin, brown hair, golden eyes. Five sevenish.”
Dean should care, but he really doesn’t. If that thing is gone, it means they have no way to bring Cas back, so if he wants to go the fuck ahead and burn the world down - yeah. Let him.
(They don’t even know where angels go after they -
Funny how they never bothered to ask.)
“His wings are whole,” Sam says, after a very long pause, in a tone that’s awe and sadness and something else, and Dean almost flinches, his knuckles very white against Cas’ sleeve.
He breathes. Clears his throat.
“Must be the extra juice.”
“Yeah.”
It’s a long time before either of them speaks again. Dean is staring straight ahead, is trying to keep still so he won’t cry and won’t yell and won’t throw up, but it’s so damn hard - Cas’ pale face swims in and out of focus - it’s right there, out of the corner of his eye, even if Dean won’t look at it, and when Dean’s fingers twitch, his hand brushes against Cas’ wrist and it feels - it feels like a body.
(Solid and cold and fucking hopeless.
Hell, Dean should not be surprised. He’s buried enough people to know what death feels like.)
“We could - stay here for a few days. Wait for,” Sam says in the end, but doesn’t finish his sentence.
Wait for what? The only people who knew about this place are Mom and Crowley, and both of them are -
Yeah.
Dean tries to keep his voice steady (to get it to come out at all).
“No. We need to keep moving. Hunt Lucifer’s kid before he does - before - whatever.”
Sam opens his mouth, closes it.
“Okay.”
He reaches out, then, touches Dean for the first time - clasps his shoulder as he stands up.
“I’ll go check on the car. And, Dean - it’s not over, okay? It’s not.”
Dean barely hears him. Part of him wants to build the pyre right here, and he hates himself for even thinking about that yet, but Cas fucking deserves it, okay, he’s been hunting with them for years now - and another voice in his head, probably Sam’s, because it sounds grown-up and rational and good and everything else Dean is not - is telling him it would make more sense to bring Cas back to the Bunker with them and find some spell to - revive him, or preserve Jimmy’s body, in case - and it doesn’t even matter, in a way, because everything is drowned out by that wave of nausea in the back of his throat - the growing panic, shock turning to realization and then to a violent, almost physical blow, because this is it - because Cas is gone and he’s never coming back.
Because Cas is dead.
Without thinking, Dean pries his fingers loose from the cold fabric of Cas’ sleeve and slides his silver ring off his own finger; then he finds Cas’ hand, almost blindly, recoiling at how heavy and stiff it already is, and forces the small metal band on Cas’ ring finger.
It’s a crappy thing - something Dean picked up somewhere and uses to open beer bottles - but it’s better than nothing.
“I will - listen to it,” Cas had said, with a touch of uncertainty, as if he still didn’t get the need of going through that useless human process - pushing a tape in the slot, turning the buttons on - when he could just - tune in his own mind, or whatever, and listen to everything he wanted directly from there. “If it matters to you.”
“Jesus, it doesn’t - don’t make it into a thing, okay?”
They were still standing way too close, and Dean had always hated that space between them - too wide to be crossed, and too narrow to be disregarded - Cas had been itching to be back on the road, that much was clear, because just look at him, the stupid asshole, thinking everything was on him and he had to fix every single goddamn thing himself and never mind -
Yeah, never mind.
“Did I say something wrong?”
And Dean, Dean had gone out there with some vague notion - he’d never made a mixtape for anyone before, but now everything else was sort of squared away, he’d thought - I love you, Cas had said, and Dean had played and replayed those words in his mind for weeks, because it wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair, because they are no one and nothing and Cas shouldn’t feel they deserve anything, but all the same - he’d desperately wanted to say something back - to tell Cas the fucking truth - that he doesn’t remember a life without him in it, or, yeah, that’s a lie, because he does remember it and it sucked, okay, it sucks, and you’re an idiot if you think I don’t want you here and you’re an idiot if you think you need to do stuff for us, or fix anything, because we love you no matter what and Cas, I -
But Cas is not human, and he doesn’t get it, and that’s not what he wants - not with Dean, not with anyone.
So Dean should back off.
“Nah, it’s okay. Just - long drives, you know? I thought you’d get -”
And the word, lonely, is right there on his tongue, because that was the whole point of that goddamn tape, yeah - Dean just wanted Cas to think about him, and to fucking come back to him; he wanted Cas to know that he’s got a roof and a family, that he’s fucking missed.
It suddenly sounded too much, though.
“- you know.”
It'd been awkward. Dean had made some kind of gesture, had started to walk away.
“Thank you.”
“‘s fine. No big deal,” Dean had said, and he hadn’t looked back, either, because he’d thought - Jesus - he’d assumed there would always be time to look at Cas. That he would simply be brave enough the next time, or the time after that, because Cas would always be there.
(Because Cas had fucking promised him that, and now -)
Sam suddenly says something not far behind him - God, how can he be so goddamn quiet - and Dean shuffles so he’s crouching down, pats Cas’ pockets just for something to do.
“Baby okay? We got enough gas to make it to Dexter?”
“Yeah. But Dean, we don’t have to -”
Dean tunes him out. There’s a rectangular shape in Cas’ chest pocket; he opens the coat, fishes it out.
It’s not the tape, though.
It’s a business cards holder - a small, sorry thing, slightly battered, the metal glittering in the almost light that comes before the dawn.
Dean never knew Cas had one of these. He hesitates only for a second before opening it and leafing through the cards. They’re all from local businesses in Illinois - Jimmy’s stuff, not Cas’.
The need to throw up is almost overwhelming now. He keeps busy, hoping that if he looks normal, his brother will just leave him the fuck alone so Dean can -
“Anything useful?”
Sam is still trying to sound like this is all okay, a temporary setback they’ll laugh about later - something Cas will try to explain in terms they can understand, and of course, when can they ever? Dean never got a word of those conversations between him and Sam - theology, physics, quantum fuckery - nah, he was always just happy to drink them in, his brother and his - his brother and Cas, okay, safe and happy, their eyes shining with beer, glittering with focused curiosity and the need to understand and force the world to make sense.
Dean had hoped Mom would find her place around that table as well, that their evenings would become -
“Wait, are those Jimmy’s?”
Sam bends down, puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean sort of wakes up, gets to the last card in the holder.
Pike Street Pool, the thin writing reads. The membership, of course, has expired.
He frowns.
“Cas was a runner. Jimmy, I mean.”
“What?”
“I remember him talking about that,” Dean says, and all of a sudden he wants to crush the damn card, because he never gets anything right and he never knows anything about anyone and why do people lie to him, why do they fucking leave all the goddamn -
“Dean -”
“Yeah, we’re leaving. Come on - bring the car around.”
Sam doesn’t move, and Dean looks up at him, only just, only long enough to let his brother know that he’s not breaking, not yet, that he can fucking do this and they don’t need to talk about it, and whatever Sam sees on his face, it’s enough to make him walk away a second time, his bulky silhouette now firmly delineated by the breaking light of day.
Dean watches him for a second, because this is his kid brother, okay, this is Sammy and he’s fine and the rest doesn’t even matter, they’ll walk it off.
He passes a hand on his face, clasps the cardholder shut, pushes it back into Cas’ pocket. His fingers brush against a wallet, and Dean, not really knowing what he’s looking for, takes it out.
It’s not like Cas would mind.
He never understood boundaries, personal space, privacy, no matter how many times Dean tried to explain. He remembers how it was like - to wake up and find the goddamn angel staring down at him, his head tilted to one side, his forehead all scrunched up as if Dean was fascinating as fuck and a problem to be puzzled out and not -
(As if Dean was worth watching over.)
Dean flips the wallet open. There’s money (not much) and two credit cards, both Jimmy’s. Which is weird, okay, because Dean had given the bastard a new one only last month - he doesn’t remember the name, but it sure as fuck wasn’t James Novak.
Somewhere behind him, Baby purrs closer, and Dean relaxes, just a fraction, letting himself drown in the familiar sound.
The day is getting brighter and brighter around him, and it’s almost unfair how beautiful everything is - the lake a quiet, a shimmering mass of blues and whites, and those hills beyond it all green and sleepy. Dean wonders why Cas picked this place, what he even saw in it, and then, inevitably, his eyes finally move to Cas’ face, so achingly familiar - the sharp line of his nose, the chapped lips, that stupid five o’clock shadow always this side of needing a shave.
(He’d thought about that, back when Cas was human, but Sam had beaten him to it - Dean had woken up one morning to find them in the bathroom, Cas all serious, Dean’s AC/DC t-shirt all wrong on him (and yet), and Sam gesturing behind him, a razor in his right hand, and Dean had been distracted, because this was so clearly Sam, and not that fucker walking around in his body - Sam who’d seen how lonely and sad Cas was, Sam who’d found a simple way to cheer him up, make him feel loved and welcome, and he’d done it just like that, because he’s a good person, because he wasn’t thinking, like Dean, that goddammit, now Cas was human, now that he could want things and feel things, now maybe - no, Sam wasn’t thinking that, because his kid brother’s good and decent and a much better person than Dean ever was. And that’s why Dean had hesitated on the door only long enough for Cas to catch his eye through the mirror and smile at him before walking away and starting on breakfast.
Because what if Cas didn’t feel the same way?
And what if he did - what if Dean fucked it up, what if -)
Cas is pale and peaceful and the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever had in his fucking and miserable life.
Sam said they’ll get him back. Dean tries to focus on that, finds he can’t.
(He’s tried, for years, not to think about this, to push it back and back and pretend it wasn’t a thing at all, because in the back of his mind, he’d always sort of assumed angels just - they’re not human, right? No soul. Dean’s never heard of a dead angel turning up again.)
A car door opens behind him, and Dean tries to look normal, busy. He clears his throat, resumes his investigation of Cas’ wallet, looking for - anything, really - but the only other thing in there turns out to be a faded photograph. Dean recognizes Amelia Novak, and that kid with her - a few months old, hair so blond as to look white - can only be Claire.
He turns the picture over.
Amy and Patrick, Jimmy’s written, and, next to it, a date - September 1997.
“I think we should call 911 at some point,” Sam says, as Dean stares at the thing, his heart beating too fast and too loud. “Let them know about Kelly, so they can -”
“Patrick.”
“What?”
It can’t be - no way.
And yet.
“Claire - when was she born?”
“Claire?”
Sam takes a step closer. Dean finally stands up, looks at him, then back at the photograph. He makes half a movement, as if to give it to Sam, but can’t quite bring himself to, because if this is - if this -
“Uhm, her birthday’s in April? Remember we got her that -”
“I don’t fucking - what year, Sam?”
“I - ‘97, I think. Why?”
The sense of relief is deafening and blinding, a thing of storms and rushing blood that makes the entire planet tilt as Dean tries to stay upright and breathe and wrap his mind around it all. He looks up at the sky, almost in thanks, and then, out of habit, he sends out a prayer.
Cas, can you - can you hear me? Castiel?
“Because in the other timeline, the Novaks had a boy.”
“The other - Dean, what -”
For the first time, Sam’s voice shifts - it’s no longer sadness, or not just that - there’s a different noise to his worry now, like he thinks Dean’s losing it, and Dean tries to make sense of it, to explain, to -
“This is not Cas. Our Cas, I mean. Look at this - the pool card - Patrick -”
Dean is both forcing the photograph in Sam’s hands and refusing to let it go, and yeah, his brother’s looking at him like he’s lost it, but Dean doesn’t care, because it doesn’t matter - all they need to do is find a way back to that place, and they can fix it, they can -
Cas - Cas, I’m coming, okay? We’re getting you out of there. Just -
- and his head does that stupid thing it does during fights - the world slows down around him as he plans and thinks and wonders if they’ve got a way to find Kelly’s kid, and at the same time something inside him explodes and roars and grits its teeth, because grief and love - man, he’s so bad at those - but give him fights and hunts and wars and he’ll fucking tear his way out, and he’s feeling it now - how he won’t stop, how it’s not even a decision he needs to make, because everything he is is aching for Cas, and not having Cas here is a wound and a wrong that hurts and hurts and Dean will fucking -
Cas - buddy, I - I’m sorry I never said it back, but -