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I. Let’s have another round tonight
“Raise a glass Sammy.”
“Rowena. Thanks for saving our asses. More than once. Sorry you’re dead.”
“And thanks for making sure I didn’t lose my marbles. Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
They raise a tumbler each and drain it. Refill from the bottle.
“To Crowley. Son of a bitch and a royal pain in our ass. But when the chips were down and the guy was in your court…he really batted for the team.”
“Dude was a jerk.”
“Yeah. He was.”
“To Crowley.”
“Crowley.”
Raise. Drain. Refill.
“To Castiel. Angel of the Lord. That weird, dorky guy who wouldn’t know a pop culture reference if it bit him in the ass. My best friend. The best friend I’ve ever had. No offence Sammy.”
“None taken.”
They raise a tumbler each to Cas and drain it.
They get smashed on whiskey. Stay up late telling stupid stories. How he once drank an entire liquor store to himself because he was having a bad day.
“The goddamned apocalypse man,” Dean mutters. “Whoda thought there’d be worse days than that?”
Sam is a bit misty eyed. “I’m gonna miss him.”
Dean looks down at his tumbler. It’s empty but so is the bottle and his head is too fuzzy to really consider getting up and finding another right now.
“Yeah.” He agrees. “Yeah.”
II. it could never be so simple
Sam is so pumped with adrenaline that when the Nephilim speaks he reflexively reaches for his gun. The thing doesn’t even flinch, just bares his teeth in something that might have been a smile.
“Sam Winchester,” it says and – okay, creepy that it knows his name. “Where is the Seraph Castiel?”
Sam swallows around the lump in his throat. “He’s dead.”
The Nephilim hisses in a sharp breath, his eyes flickering. “How?”
Sam hesitates, but Jack just stares at him with those piercing golden eyes and man, Sam does not need to piss off this thing, guy, whatever when he was already capable of ripping holes in the fabric of the universe when he was still inside the womb and came out as a grown ass man. “He was murdered. By your dad.”
Jack pushes smoothly to his feet, eyes gleaming. “Show me.”
Dean reacts about as well as you might expect to a naked guy with glowing yellow eyes stepping out of the house and making a beeline for Cas.
He instinctively places himself between the Nephilim and Cas’ prone form, one hand splayed protectively on Cas’ chest. When the Nephilim continues to advance he barks out a stilted “No!”
To his surprise, the Nephilim halts, eyes glittering. Sam chooses this moment to appear from inside the house. It only takes him a moment to assess the situation.
“Dean!” he calls out, pleading. To his credit, Dean doesn’t pull out his gun and unload it into the Nephilim. He just holds his ground, glaring through his tears and gritting his teeth.
“I’m guessing you’re Kelly’s kid?” Dean manages to dredge the words out of his mouth but they’re pretty hoarse. The Nephilim gives a tiny nod in confirmation and peers down at Castiel’s body as he responds.
“I am Jack.” He says softly. His gaze scans along the body, the wings burnt into the earth and finally stills on Dean’s hand, pressing against the place where Cas’ heart should be beating. “And this is Castiel.” Jack murmurs, stepping closer until he is standing directly over the body, across from Dean. “Poor, poor Castiel.”
Dean’s eyes flicker towards Sam and then back as Jack slowly kneels, his eyes still fixed on Cas. Dean slowly takes his hand away, a painful bloom of hope building in his chest like bile.
“Can you-can you fix him?”
His voice cracks embarrassingly. Behind him he hears Sam shift his weight anxiously.
The Nephilim – Jack – shows no sign that he has even heard him but as the seconds pass, Dean begins to notice the golden glow emanating from Cas and hastily shuffles back. Sam’s hand closes around his upper arm and helps him stand. Jack’s eyes flicker and dance. He looks almost benign, leaning over Cas. He doesn’t touch him. Maybe he senses that Dean would start flipping his shit. Or maybe it’s just that he doesn’t need to touch someone to heal them.
Dean holds his breath.
Please, please, please.
When the glow dissipates, Dean realises that Sam is still hanging onto his arm hard enough that it hurts. He shakes off his brothers grip and takes a tentative step forwards.
“Cas?”
There’s no resounding gasp, no sudden snap as he opens his eyes. Instead, Castiel exhales gently and as his head rolls towards Dean his eyes flutter open, an imprint of gold still leaching away from his irises.
Dean doesn’t remember moving, but he must have because his knees are screaming like he’s just skidded across a mile of broken glass and he has an armful of Cas – of Cas! Cas who is breathing, whose heart is beating, who is weakly returning the hug despite the awkwardness of their positions, who is warm and solid and alive and Dean clings to him, just clings on and buries his face against a trench coat clad shoulder in a way he’s never let himself do before.
A sob escapes him, his fingers clench spasmodically around whatever bits of Cas he’s got a hold of and his chest feels like it’s cracking in two from the effort of holding himself in. And then Cas’ hand is on his back, gentle but firm and Dean fucking loses it. The sounds that come wrenching out of him tear at his throat and rend the air.
“Dean,” Cas murmurs his name over and over. At some point, Sam crouches down and puts a hand on his shoulder. Cas tries to pull back, maybe so he can look Dean in the eye but Dean just clings on tighter and shuts his eyes and cries.
Jack, the Nephilim, crouches and watches and listens.
Love. Family. Home.
He doesn’t reach out, merely waits his turn. Jack knows Castiel intimately. Chose him because of who he is. The angel so in love with humanity that he has become some strange mix between the two.
He understands why the Seraph clings to his human family. And so, he waits for his turn to be acknowledged, to be loved.
He waits.
III. too much
By the time Sam finally makes it back out of the house Dean still hasn’t worked up the courage to reach out and touch Cas.
“Kelly’s dead.” Sam announces, hesitant and exhausted and so much more. “The Nephilim’s gone. He disappeared.”
Dean doesn’t respond, just sits back on his heels, his toes starting to go numb. He knows he’s in shock, but even he is unprepared for the way he lashes out when Sam reaches out to grasp his shoulder.
“Don’t.”
He barely manages to grit the word out. He can’t deal with this right now. Not with gentle touches and soft words from a well-meaning little brother. Sam, undeterred, squats down next to him and makes as if to touch him again. His face is creased with concern and Dean can’t stand it, can’t cope with pity and pain when he feels like the ground has opened up and swallowed him whole.
“Don’t.” he chokes out again and it isn’t until he sees the shock on Sam’s face that he realises he’s yelled it. That his breathing has become shallow and laboured. That the tears which refused to come in all the long minutes he sat with Cas’ body are streaming hot down his cheeks and he can’t stop them.
It’s too much. I can’t. Sammy. I can’t. This is…it’s too much. Too much.
Sam reaches for him and Dean strikes out with his fists, glancing blows. Sam ignores them and wraps long arms around him, forces Dean to still. Dean. Stop.
Dean doubles over so suddenly, buckles under the weight of own grief so violently that Sam very nearly loses his grip. Hands clenching, knuckles creaking, he grips at his own hair and pulls and thrashes and howls. Sam’s hands, strong and capable, grip tighter. They hold him steady no matter how he rails against them but his anger – his rage – doesn’t last long before its overtaken by a soul deep weariness and he sags, limp, in his brothers hold.
Sam holds him. Breathes. Dean tries his best to breathe along with him so he doesn’t give himself a damn heart attack. Cries silent tears as their breaths and heartbeats move into a skittish kind of tandem.
Too much. It’s too much. Sammy…
“I know.” Sam says, quiet. “I know. I’ve got you.”
IV. the ruin, of many a poor boy
Cas’ body fades away with the rising of the morning sun. He leaves behind only the impression of his wings and the sour taste of ozone in Dean Winchester’s throat.
There is no body to take home. To burn. Just like all the other times they’ve lost him.
They bury Kelly’s body instead. They leave Cas’ car and the diapers and the murals on the walls. They drive home.
They grieve.
V. if you love me, don’t let go
There’s never been a body to bury before.
All the times Cas has died – or nearly died – and Dean has never had to deal with figuring out what to do with his vessel once he was gone.
When Sam returns from the house empty handed and tight lipped the two of them say nothing as they set about gathering Cas up and laying him down in the backseat of the Impala.
They don’t need to.
It’s Dean who reaches (hesitantly) into Cas’ coat to retrieve his truck keys. Throws them at Sam.
“You take the rust bucket. I’ll bring him home.”
Sam’s been remarkably good up until this point, but at Dean’s words he ducks his head, hiding his tears behind his hair.
“Yeah.” He agrees quietly. Clears his throat. “See you there.”
They put him down in the guest room. It’s late by the time they get him home and they’re both exhausted. Cas looks smaller than usual somehow, laid out on the bed in his rumpled suit and scuffed dress shoes. His angel blade rests beside him, within reach of his fingertips.
“Are we giving him a hunters send off?” Sam asks tiredly from the door. “Or do you want to bury him? We need to call Claire…”
“Tomorrow.” Dean says. He’s pulled a chair up beside the bed and he’s just sitting there with his wrists loosely crossed. “We’ll sort it all out tomorrow.”
Sam dutifully digs into lore about parallel worlds and Nephilim and every day when he comes into Cas’ room Dean is there, dutifully guarding, but he refuses to make a call on what to do with Cas.
Dean won’t tell his brother, but he has no intention of burying Cas. Or of burning him for that matter. It’s probably stupid to hope for – not when Chuck and Amara are off who knows where – but just because he hasn’t been revived yet doesn’t mean that he won’t be one of these days, right?
Dean doesn’t know any other way to deal.
Sam is patient – for the first few days anyway. Dean waits for Cas to come back to him, same as he always does, and he keeps on with the tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow excuses. They manage to make it almost a whole week before Sam finally snaps and calls him out on it.
“Dean,” he says, and finally he drops the gentle tone he’s affected all week. He’s exhausted – from research, from grief, from trying to prop up his brother and it shows. “You can’t just sit in here every day waiting for Chuck to bring him back.”
“That’s not…”
“The hell it isn’t!” Sam snaps and then sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to destroy yourself man. You need to let him go. I need to let him go. And then we need to try and find Jack and maybe figure out a way to get Mom back from…”
“No we don’t.”
Sam stares helplessly. Dean looks back steadily. “No we don’t. I mean,” he gives a humourless laugh. “Let’s face it man, Mom probably got iced by Lucifer within about five minutes. Probably less. And his kid? Who knows where the hell he is…”
Sam’s mouth works. He looks close to tears again, but the anger and hurt on his face is as clear as day. “We can’t leave Cas in here forever man. He wouldn’t have wanted…”
“What, Sam? Wouldn’t have wanted what?”
“…no you know what?” Sam presses on, raising his voice now. “You know what I think?” (He doesn’t even acknowledge Dean’s “Not really”, just ploughs straight on.) “I think you’re so busted up over him dying that you can’t even deal with figuring out what to do with his body. Because then you’d have to admit that he’s gone. And that maybe this time he isn’t coming back...”
“Shut up.”
“No, Dean. Chuck hasn’t revived him. And he died the same way he iced Billie – don’t tell me you didn’t connect the dots man. Call it Karma or cosmic consequences or irony or whatever you want. He’s gone. And this time I don’t think he’s coming back.”
“I said shut up!”
The silence rings between them for a long moment. Dean, having flung himself to his feet, sways a little – his ire and lack of sleep making him dizzy. He shakes his head to clear it but his throat is dry and his heart is pounding up high in his chest. He licks his lips. “You’re wrong.”
“Am I?” Sam presses and Dean explodes again.
“I can’t! Okay? I can’t…” he scrubs a hand over his face, hangs his head. “I can’t do it. Not if there’s a chance he might…”
He doesn’t look up to meet Sam’s pitying gaze.
“Okay.” Sam says and his voice has softened considerably. Dean draws back instinctively, lip curling in contempt. “If you can’t do it then you have to let me.”
And yeah, that isn’t what Dean was expecting at all. His eyes snap up to meet his brother’s eyes, gauging his reactions. Sam looks exhausted sure, but his gaze is steady.
“We can bury him,” Sam offers. “If that’s what you want. Like I did for you when you went to hell.” The just in case goes unsaid. “I’ll give you another twenty-four hours but then we’re laying him to rest. So…do what you gotta do. And I’ll do what I gotta do to keep the two of us sane.
“Okay?”
Dean looks over at Cas and then swiftly down at his boots again.
“Okay.” he agrees. Quiet.
Sam nods and leaves him there. Dean carefully folds down onto his knees, clasps his hands on the edge of the bed and rests his forehead on top.
He doesn’t cry.
He waits the allotted twenty-four hours just in case. But instead of waiting for Sam to come and find him, Dean leaves Cas’ room for the first time in days, and ventures out into the bunker to find his brother instead. The kid is engrossed in lore books in the library, but judging by the glazed look in his eyes, he’s likely reading the same sentence again and again. Dean clears his throat and steps right up close to him, shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down at his shoes in lieu of making eye contact.
“Okay.”
In response, Sam slowly closes his book. “Okay?”
“Yeah. I’m ready.”
Sam pushes to his feet, cautious. “To say goodbye?”
Dean shakes his head. Not that. Never that. But… “I’m ready to bury him.”
They find a nice spot not far from the bunker. Years of salt and burns has made them masters of grave digging but by the time they’ve finished their palms are as raw and frayed as their nerves. They head down to Cas’ room to bring his body up together but before they even cross the threshold Dean turns to his brother.
“Can you give me a minute man?”
Sam doesn’t look at all surprised, just soft and sorry and sad. He gives Dean a small smile, presses a hand to his shoulder and tells him he’ll be down the hall. He snicks the door shut behind him as he goes and then Dean’s alone with Cas.
He’s spent a lot of time in this room these past days, just sitting with Cas – with his body. It’s reminded him, unerringly, of the first time Sam died. Hell, the way they died is even similar - stabbed in the back just when everything seemed like it might turn out...
“Cas you dumb son of a bitch.”
Words spill out into the stillness of the room unbidden, the same way they did for Sam, so many years ago.
“You know I get it. I get that whole…taking care of people thing being your job. Hell, I practically raised Sam. What I don’t get is why you wasted so much damn time on us…”
“…I’m sorry I never told you how much you meant to me. To both of us. My ass would still be in hell if it weren’t for you. Or Purgatory. You deserved better than getting saddled with being guardian angel to an alcoholic hunter with more issues than a psych magazine…”
“…I wish I could have…loved you. Really, truly loved you, the way you deserved. But I was a coward. And now you’re gone and…”
“…I should’ve said it back.”
The sobs that come are thick as molasses, wrenched from somewhere deep and private and so well hidden that he doesn’t even recognise himself. Tears fall hot and fast, regret and pain, so much fondness and love never expressed, fear and hope and love and love and love and love and love.
Maybe if he’d said it…if Cas had known how important he was…maybe…
“I should’ve said it back.”