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Castiel has often wondered what happens to angels when they die. It’s hard not to, having been responsible for the deaths of so many of his brothers and sisters.
As it is, he’s never really feared death. He’s wanted to live, of course; wanted to keep existing, keep fighting, keep his family safe. But he knows he’s been running from death, from his punishment, for a very long time.
Justice, he thinks, would be to face his murdered siblings now, and receive what is owed him.
Turns out he got off pretty easy.
There’s just nothing here. It’s neither light nor dark, cold nor warm. Castiel supposes there’s a wall at his back, because he’s leaning on something, but there isn’t any kind of structure he can see.
The fact that he can see at all is interesting. He still has eyes, apparently. Or maybe he doesn’t; it’s hard to tell. Things are blurred, indistinct. He brings a hand up in front of his face, but it’s possible he can only see it because he knows it’s supposed to be there.
He’s been here forever, or possibly no time at all. Time as a concept is starting to feel rather foreign. He thinks he should have a better sense of his surroundings, but in this place his angelic senses feel sort of dulled.
At least the company’s good.
“Alright buddy, up and at ‘em. Get your ass in gear, it’s time to figure out a way outta here.”
Dean is the only truly solid thing in this place. He looks exactly the same, down to his map of scars and the pattern of freckles dotting his face. Castiel thinks that if he could still touch, the rough callouses on Dean’s hands would feel the same too.
“Tell me something, Dean,” Castiel says. “If I’m the one who’s dead, why is it you’re the one doing the haunting?”
“Who says you’re dead, huh?”
Castiel raises an amused eyebrow at him, then looks down at what he thinks is his chest. The bloom of red is still there, bright and shiny, like a splash of paint that hasn’t yet dried. When he closes his eyes (if he still has eyes to close) he can feel the blade pushing through him, piercing his heart – fire made solid.
Dean waves a dismissive hand, pacing back and forth in front of him. “Yeah, okay, fine. But just think about this place. Think about all the other like, fifty times you’ve bought it. It wasn’t like this, was it?”
Castiel allows him that. “I don’t have any memory of my other deaths. All those other times, there was nothing, no consciousness.”
“See?”
“Perhaps I just don’t remember.”
“Or, this is different, and you’re somewhere else right now.”
Castiel twists his lips in an ironic smile. “Maybe because this time it’s permanent.”
Dean huffs now, angry. “C’mon, Cas. What the hell is with all this defeatist crap? This isn’t you.”
Castiel leans his head back against the wall that isn’t there and closes his eyes. “I think defeatism is pretty justified right now, don’t you? Seeing as I’m dead.”
“Christ.”
“I don’t know why I’m listening to you anyway,” Castiel says. “You’re not really here.”
“Granted,” Dean says. “I’m just a sexy little piece of your subconscious.”
Castiel hums thoughtfully. “I didn’t know I had a subconscious. Maybe I’m just losing my mind. If I have a mind to lose anymore.”
“Ooh, very deep there, Socrates,” Dean says. “Look, whatever I am, I came from you, which means that at least some part of you knows you’re not really dead, and wants to get out of here.”
“This is the best possible scenario, Dean. I’m paying the price for all the things I’ve done. Cosmic consequences, remember?”
“Screw that. Dodging cosmic consequences is practically our full-time job. And by the way, ‘best possible scenario?’ What about me and Sam?”
“The real Sam and Dean, they’ll be fine without me. They’ll keep fighting.”
Dean’s voice is hard. “That’s bullshit. And obviously, a part of you knows that too.”
Castiel finally opens his eyes again. “Maybe,” he says softly. “Maybe it’s just easier for me to believe that.”
Dean sighs, then comes over to sit next to him. If he tries hard enough, Castiel can almost feel their shoulders brushing together.
“If you are a part of me, I think you’re the best part.” Castiel says.
“You comin’ on to me, Cas?”
“Why not?” he asks, lips curving into a small smile. “I’m not going to get another chance.”
“You realize you’re basically hitting on yourself, here.”
Castiel nods. “I’ll take what I can get.”
Dean smiles at him, his bright eyes dancing with a light that can’t possibly come from this empty place.
Eventually Dean breaks the long silence, serious again. “You know, Real Dean, he’s probably out there right now tryin’ to make a deal. Bring you back.”
“He’d better not be.”
“But he will, you know that.”
Castiel shakes his head. “I’m tired. I think I deserve to be done.”
Dean raises a skeptical eyebrow, voice knowing. “Oh really? No regrets?”
“I didn’t say that,” Castiel says. He runs his eyes over Dean’s face, inches from his own. Dean lets him look.
After a moment Castiel clears his throat and turns his gaze forward. “If you’re my fantasy, you’re not doing a very good job. Shouldn’t you be wearing fewer clothes?”
“Hey, don’t look at me, you’re the one driving this bus.”
Castiel nods. “I’ll have to work on my imagination.” He looks back over, but the space beside him is empty. Maybe it was never occupied to begin with.
“Right,” he says softly, voice hollow and dull in the nothingness all around him. “I’ll see you later, Dean.”