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I was there for you
And you were there for me
So I don't know how we
How we got so far, you and me
Almost like there's oceans between us, us
So I need to know
Could you carry me?
Dean focused on the physical pain, he could deal with that. He focused on finding the literal spawn of satan, he could handle that.
What he had to do outside the door to this shitty ass cabin...that he wasn’t so sure about.
Breathe in, breathe out.
“Do you, do you uh-“ Sam was offering to help, but Dean couldn’t let him, not with this. He jerks his head to the side once. Sam shifts topics. “There’s a chance we can catch up to Jack-“
“I know,” Dean snaps. Sam scrubs a hand down his face as he walks away, and Dean steels himself, walking out the door and down the shitty wooden steps. His vessel was still laying there, crumpled in the dirt and lifeless. He’d half thought something would have changed in the hours they’d been unconscious, but all that had happened was the sun had come up. It didn’t seem fair that a new day was dawning, not when his angel and his mom had just been ripped away from him. Hell, even Sam was distant, keeping himself from the pain by focusing on Jack. Dean was happy with the excuse Jack presented, something to focus on and hunt, something he could shoot in the fucking face.
He wills his legs to move, across the dirt to the body lying on the ground. He crouches slowly, watching his face for a moment, waiting for those eyes that stared at him too closely, that always saw right through him, to open. They don’t, not even when Dean starts sliding his arms under his body, lifting with a grunt as he straightens his knees. Dean ignores the way his head falls back, the way the arm falls limply out to the side. Gritting his teeth against the weight, he turns for the cabin and goes back the way he came, carrying the body of his...his…
It didn’t seem right that the body should feel this heavy. Without him it was just a shell, it should feel empty, void of his grace and power. Dean nearly stumbles when he reaches the first step, and tucks the body closer to him. Sweat drips down his forehead, but he ignores it. His sore muscles and aching limbs are inconveniences, easily ignored.
He lifts his right leg, mounting the steps, one by one, turning to move through the door without hitting the body in his arms. He’s shaking with effort now but he keeps moving, turning for the dining room table. His legs felt heavier, arms clinging tighter, as he approached the table, a folded sheet on the floor next to it.
He doesn’t want to let go, he realizes. His body is giving in on him but he holds on, even when he’s standing over the empty table
But he has to let go eventually.
He strains with all he has to set the body down slowly, resting him on the table and carefully adjusting his arms and legs. He straightens the tie, and is fixing the coat when the mixtape he’d used as a ruse on Dean slides out of his pocket, peeking into view just under the flap of fabric. Dean reaches out to pick it up, but stops just as his fingers brush the plastic.
No. It belonged to him. Dean tucks it further into the pocket, then turns away, bending to grab the sheet. Shaking it loose, he waits just one more moment.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Setting his jaw he tugs the sheet over the body, turning away and walking out of the cabin.
*** Later that evening ***
Dean clenched his fist, the tear in his knuckles and the splinters in his palms from the fresh wood he’d chopped sending little tendrils of pain through his nerves, but he barely felt them. He needed to be numb right now just to keep standing on his feet. The smell of fresh resin from the wood clings to his clothes, fresh and vibrant and completely at odds with everything Dean was feeling. Before Sam walked back out of the little house, the other bundle in his arms, he hesitated by the door, glancing at Dean questioningly across the room.
“Dean, are you sure-”
“Go.” Dean had kept his eyes resolutely aimed at the wall of the cabin. He’d said his piece to Sam, he was done talking about this. Sam just watched him for a moment before turning away and walking out the door.
His chest ached, matching the throb behind his eyes.
Breathe in, breathe out.
“He was supposed to protect me,” Jack says quietly behind him, and Dean glances up to watch as he approaches. The way his eyes squint and his head tilts turns Dean’s stomach and he looks away.
“He did.” Dean is as surprised by his own voice as Jack seems to be. “He...this happened because he was protecting you.”
“Oh.” Jack reaches out to the bundle, but pulls away before he touches it, turning and following Sam out the door as Dean glares at his back.
The word alone starts to take on a whole new meaning. Ever since he had come into Dean’s life, he’d always felt like someone was there, for better or worse he knew he was being watched, and now there was nothing. He felt so small, like no one could see him anymore, because the only person who ever cared to see him was gone.
Dean runs his fingers over the knots binding the sheet to the body and, satisfied that they were tied properly, he steps to the side of the table. Sliding an arm below the knees and the other behind the shoulders, he lifts, tucking the bundle close as he turns for the door.
The weight seems even heavier this time, some trick of his mind to make this task harder to finish. He nearly drops to his knees as he reaches the door, but he resolutely pushes on, unable to afford for this to consume him. One step at a time, he keeps moving forward till he’s outside the door and down the steps. They’d built the pyre over the scorched marks of his wings, ashes to ashes and all that. Sam is tense, staring at the bundle he’d already laid on the pyre, but Jack is watching him closely, his face completely unreadable.
Dean’s whole body is fighting him, but he makes it to the pyre, setting the body on top gently. His hand lingers, resting against the hand folded under the blanket.
Please.
His lungs are burning.
Breathe in, breathe out.
“I’m sorry, Cas,” he whispers to the bundle.
It’s time, so Dean swallows down the lump in his throat, and steps away to grab the gasoline.
“You wanna say anything?” Sam asks Jack. Dean keeps his eyes on the wood, eyes avoiding both his brother and the bundles.
“I...what do you say?” Jack asks, confused. It hurts Dean in a way he doesn’t want to think about.
“Right.” Sam hangs his head to collect himself. “Thank you. You say thank you, and you say you’re sorry. You hope they’re somewhere without, uh, sadness or pain.” Dean can feel Sam’s eyes on him as he finishes and starts to walk towards them. “You hope they’re somewhere better. You say goodbye.”
They’ve done this so many times, watched family and friends burn, but this time Dean can hardly bring his eyes up to face the pyre. He slips the lighter from his pocket, fingers fiddling with the lid as he sucks a breath into his lungs.
It’s like ripping off a bandaid, just say it, and it’s done. But Dean still can’t bring himself to look at him, to face this.
“Well, goodbye Cas.”
After he says it the rest comes easy. The rest follows, saying what he needs to say to Sam, saying what he needs to say to the others they lost. But even after his brother and Jack head back inside to clean up and get ready to leave, he lingers.
He lingers until the last of the embers starts to die away.
Goodbye, Castiel.
Could you carry me?
Right into your distant hands
Could you carry me?
Right back to where we started from
Could you carry me?
On and on and on