Work Text:
It hurts.
Which, of course it does. There’s so much blood, and what that means is there’s too much blood; what that means is yeah, that’s a fatal amount of blood, goddammit, but God’s already gone, damn him too, so this whole goddamn world is well-and-truly God-damned.
He laughs, a pained, red-and-wet thing that’s more groan than humor. Nothing is funny, except maybe the inevitable, somehow. He’s got enough breath in him left to laugh, but not enough to live. Maybe it’s only funny because of the delirium, the hysterics of a failing brain.
Where’s he gonna go, anyways, when he’s all bled out? Funny to think he might end up in Heaven, after all this. Funny, so he laughs again. It’s not even strong enough to bounce around the empty room. Empty aside from the bodies, that is, because while they got him good at least he took some of those fuckers down with him. It’s all the scent of blood that’s his and blood that isn’t, cold concrete, and the faint whiffs of sulphur and gunpowder, and the all the too-quiet that means it was a successful suicide-mission in that they, the ragtag doomed heroes, succeeded in killing themselves. Or they will have, once he kicks the bucket.
Which is taking longer than he thought, though maybe it’s only been minutes. He can’t tell. He shifts and feels the shreds of his organs shift in a lopsided way and he can’t help but cry out, head falling back against the wall he propped himself up against. His hand is uselessly glued to his side; first because he was pressing it so hard on instinct, seized with the desperate panic of a wounded creature and unable to lift it up and away, and now because he suspects it’s well and truly glued to his skin with blood that manages to dry even as more of the slippery warmth spills out of him.
He oughta just end it. Let himself go. But he’s always been a stubborn bastard, he knows, as Dean reminded him countless times. Dean, who is surely dead now. Certainly dead. Theirs was as frayed as a bond could get, but after everything it was still profound, which meant that it was still deep enough that when Dean’s life snapped out of existence Castiel felt it, as real as the mortal wound sliced into his gut.
He wonders if he will meet him again in Heaven. He finds he can’t bear the thought of it; something turns his stomach and maybe it’s just his actual stomach turning, slipping away from him, through his fingers. He would not like to meet again in Heaven. Maybe Hell is the better place for him. For them. For the both of them, together. He thinks that he would let Dean carve him, in Hell, because that’s more familiar, more realistic, offering himself up in pieces like a God-damned sacrifice.
He supposes he’ll find out soon, because he sees the light now. He didn’t imagine it to be so literal, the light. Didn’t imagine it would be so thin, like a pale gash before him; he didn’t imagine that it would float in the air, either, golden and flickering like a flame. It seems rather far away, almost in the center of the room, and he hopes it will get closer. He can’t move towards it. It crosses his mind that, since he’s dying, a Reaper should be here. Moving him along.
The light flares, and in between the drop and lift of his eyelids there’s a murmured Christ and he’s no longer alone.
Castiel gapes. He’s definitely delirious. Or the Reaper who has come to collect him and throw him into either the torment of hellfire or paradise has a twisted sense of humor. Maybe it’s both.
The man who looks like Dean Winchester surveys the carnage in the room with wariness and tension, gun at the ready. Castiel, who could do very little before, can do nothing now but stare. Because it is Dean. Not his Dean, who is dead, and not the Dean from another time, who has hopefully been spirited away, back to his time where maybe, maybe, there’s still hope. A different Dean, but still Dean. Someone else steps through the light behind him and Castiel recognizes Sam, tears springing to his eyes because it’s been so long since he’s seen him as him.
He can’t help his involuntary cry of pain as something inside him twinges. The brothers’ eyes snap to the sound, weapons up, and then go wide in unison. Dean’s by his side, a strangled Cas in his throat, before Castiel can draw in another ragged breath.
“You’re not you,” Castiel manages. He’s vaguely startled by his own voice; he sounds as bad as he feels. He can’t stop staring at Dean, head spinning with déjà vu.
The lines of Dean’s eyes crinkle in recollection. There are far more creases on his face than even his Dean had. He’s older, then. There’s a softness that, of course, the Dean of his time never had, and the harried, haunted edge the Dean from before carried is absent. There’s a weariness, still, a worry that Castiel wants to smooth away. And there’s an affection there, too, that Castiel can hardly bear. “I’m me,” Dean says, a half-smile on his face. “Just not your me.” He looks down where Castiel is holding himself together and pales, frowning. “Jesus, Cas,” he breathes. He extends a hand towards the injury and Castiel tries to shift away, shaking his head.
“Can’t,” he gasps, and then has to swallow around the pain. “Can’t help.”
“Dean?” Sam has hung back, taking in their surroundings, the bodies and the general decay of the building. He looks between Dean and Castiel. “Where are we?” He sounds like he already has an idea.
“2014,” Dean says. He doesn’t look away from Castiel. There’s an affected burr in his voice. “The version Zachariah showed me. If I didn’t say yes.” Understanding softens in Sam’s eyes. They must have talked about it, which means they are on good terms again. Castiel is relieved; they need each other. Sam steps closer and Castiel lifts his pained gaze up to him until he kneels down beside him. There’s a sadness in his eyes. He looks older, too.
Castiel turns his eyes back to Dean. It takes more effort now. He’s so tired. His tongue is so heavy in his mouth, but he gets out, “W-when?”
Sam looks confused in his periphery, but Dean understands what he means. “Twenty-eighteen, buddy.” He takes Castiel’s hand and holds it tightly in his own, ignoring the blood and the way Castiel can’t grip back. “We made it, through the apocalypse and then some. Me, Sam, and you.” He squeezes Castiel’s hand. “We did it. We saved the world.”
There are obviously things that Dean isn’t telling him, years of details he’s sparing him, but everything else rings true and Castiel closes his eyes, leans his head back against the wall. Tears slip free in relief. “Knew you could,” he says weakly, even if it’s mostly a lie. He’s been a long time without faith. It costs too much.
Time must pass, and he feels hazier, like he’s starting to float away, untethered from his body even though the pain is still there. There’s a murmuring sound, something he can’t understand. He remembers that he has eyes, and so he opens them, blinks blearily at the Winchesters. His friends. Maybe even family. They’re talking, low and urgent, to each other, and Castiel has to focus, and then focus harder. Everything is so far away. He catches fragments – something’s closing, something has to be found, something about leaving, and then Dean’s voice breaks through with, “We have to do something, Sam!”
Sam replies with words that have no meaning, but his tone is soothing. Castiel lifts his other hand from his wound – he’s not even delaying the inevitable, not anymore – and snags Dean’s sleeve with his fingers. Just enough to get his attention.
Dean turns to him with a desperate, helpless gaze. Castiel knows. He knows. He’s not quite sure what he knows, only that he knows something, instinctively, down at the core of him, and it’s important; it’s everything to him, and he feels something cry out inside of him in triumph and joy at the way Dean looks at him, the bright, shining light of his soul reaching for him, for the Castiel that’s not even his.
It’s all getting darker at the edges, and language is almost beyond him, but he grits out, “Stay?” His chest heaves with shallow, futile breaths. He’s so cold. So tired. And he’s so desperate he can’t even hesitate to ask; he won’t even hesitate to beg, if that’s what it takes, because now that they’re here he realizes that they could leave, and he can’t stand that, his weak heartbeat kicking in his chest, suddenly terrified he’s going to die alone, at the end of the world with no one to mourn him. “Just,” he chokes. “Please, stay. Please.”
“Hey, yeah, okay, Cas, it’s okay,” Dean says, a wobble in his voice, holding fast to both of Castiel’s hands now. “Of course. We’re right here. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Castiel is able to feel the faintest pressure on his outstretched leg and sees Sam, a steady hand curved around his shin. Sam nods in agreement, and then Castiel is distracted by the blood welling in his throat, and he coughs, flooded and pained.
“Easy,” Dean says, because there’s nothing else he can say, Castiel knows. There’s nothing that can be said now, nothing that can be done. Dean is moving him, then, as gently as he can. It hurts, but the pain is different. Like it belongs to someone else. “Sorry, sorry,” Dean says, and Castiel knows it’s for more than just the discomfort, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already forgiven him. And if he could, he’d laugh, because here he is, moments from death, and he’s still forgiving Dean Winchester. And he still doesn’t know whether it’s love or just pure stupidity. Or whether there’s even any difference between the two. Or whether it even matters.
It doesn’t matter. Dean is smoothing a hand through the sweaty, blood-flecked mess of his hair, letting Castiel lean back against him instead of the wall. Sam moves closer, and they don’t really even know each other, not in this lifetime, but Castiel drags a hand towards him, and Sam takes it in his. His breath rattles in his chest.
“It’s okay, Cas.” Dean’s voice is soft in his ear. More sound than words now. He’s fading. Faster and faster. “It’s almost over. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
Castiel closes his eyes. The light is waiting for him, and he falls softly into it.