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A flutter of wings and he’s gone.
Castiel’s heart sinks. Falls to the floor, really. Shatters, a million tiny pieces, broken and irreparable. Hearing Dean make that offer, that sacrifice, it was more horrifying than he could ever imagine, but watching it come to fruition is too much. He’s not sure how he’s still standing but somehow, he takes a step forward, then another, bringing himself to the last spot Dean stood. It feels like there should be some trace of him left, something tangible remaining to signify that he was here, but there is nothing. The tiles bear no boot prints. No motes of his scent hang in the air, save the ones that drift throughout the bunker. Dean is everywhere in this once-safe haven. It was his fortress, but now Castiel fears it will become his tomb.
He knows why Dean did it. Understands perfectly the mindset that led him to make this choice. He’d been in a similar situation once and made the same call but the sheer volume of grief he caught for it after the fact was enough to trick him into believing Dean would not make the same foolish sacrifice.
He did though. Without hesitation. Dean gave himself up for the cause.
Castiel knows Michael won’t honor their bargain. He also knows that Dean must know this too. He has enough experience with Castiel’s brethren not to trust them at all. Any angel save Castiel himself would come up against the same distrust from Dean, except for maybe Lucifer or Michael, who he’d trust even less. So there’s no doubt in Castiel’s mind that Michael will seize control the second the deed is done, and he’s just as sure that Dean knows it is coming.
Just like his heart, Castiel sinks to the floor, bereft.
He will never see Dean again.
He will see Dean’s face. It will likely be the last face he sees. It seems entirely likely that Michael will come after them, once Lucifer is gone. He will see Dean’s face as Dean’s arm raises an angel blade, strikes him down. He will not lift a finger to defend himself, not when it’s Dean he’ll be hurting with each blow he lands. He knows this, as sure as the sun rises in the East. When his brother comes for him wearing Dean’s face, he will go gently. He will spare Dean the indignity of watching him struggle and suffer.
Only it’s not just Castiel Dean will have to watch die, locked motionless behind his own eyes. Michael will come for Sam. For Jack. He will seek out Mary. He’ll slaughter everyone they saved from the apocalypse world. He will kill Charlie with his bare hands, and he will make Dean watch. Castiel knows what that feels like, to be witness to horrors being wrought by your own hands, unable to stop them, unable to look away, unable even to blink. Lucifer made sure he watched Rowena die. It horrified him to see the vessel he had come to think of as his own body do such things. Dean already dreams of those he could not save, even the ones where he made all the right choices and still couldn’t reach in time.
A fat tear rolls down his cheek. Castiel didn’t realize there were tears in him to cry.
He stays there on his knees, in the spot where Dean let Michael in, for time beyond measure. Mary comes to check on him, but he does not acknowledge her. She makes phone calls. He doesn’t listen. She says soothing things for his benefit, like a mother does, because Cas is one of her boys now, but they make no impact.
He’s still there, right where he fells, when Sam and Jack come through the door. There’s no daylight to mark the passage of time down here and he has no idea where Lucifer had taken them, but he doesn’t have the energy to try to guess how long they travelled. They are here now, and that’s all that matters.
Castiel knows the answer before Mary speaks the question.
”Where is he?” she asks, voice tinged with panic, quelled only by a need to be strong. A trait she passed on to her boys, though she didn’t get enough time with them to do it by example.
“Gone,” Sam says softly. “Michael has him.” He sounds like Castiel feels. Maybe worse. Maybe just more expressive.
There’s a hush over the room, a long, drawn out silence. Bobby clears his throat. Castiel is sure he’s thinking of the hell Michael wrought in the other place, how much worse it could be now that he has his perfect vessel.
“What do we do now?” Jack ventures. He looks like death. He looks like he’d rather be dead.
Castiel takes to his feet again, the movement drawing all eyes in his direction. Sam startles, whether because he was not expecting Castiel to move or because he forgot he was even there, Castiel does not know. He spares only a fleeting glance for Michael’s old vessel, still as the grave on the floor.
“We get him back,” Castiel announces through gritted teeth.
Sam opens his mouth to speak. Castiel does not care what he has to say. From the look on his face, he is not prepared to offer a plan at this moment, so it can only be a reminder of the odds they face. Castiel knows. Castiel does not care.
He cuts Sam off with a withering glare, one that he knows fails to acknowledge how much Sam himself is suffering right now. Castiel has no time for that. He is a soldier again, and he has a mission.
“We get him back,” he repeats fiercely, striding towards the massive shelves of books along the wall. He doesn’t notice if anyone follows. He doesn’t care. If there’s anything in this bunker that will help them expel an archangel, he will find it, if he has to read every single word himself.
We get him back.