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If there’s an Apocalypse World, there has to be some kind of Anti-Apocalypse World, too, he reasons.
Dean thinks about that a lot these days. He doesn’t have anything else to occupy his mind, the tiny part of himself that’s stowed away somewhere deep inside the vessel that’s currently possessed by a half-crazy archangel.
He tried everything he could think of to throw Michael out. Nothing worked. More than once, he tried so hard that he blacked out for a day or two. Like this, garnering his strength, he can swim up to the surface now and then to at least see what Michael’s up to. It’s all he can do.
So. Alternative Universes. There has to be one where his father didn’t die. He would love to have a good talking to John Winchester, he really would. He would like for his mother to see John again.
There has to be one where Charlie – their Charlie – still lives. She would go out on adventures, but always, always come back and stay at the bunker for a game night with cold pizza and lukewarm beers. The walls would be ringing with their voices and laughter.
One where Sam got to be a lawyer, in wrinkled suits, married to Jess, with a bunch of kids and a slobbering mess of a dog, and a house. Yeah, that one would be great to see.
And there… there had to be one with a beach.
Cas is standing in the open door of a hut between palm trees, waiting for him. Cas’ shoulders look wider in the brightly colored Hawaiian shirt. The top buttons are open, and Dean’s gaze falls onto the exposed skin, the curve of a clavicle. He feels like a creep, looking at that patch of skin, as if he’s stalking someone in the locker room. It’s always like this when he first dives back into this world, a world that he built himself, but still ... Hastily, he averts his eyes. Cas wears shorts whose color doesn’t match the shirt – at all – and, oh god, the sandals. Dean always forgets about the sandals.
That – that really should kill the spark in his gut that had grown and burned when he had looked at the open shirt, but it’s so Cas to wear something obnoxious like this and Dean – Dean is way too far gone to care about Cas’ nonexistent fashion sense. They’re here, and they are safe, and Cas smiles at him and covers his eyes against the sunlight, squinting.
Dean closes the distance between them. Close, closer still.
Cas smiles again and laughs and throws his arms around Dean’s neck. “I missed you,” he grumbles and Dean can feel his stomach flip.
“I’ve been only gone for an hour.”
“Still,” Cas says, and tugs him closer with a hand on the back of his neck to kiss him. It’s a soft and easy kiss, a kind of kiss that they’ve shared a thousand times on this beach. Cas is standing one step higher and Dean revels in the height difference, loves how Cas has to bend down just slightly to capture his mouth. Dean smiles against Cas’ warm lips and returns the kiss slowly, savors the taste of salt and sunlight on Cas’ skin, the unhurried drag of their mouths. His hands find Cas’ back and cup around his shoulders to hold him close, tight. Their chests brush.
He could kiss Cas forever.
Sometimes he wonders. If he dies with Michael still inside him, will he spend the afterlife like this, trapped in his own hallucinations? He might prefer that to heaven. Because heaven – isn’t that built from your favorite memory? He doesn’t have a memory like this. Cas and him never got around to make such memories.
Cas nudges against his nose as if he knows Dean drifted off. The press of Cas’ lips is more urgent now, and he sighs softly before he licks along the seam of Dean’s lips, wet and demanding, and Dean parts them for Cas to slip inside. Cas always kisses like it might be the last time. He kisses like he’s starving, a little desperate, hungry, wild.
Whatever sullen thoughts Dean might just have had, they’re gone when Cas tongue strokes against his own. Dean tips back his head, into Cas’ open palms, and lets Cas take whatever he likes, whatever he needs. Desire runs through his veins like molten gold. His hands find the hem of Cas’ shirt and slip under it. Cas skin is soft and warm, so very much alive, and Cas responds to every touch with a contented sigh.
“Dean,” Cas says, and then, more urgent, “Dean.”
“-Dean. “
And just like that, the beach is gone.
It’s cold. The stench of blood and mold and cold concrete fills his senses.
“Wh- What?” He tries to open his eyes, but his lids are like lead. Slowly, with an effort, he blinks them open. Cas is crouching over him, the real Cas, all rumpled, too big clothes and that fucking trench coat. Dean reaches up with a shaking hand and grips the lapels, tries to shove it off Cas’ shoulders. He hates that trench coat with a vengeance, all of a sudden, he wants Cas to be warm, and vibrant and happy, he wants Cas to wear a Hawaiian shirt, goddammit.
Cas catches his fumbling hands in his own. His gaze is serious, oh so serious, and Dean thinks it’s a crime, because Cas is radiant when he smiles, and he should smile at Dean all the time.
“I missed you,” Dean croaks against the lump in his throat.
Cas’ forehead crinkles in worry, but then, then he smiles a little, tentative smile. “I missed you, too, Dean.”
“Michael?”, Dean asks and sits up, looking around, gathering his wits. Sam, on the other side of the hall, helps Jack up on his feet, and waves with his free hand, a look of sheer gratitude softening his face. He looks too thin.
“Michael’s gone,” Cas answers. His hand his warm on Dean’s shoulder. Dean knows what it would feel like if Cas slid it up against his neck, his thumb against Dean’s jaw, against Dean’s bottom lip. He loves Cas’ hands.
Dean leans forward, gaze drawn to Cas’ lips, those dry and chapped and pink and perfect lips.
“What are you doing?” Cas asks, but he doesn’t sound alarmed at all.
Dean slings his arms around Cas’ neck, holds on for dear life, and finds Cas’ mouth. And Cas. Cas chuckles, deep and surprised and happy, and then he kisses him back, hesitantly.
Sam huffs in the background, but Dean doesn’t care. Cas is here, in his arms, and Dean lets go of his lips to bury his face in Cas’ neck.
“Making memories,” Dean mumbles, and he can’t be sure Cas heard him, but Cas’ arms tighten around his shoulders.
Somewhere, he knows another Cas and another Dean are lying on a beach next to each other, toes in the sand. Their lips will taste like frilly cocktails when they kiss each other.
But this, he thinks, and breathes in the scent of Cas’ skin, this is good, too.
It’s all good.