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“Do you trust me?” you ask, because it took Dean this long to agree to go here, and though him backing out would be disappointing, it’s entirely up to him to follow through.
You look down towards the drop several feet from where you stand –it’s intimidating. Not as tall as it could be, but the idea of plummeting fourty-five feet under your own weight with nothing to catch you, to suspend you, is terrifying in itself. You figure, it’ll probably be the last few days you know each other, anyway. Your grace is fading faster than you anticipated. His sanity is dwindling with each kill. This won’t go on much longer without something getting into the mix.
So when you asked him to come with you for the day, he naturally accepted. The case in Alabama went cold as of one AM yesterday. The coven packed up and moved overnight, leaving no traces of their existence behind. Where were you supposed to go, then? With no viable trail, only two reliable witnesses, and about half a dozen bodies, what were you supposed to do? Until you picked up the scent, obviously nothing.
Sam refused to join the two of you –his reasoning is understandable. You both know next to nothing about what to do about the Mark tainting the elder Winchester. Better you to join Dean in his one-man quest for salvation or damnation than Sam, where he could end up maimed or dead somewhere along the side of the road. He stayed home –you were inevitably assigned to the duty of watching over Dean. Like that wasn't already your job. It had been for years, now more so than ever.
You lost your flock. You had nowhere else to turn other than him. So you went to Alabama on a whim and ended up with nothing in return.
So you asked him to drive thirty-nine miles northeast of Gadsden to a place you liked to frequent at night in your past, because humans didn't venture after the sun set unless they had a death wish. You’re dying. You want to see it one more time before the clock strikes twelve and you leave him alone. Third time’s the charm, right?
He didn't give you a spiel like you expected – he accepted with little more than a nod, and you both left your room in the city to drive into the lower Appalachians. It’s a beautiful summer day, not a cloud in the sky. The temperature is nearing ninety-five. The surface of the Impala could melt anything at the barest of touches. Wearing your coat is no longer a necessity –better to get rid of it now than wait. You won’t be needing it soon. You ditch the article in the backseat once he parks alongside the canyon along with your jacket, shoes and slacks.
Dean catches on – it’s why you told him to bring swim trunks, after all. You both wore them under your clothes. He strips down in the front seat and tosses everything atop your own like they belong there. Shoes aren’t a necessity.
Engine off and doors locked, you lead him from the scorching parking lot onto the sidewalk and down a series of wooden steps, your burning soles pleasantly cooled by the dirt covering next to everything. It rained yesterday. Some areas where the sun hasn't touched are still muddy. If either of you are affected by the searing heat, you refuse to acknowledge it. Burns are nothing next to what you’re facing.
You both reach the rocky surface of the canyon, granite reaching across the way into the tree line. A river runs through the structure, cascading off into a deep pit and flowing into the western horizon. Dozens of people stand around the crescent of the falls, staring down into the basin below. “It’s called Little River Falls,” you tell him as you progress over the smoothed stones, stepping in puddles just because they’re there. You may not be able to feel them, but he probably can. If he can feel anything other than hatred and spite, anymore.
“When I was an Angel, long before I met you and then for sometime after,” you continue, “I would come here to think about what my next move would be. It’s quiet here.” You stop to sit atop a rock, taller than some of the others in the area. He joins you and crosses his legs, chin in his hands. You both watch as someone takes a running leap off an edge and dives into the depths of the pool, only to surface seconds later. “Most of the time.”
Dean doesn't give you a response – you don't expect him to. He only came here because you asked, and from what you understand of him, he didn't want to be alone. Neither do you. Two lost souls fit to burst at any second, and here you are, sitting on hot rocks on the edge of a waterfall, waiting for your inevitable death. Because who’s to say either of you will survive?
The Mark burns bright on his skin, the sun’s rays baring it for the world to see. You have the urge to cover it with your hand – no one needs to see his willing affliction. He used to cover it, but now he wears it without shame. Because it’s changed him, and there’s no going back from that. If you could go back, you would talk him out of it. Tell him the end result isn’t worth the pain he will endure. There might be other ways to kill Abaddon. You would’ve found another way –there’s always another way. But he’s stubborn and set in his ways. Even then, your words would’ve fallen on deaf ears.
“If it’s any consolation,” you add, “I wish we could go back to the start.” Where things were simpler, where there was only the apocalypse to worry about. Not Angels and Demons at every turn, vying for your heads. The three of you subverted the end of the world – why couldn't you this? Because God is cruel and none of you are supposed to live for much longer. Maybe this time, you could go out like you were meant to. With each other, brothers in arms, fighting the good fight.
You weren’t meant to have a happy ending, anyway.
At your side, you hear a sigh. Not one of agitation, but of defeat. Because this is how it is. His soul, once the brightest thing you’ve ever set eyes on, the purest thing your hands have had the chance to grace, is a tarnished shell, possessed by a darkness you can’t cure with the touch of your fingers. Your grace is killing you from the inside out. You barely have the strength to function, but you do. For him. Because if one of you deserves to have a chance at happiness in this world, it’s him. Always and forever, him.
A breeze blows through the pines, scattering dead leaves, a few falling into the drop off. You watch them in sympathy. They lived as they died – oblivious to the world around them, living in the moment. If only you could do the same. “I’m sorry,” you hear from him, his face a perfect portrait of concentration and placidity. But his voice is wavering. Of everything at his fingertips he can control, it’s his voice that breaks first. He wants to express emotion, he wants to care, but he can’t. He’s not himself. There’s still a little boy inside of him craving touch, affection, love. But the Mark permits nothing of the sort. It wants blood, death. Despair. And there’s nothing you can do about it.
So you let it run its course until you find a solution. That itself is a feat. You don’t see a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Neither does he. You take one of his hands and pull it from his chin, touching your palms together. The gesture means nothing, but you ache for the warmth of his skin against yours. He’s not as cold blooded as he thinks. His eyes meet yours –there’s longing there, regret pooling deep in green irises. For the first time, you want to cry.
Because this is what he is and this is what you are, and you can’t turn back now. Might as well fall off this cliff together. So you ask him, “Do you trust me?”
To which he replies, as he always has, “…I trust you, Cas.”
You pull him to his feet with your fingers linked, leading him to the edge. You stand four feet from the drop, the roar of the falls drowning out the voices of those nearby. You are the only ones in existence, hand in hand, looking out towards your destiny. This is the last thing you can do for each other. Your situation is inescapable. You’re going to die. But you can have this one memory before you fade off into the void of existence, before he succumbs to who he was always meant to be.
You turn to him. He turns to you. Your grip tightens – this is the closest to love you’ve ever felt. To love you’ll ever feel. It’ll always go unspoken. But you have this. You’ll always have this.
You jump head first with him at your side into the cold Alabama waters, and for those few brief seconds, you feel like you can fly once again.