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"You draped yourself in the flag of heaven, but ultimately it was all about saving one human, right? Well, guess what: he's dead, too."
Distantly, Castiel wonders if it's the stolen grace rotting at the core of him or the words themselves that produce a loud ringing in his ear, an off-key dissonant sound that threatens to rattle his bones apart. He doesn't speak. There's a pain blossoming in his chest, a heavy sense of a scream trapped beneath his rib cage, but he does not let it out.
He can't. His throat feels closed up, constricted, wrapped in confusion, disbelief, and loss.
He doesn't even know if he should believe Metatron, sewer of lies and deceit. He lost his grace like this, once, sitting in a chair i heaven with Metatron leering over him. He lost his home. It would be too much, wouldn't it, if he lost his second home--lost Dean--by his hand, too?
There's a stinging at the corners of his eyes. Tears, he knows. The human body's reaction to emotional distress. To pain. Castiel almost wants to laugh at that latter thought. If Dean is dead, no amount of tears could carry that grief away from him. It would pool in him forever, a black, deep chasm in his heart.
But despite it all, Castiel is not ashamed of his weakness. He might have been, once, long ago, when Dean was still jut the Righteous Man and Uriel still a trusted brother at his side. Before they were friends, really, before he was everything--before he became just Dean. He is not ashamed to lose everything for this man, who deserves all that Castiel has to give him, and more. No matter what fate the Mark of Cain has marked out for him, either, will deter Castiel's fierce belief in Dean's goodness, in his greatness, in the home he made for Castiel in his generous, open heart.
An image of that heart bleeding open on the ground flickers across Castiel's vision, and instantly, he feels sick.
***
He leaves Hannah to organise the angels in heaven. She is more capable, more prepared for the task than Castiel thinks he ever was. She is kind, forgiving, but also not inextricably tied to a Winchester bias, and while Castiel does not regret his choice of Dean above all, he knows it makes him ill suited to his former place here. He feels the song of Kansas calling to him. It's time to go home.
***
He arrives at the door of the bunker steeling himself for the worst, but still, against everything, hoping for the best. He holds tightly to the belief that if Dean had died, he would feel it somehow, if not as an angel, than as Castiel, bound forever to this one, glorious human soul.
He find the door has been left ajar, perhaps in a rush, hurry. Castiel clenches his jaw, thinking of what direness or injury would inspire such careless security. He will not think the thought that is looming over him.
He will not.
He walks into the library to find Sam collapsed in a chair at one of the tables, bottle of whiskey beside his arm holding his head over half-empty. A tumbler sits near his head, drunk dry. Castiel moves to wake him, shake him by his shoulder to ask the desperate question on the tip of his tongue, but he retracts his hand quickly. He should let Sam sleep. Whatever has happened tonight, Castiel thinks solemnly, the silence of slumber might be the only respite Sam will find for a long time.
He walks past the library to the corridor leading to the bedrooms. He wonders, briefly, why he had never chosen out one for himself here, despite his attachment to the Winchesters' new home. He knows the answer to his own question, though. He never wanted to give up the hope that soon, someday, Dean would invite him into his.
The door to Dean's bedroom hangs open, the hall shining a dim, yellow glow into the dark room by the threshold. Castiel almost expects to find Dean asleep, but instead, he peers into the room to find a shadowed outline of figure sitting upright on Dean's bed.
Castiel stands in silence for a second, tracing the lines of Dean's hunched over but alive form. He has something in his hand, Castiel then realises, clutched in his lap and illuminated only by the light of the hall.
Dean speaks first.
"You know, I wonder sometimes what my mom would think of me, now," he says, voice rough and raw. Castiel takes a tentative step into the dark room, seeing now that it's a photograph of Mary that Dean holds his hands, the one that has been at his bedside since he moved here.
"After everything I've done, would she--?" Dean's voice cracks, question trailing off into the night. He dare not voice the worry nagging at his back. Castiel takes a final step and sits down on the bed, an arm's reach from Dean.
"She would be proud of you, I think," Castiel says, voice quiet. He feels afraid, though he doesn't know why. Not afraid of Dean per se, but of what happened. Of what still might happens. Of the unknown. Castiel hates not knowing.
He swallows back an acidic bile rising in his throat. Dean's head has still not raised to look at him.
Castiel sniffs the air, and finds a sulphuric scent lingering there, among the walls and sheets, that he had not noticed before. He wonders, bitterly, if it's a remnant of Crowley's presence in their lives again. He wonders if instead it's--no. He shakes that thought away for now.
Dean huffs mirthlessly. "You barely ever knew her."
"No," Castiel agrees, clasping his hands in his lap to stay the idleness tingling in his fingers. With Dean sitting so close yet so far next to him in the dark, Castiel wants to touch. "But I know you," he says. "And I know your mother loved you. She would love you, still."
"You think?" Dean asks, voice strained. Castiel thinks he might have been crying. He sounds young, afraid. Castiel's hand twitches again to reach out.
"I know," Castiel confirms.
"Yeah, yeah..." Dean trails off, not quite denying nor agreeing, and then shakes his head as he sets the photograph back down on the bed stand "Before maybe," he adds, bitterly.
Castiel frowns, no following. "Before what?"
That makes Dean turn to him, eyes wide with confusion and gleaming with unshed tears. "You don't--?" he starts, and then catches himself. He chuckles, but it is a hollow, sad sound. To Castiel's astonishment, he seems ashamed, and Castiel's heart twists in sympathy.
"I don't, what?" Castiel asks gently, finally raising a hand to Dean's shoulder. Dean's gaze falls to look at him, his gentle grip there. Castiel's fingers feel warm. It lingers there for a breathless moment, on his hand, his fingers, as if trying to believe their very presence.
He takes in a shaky breath. "Something happened while you were gone," is all he says, and it's then that Castiel smells it, sees it. He had been so blind before. The sulphuric smell is coming from Dean.
Castiel's grip instantly tightens. He watches Dean blink in shock, perhaps having expected Castiel to pull away. But of course his impulse is the opposite. If Dean is in danger, if he has been transformed into a demon, than Castiel hardly ever wants to again let go. In the back of his mind, a sense of familiarity blossoms, as his fingers curl over the curved of Dean's clothed shoulder. He's been here before.
"Dean, what--?"
"Surprise," Dean tries to joke and smile, but it comes off more as a grimace.
It breaks something in Cas.
"Oh, Dean," he says voice breaking, too, and then encircles his arms around him.
At first Dean is shock still, but gradually he loosens, and sinks into Castiel's embrace. Beneath the sulphur, Castiel can still smell him, that Dean-like smell of sweat and oil and car seat leather. Castiel can't help but crack a small smile at it, as his arms tighten and Dean's rise to meet him. If there is one thing that will never break, even after Castiel himself does, it's Dean's sheer resilience to be alive.
"I'm sorry I wasn't--" there, Castiel wants to say, but the word sticks in his throat. Maybe being there would have been worse, watching Dean beneath Metatron's blade, on the cusp of rebirth into the abyss.
"You couldn't have stopped it," Dean whispers, voice full of regret as he pulls back from Castiel's arms.
"Well, I'm here now," Castiel concedes, as he lets his own arms fall. They feel heavy with the loss of contact.
Dean ducks his head. "Sorry there wasn't much to come back to," he mumbles.
"No, Dean," Castiel is quick so say, reaching back for Dean's hands where they lay dejected in his lap. He clasps Dean's hands in his as he catches his eye, those rough, worn, warrior's hands. In many ways, despite all their difference, they will always be the same.
"There is everything."