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The box is old, made out of tin, with dark stains coloring the lid, a few small dents slightly misshaping it. But it still closes, and that's all that matters.
Castiel uses the badge Dean gave him for his picture. Since the personal details on the badge are deceptive, Cas cuts out only the part with his photo, just to be safe. He feels a pang of sadness, destroying the badge after holding on to it so carefully for years, but he doesn't indulge it. Besides, he has no other option; it's the only picture of himself that he has.
The graveyard dirt is easy to acquire and the bunker possesses a humble inventory of animal bones, black cat among them.
Cas picks a bad night to do it. The ground is frozen and difficult, hardened by the day's rain that, earlier, must have made it damp. The air is harshly cold, scraping the back of Cas's throat, stiffening his fingers as they dig. At least he can see what he's doing. The moon is out from behind the clouds, full and ethereally bright, ghosting the crossroads in dubious shades of blue. Cas packs the broken clumped earth back down over the box and stands up. He does his best to ignore the way anxiety spreads through his chest, like hot metal pouring into a mold.
He folds his arms over his chest, Sam's jacket too big for his smaller frame, bunching at the elbows and the shoulders, and glares preemptively at the air in front of him. He waits.
“Damn it, Cas,” says a voice behind him.
Cas supposes he shouldn't be surprised. It makes a vague sort of sense that Dean would be the first demon to hear Cas's call, after Cas had spent so long hearing Dean's prayers.
Still, it's strange, disorienting, after so many failed attempts of Cas's and Sam's to summon Dean specifically – turns out the mark had made him too powerful to be found that way – for him to suddenly just be here. For something to finally work, the one time he isn't even trying.
Cas turns around.
He can no longer see souls, no longer see demon's true faces. All he sees is Dean's leather jacket sheening dully in the distance, Dean's half-bracing stance, hands curled into frustrated fists at his sides, Dean's glittering black eyes.
“What do you want?” Dean growls.
It's a terrible question that seems to gut Cas, empty out everything that he wishes to keep secret. It makes him feel exposed even without answering it.
“And feel free to take your time. Not like I got anything else to do today.”
Cas doesn't have much time to process the reunion, but he wonders, briefly, how Dean ended up with this job. Given the mark and the Blade, Cas would have expected Dean to hold a higher position. An idea occurs to him. Maybe Dean chose it himself, to keep himself away from the racks, to try to stay above water a little while longer. Cas doesn't get his hopes up.
And yet. If it's true, then the only reason Cas was able to find Dean was because he still, in some way, wanted to be found.
“I need to save someone,” Cas says resolutely.
“Then go save 'em.”
“There once was a time when I could. Now I need your help.”
Dean inclines his head a little, jaw set. Unwelcoming. Cas isn't afraid of Dean hurting him but he's afraid of something. A vague background-flitting human fear he can't put his finger on, triggered mostly by the apathy of his black eyes.
“I need you to raise Dean Winchester from perdition,” Cas says, staring into those eyes anyway.
“Why should I do that?”
“Because he won't save himself. I can bargain,” Cas adds. “I have a soul.”
Dean raises his eyebrows, mock-impressed. “You finally figured it out, huh? That that was the reason your stolen grace couldn't take?”
“I knew all along,” Cas says.
It's sort of true. After taking Theo's grace, Cas had felt that he was still somehow primarily anchored to humanity. He just hadn't realized there was an actual metaphysical truth to it. Thought he was only being sentimental. After he'd begun to suspect there was more to it, he'd had Sam extract the rest of the fading grace, and had found himself alive and human at the end of it.
Had found a bargaining chip.
He's not stupid. He knows deals with demons are imprudent. And evil. He has nothing but the worst, most acutely awful memories of the alliance he'd forged with Crowley. But this is on much smaller a scale. And compared to the way things are, this is an infinitely better alternative.
“You know we can't pull souls out of Hell, right? Kinda above our paygrade.”
“I know you rarely do what you're told,” Cas observes.
“Heh,” Dean laughs, a single puff of air, and smiles at the ground with the corner of his mouth. Suddenly, his eyes are green. “You have no idea.”
For a moment, everything seems, well-- normal. Dean and Cas just talking, catching up after being separated for too long, a situation they find themselves in more often than not.
But they're not catching up. Dean says nothing about his past two months in Hell. His struggles or victories, hardships or accomplishments; he keeps it all to himself and the window slowly closes again, the air expands the distance between them. Cas tells himself this is not real pain he feels, at being left out, not knowing what Dean has been doing, how Dean has been living. (Rather, existing.) Not a real cut, to be made a stranger here. Because what else had he been expecting? Dean blinks and his eyes are black again and Cas knows: this is about Dean. Dean's the one in trouble. This isn't about the bitter, tight ache in Cas's own chest. This isn't about Cas at all.
“Yeah, gonna have to pass on your offer,” Dean says casually. “Too much work. I'm just too lazy for that. Well, it's been fun.” He raises his hand to snap his fingers. Cas is shocked by how much it looks like Crowley, how indifferent and mindless Dean's imitation is. Even if Dean weren't about the teleport, Cas would try to stop him just for the unbearably ugly similarity, for the righteous anger it sparks in him.
“Wait! At least let me make my case." Cas reaches out for no reason, since laying a hand on Dean would not have the power to make him stay. Just a senseless human impulse. His heart is like a violently plucked string in his chest.
Dean's hand freezes. He doesn't teleport after all. He rolls his eyes and groans. “For fuck's sake.”
But it's a second chance, and Cas takes it.
“Dean Winchester is worth saving,” Cas says.
“Nice pitch,” Dean says, after a long pause, “real compelling.” Another pause. “Usually this is the part where you give reasons.”
Cas doesn't know the reasons. He's never really thought about it, he realizes. Never considered it to need thoughts. It's just a fact, like the existence of Heaven, like the endless patterns of the cosmos. Something eternal, self-evident. Cas doesn't know how to answer.
But he has to.
“He doesn't belong in Hell. Things should always be where they belong.” This is a reason, maybe. Cas has always believed in the concept of belonging. Though maybe this is one of the things that has caused him so much suffering. “Dean belongs with his brother. And his car.” Because. “He belongs on earth, in the sun, so that others can see him, see all the good he does. So that he can laugh and enjoy good food and sing to his favorite music and be with his friends. So that he can feel his own warmth. He is cold in Hell. He is alone. He is a long way from home.”
“So?”
Cas knows he is less than stellar with words, but even so, he's unprepared for Dean's sneering response.
Like Dean knows something Cas doesn't that invalidates Cas's words completely, takes all the power out of them. Like Cas hasn't seen Dean in Hell before, like he never read his mind or caught glimpses of his nightmares when he visited Dean's dreams. Like none of Cas's potential knowledge means a thing.
“So, it's not fair.”
Dean meets his eyes, vaguely defiant, chest rising slightly.
Doesn't say anything.
“There is nothing for you in Hell, Dean,” Cas says through grit teeth, incredulous. “Perdition is nothing like you.”
“Sure does like me, though.” Dean smiles menacingly. “That was a joke. Doesn't really like me at all.”
“How can you act like this?” Cas demands. And then he does know what to say. “You've been raised from Hell before. Don't you remember what it felt like? Those memories are still in you; what it felt like to be saved that first time.”
Alarm flashes across Dean's face. “Stop,” he says.
“How jarring, how-- shattering it must have been. Being able to see instantly that the 'you' in Hell was not the real you.”
“I said shut up,” Dean warns.
“You knew when I resurrected you that you had gone mad in Hell. You had been doing things the real you would never do--”
“DAMN IT, CAS,” Dean barks. “When you pulled me out of the pit, all I could think about was how I deserved to be thrown right back in.”
“But you didn't want to be,” Cas says.
It's vital.
Like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place, like the right key turning in a lock. The black in Dean's eyes dissipates like fog. Cas has found him.
He is afraid. Cas can hardly stand the fear in Dean's eyes but he needs it in order to reach him.
“I saw your nightmares. I heard your accidental prayers. Hell terrified you. You never wanted to go back.”
Silence. Nothing stirs in the wheat fields pressing along the road. Cas's breath fogs in the lifeless moonlit air.
Cas realizes, in that silence, that his face is wet and that the corner of his mouth tastes salty. He is unimpressed with himself.
“The things I've done since I've been back, Cas,” Dean says in a voice that is completely hopeless. That makes Cas want to turn back time and change the conversation so that he never has to hear it, never has to feel so miserably guilty.
“They don't matter,” Cas insists fiercely.
“I tried to stay out of it as much as I could, tried to get by without, you know? But I just keep getting dragged back down.”
Cas puts his hand to the side of Dean's face, forgetting for a moment that he is not an angel, that this will not fix Dean like it did the last time, and also that Dean is a demon, that there is a dangerous element of unpredictability to him even like this. But Dean doesn't lash out. He doesn't pin Cas down or send Cas flying, doesn't repulse Cas's hand. Doesn't recoil or flinch. “Hey,” Cas says, “Listen to me.” Look at me, he means, but Dean doesn't look at him. “It doesn't matter. It doesn't change who you are.” Dean is benign beneath Cas's hand, his breath slow on Cas's wrist. Maybe it's Cas's imagination, but Dean seems to lean, ever so slightly, into Cas's hand.
“You're forgetting I'm the bonus pack,” Dean's lip curls a little, ugly and in bitter abandon. “Special edition. I have the mark and the Blade too.”
“They make it more difficult,” Cas replies, “but that's all. Dean. If we make a deal here, the contract can't be broken. You will get out.”
Dean tears himself away, looks at Cas with a sort of angry exasperation, black flickering but not quite congealing over his eyes again. “Fuck, Cas, I'm not a crossroads demon.”
Cas frowns. “Then why are you here?”
“You think I'd let you do something this fucking stupid?” Dean snaps.
Cas blinks, uncomprehending at first. Then he is increasingly indignant. He doesn't appreciate his own plans getting shut down. “You and Sam have both--” he starts.
“Yeah. Exactly. If there was one thing I could never figure out about you, it was why you were always so damn set on copying us.”
“Dean, this will fix the problem.” Cas is yelling. Because he's panicking. He shoves his panic back down. “This is the solution.”
“No, Cas. This is pretty fucking sad, is what it is. Look at us. Look at how fucked we are.”
Cas can agree with that.
This is a far cry from when Cas had pulled Dean out of Hell. A far cry from Cas bursting through the shed door in a storm of sparks and a tidal wave of unfurling wings. This time, Cas only has his flat, flightless words, and his plan which is already failing miserably.
“It will still save you.”
“Maybe,” Dean says, uninterested. “Maybe not. The bottom line is, you're not selling your soul. Not you, Cas. Not anyone, but especially not you.”
“So,” Cas's lip quivers a little, bitter, “this was a waste of a trip. Is that what you're saying?”
Dean closes his mouth after a moment, works a muscle in his jaw.
“Come back with me, then. Let me and Sam cure you.”
“Oh sure. I'll just pack up my things, sneak out the back during karaoke. Sure no one will notice a missing Knight of Hell. Come round to the bunker, sit myself down for a little demon therapy. When it really starts to freak me out, I'm sure your devil traps will be enough stop me from escaping, or, you know, murdering your stupid asses. Never mind that neither of you can even come up with a strong enough spell to summon me with. I'm sure it'll be smooth sailing,” he cuts the air horizontally, sarcastically. It makes him look suddenly so much like himself that Cas feels a small rush of hope.
“Let us try. Dean. Dean. You don't have to go back there.” Cas knows he sounds desperate, lets his heart show through his words anyway. “Just come home.”
Dean stares at him. His expression grows very serious, deep and heavy, becomes, as far as Cas is concerned, as significant as the core of a small planet. But Dean's prolonged silence is not one of self-debate. He looks Cas up and down, all eyelashes and green eyes, a welcome sight that yet makes Cas's heart quiver forebodingly. He takes both sides of Cas's unzipped jacket and pulls them more tightly around Cas. He folds Cas's arms over Cas's stomach to pin the jacket in place. Then he wraps his own arms around Cas, holds him close and buries his face in Cas's shoulder. Cas smells sulfur and blood, smells acrid, pungent smells, fumes and flesh and smoke. (These are exaggerated. Cas is still readjusting to human sensation again and so is frequently being overwhelmed by them.) Dean tries to keep him warm, for all that Dean is now a creature of the ice. And he does.
“I'll just keep trying,” Cas says, resentful. Resentful that he has failed. Resentful that he likes the way Dean is holding him, that it's comforting, that it makes Cas feel selfish, at entirely the wrong time. “I'll just keep summoning at crossroads.”
Dean begins to growl, then resigns himself. “Of course you will,” he murmurs, close to Cas's ear. “Gotta keep the 'ass' in Cas somehow.”
“Come back,” Cas tries again.
“This won't last long enough.”
“It can.” The bones of Dean's face are a comforting weight against the bones of Cas's shoulder. Cas shifts his arms out from under Dean and brings a hand to the back of Dean's head, splays his fingers through Dean's hair, holds Dean against him. As if he can hold the moment, too, suspend it in time. But his hands no longer have that power, for all that this feels natural, feels right.
“You gotta understand, Cas,” Dean says miserably. “You're the one thing I'm doing right. This. Keeping you alive, uncontracted. This is it. When I go back to the pit, I'm gone. Cas,” Dean lifts his head slowly. “I...” he trails off. Brushes his cheek lightly against Cas's.
“How do I help you? What do you need?”
Dean shakes his head a little, stares at Cas with broken eyes. Seems on the verge of trying to articulate it, then shakes his head again.
No, Cas realizes, at the same time Dean does. There aren't any words for this.
They kiss at the crossroads.
And no contract brands itself across Cas's skin, no promise is forged in the unpleasant, corrosive mingling of their breath. Their mouths are empty, hollow. It feels right but it feels all wrong. A defeat. In the distance, Cas hears nothing. Just silence so vast that Cas feels smaller and more powerless than ever.
Dean pulls away reluctantly, keeps his eyes lowered but his face close.
“I'll keep coming after you.” Cas isn't making a promise. He's stating a fact. “I will never abandon you.”
Dean doesn't reply. Cas doesn't expect him to. He shoves something into Cas's stomach, something cold and hard-edged. The moment Cas takes it, Dean disappears.
It's the box Cas had buried.
Cas opens it, his fingers shaking slightly. Nothing of the original items remains inside except a pile of ash. Dean has burned it all up, including Cas's photograph. Cas runs his fingertips through the ash. Rubs it between his fingers.
And then he's slammed with anger, desperate and blinding. He thinks about Dean's head resting on his shoulder, about the way Dean had found peace in that moment, and he wants to throw the box against the side of his car, he wants to smite it, send it into the ground again like a flaming comet. He wants to stab Metatron like he didn't in Metatron's office, wants to tear Metatron's grace out ounce by ounce and choke him with it, use it to carve Metatron into a bomb, wants to tie Metatron to a pyre of it and watch him burn. He wants to smite Crowley until even the vessel is gone. He can't do those things, which makes him even more furious. He lifts the box up all at once, winds his arm back sharply.
Stops.
Turns the box upside down and dumps the ashes out of it instead.
An outburst would help no one. Would only waste energy and will Cas can't afford to waste. He must conserve his rage, channel it toward new ideas, new ways of finding Dean. He breathes in and out until he is calmer, until the cold air has cooled him down again. It's simple. He must carry on as he always has.
He takes the box back with him to his car, closing the lid carefully even though there's nothing inside.