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Sam Winchester is hovering near the doorway, unsure.
After they’d rushed home, they found Dean on the floor of the dungeon, blood staining his jacket, eyes somewhere far away. He didn’t say a word when they came in, just slowly looked up at Sam and let a shaky breath slip from between his lips.
That had been over six hours ago.
He managed to get Dean to the library eventually, where he sat slumped at the table, nursing a bottle of whiskey in complete silence, and it was there he sat now -- head in his hands. Sam doesn’t know how to approach this. He needs to know what happened, but he can see the raw, festering pain simmering just underneath Dean’s skin. He would do anything not to make it worse.
And, yet.
He slides into the seat opposite of his brother, pours himself a modest drink, and says nothing. They sit like that for what feels like forever, until Dean finally clears his throat. Sam eyes the whiskey bottle dubiously. It’s empty, now. He raises his gaze to meet Dean’s steadily, but Dean is staring at his hands folded on top of the table in disbelief. His mouth opens and closes a few times. No sound comes out. He shakes his head, as if to clear it.
“What happened?” Sam offers.
“The Empty,” he starts, but the rest of the explanation gets caught up in a small, choked sob. He scrubs a hand over his face. “Took him.” Sam knows there’s more. He waits. Minutes pass. Dean toys with the rim of his empty glass. Eventually, he whispers, “He made a deal to save Jack, apparently. Said The Empty would come for him when he had a moment of -- I don’t know -- true happiness, or whatever the hell that means.”
He’s giving Sam the pieces, and Sam goes to work slotting them together. Here, there -- no, this one. He’s starting to see the image, but he’s afraid to look at it fully. His stomach churns. Dean lets out a laugh, but it’s a ruined, treacherous thing. “He told me.” He sucks in a breath, ragged and staggering. He has to take several more. Tears run down his face, hot and fresh and fast. “Told me the truth.”
Sam thinks of Cas in the backseat of the Impala, where he thought no one else could see him, eyes tracing the line of Dean’s shoulders, the shell of his ear, the tilt of his smile, over and over and over again. His stomach pitches and sours. He looks to his hands. This is all Dean can muster, it seems, because they both fall silent after that for what feels like another hour. Sam is trying not to think about Eileen. He’s trying not to think about Donna, Charlie, and everybody else they just lost. He’s trying not to picture the ruined look on Cas’ face as he finally told Dean he loved him.
“We’ll get him back,” Sam says, surprised at the hardness of his own voice. “We’ll get them all back, Dean.”
Dean looks at him for the first time, and Sam almost wishes he hadn’t. There’s no light in his eyes, red rimmed and swollen as they are. There’s nothing in him, at all. But he nods, he breathes. He doesn’t fight him.
//
With Chuck a diminishing speck in the rearview mirror, Jack watches the world rush by outside the impala’s windows with a strange sense of disappointment mounting inside of him. He doesn’t feel much different, truth be told, but he knows this means things have changed irrevocably. For him, and for the Winchesters. He knows he’ll never get to go home again.
He looks to the empty seat next to him, and with a small smile realizes he can bring Cas home, at least. He raises his fingers, poised to snap, when something inside him tells him to stop. It takes almost a full minute for him to realize it’s Amara, whispering to him from the very center of his being:
“Not yet.”
//
Now that everyone’s back, with the world once again righted, their first stop is to pick up Eileen.
Dean’s so busy calling every number in his contacts to double check they’re all home, that he barely notices Sam and Eileen in the backseat, wrapped around each other like if they separate the other might disappear again. He calls Jody, Donna, Garth. He calls Jody twice, actually. Her laughter eases something in Dean that he doesn’t quite have a name for. He’s sure it’ll catch up to him, eventually.
Back at the bunker, Sam offers him one sad, sheepish glance, and disappears with Eileen into the relative darkness of the hallway. He watches after them for a beat, unsure of what to do with himself. Eventually he pours himself a drink, and then another when he finishes the first. He traces their initials on the tabletop with his index finger, eyes blurry and unfocused. Around drink number three, he pops open his pocket knife and starts carving Jack’s name where it belongs.
By drink number four, his hands are shaking.
He stands and paces the library, flipping his knife over in his hand, considering. What would he have preferred? Cas? Castiel? Dean almost just carves a simple C.W. -- because if anyone was a Winchester, it was definitely Cas -- but he’d felt a strange kind of shame in it. It felt presumptuous, somehow. Possessive. Maybe if Cas were here to carve it himself…
He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, trying valiantly to ignore the ache growing inside of him the longer he thinks about it. He settles on Castiel in the end, and if he cries the entire time, no one’s around to see it, so he calls it a win.
//
Sam knocks on Dean’s bedroom door in the morning, gently at first, and then a little louder when he gets no answer. He cracks it open a sliver, peers inside, but finds the bed empty and perfectly made. He’s turning to move towards the kitchen when he notices the door to Cas’ room is slightly ajar, and feels a fresh, icy dread course through him.
Dean didn’t make it into the bed, and is instead kneeling beside it like a child in prayer, his head pillowed on his arms. His eyes, even in sleep, are red from crying, and on the ground beside him lies an empty bottle of whiskey and a broken picture frame.
Sam moves quietly, one hand in between Dean’s shoulder blades, the other on his arm. “Dean,” he says, and his brother stirs but doesn’t open his eyes. “Dean, let's get you to bed.”
Dean doesn’t move, so Sam gets a hand around his waist and drags him up onto the mattress, instead. He burrows into Cas’ pillow without any fuss, his hand flexing protectively around a small black object he’s holding against his chest. Sam tries to take it, afraid whatever it is will break, but Dean’s grip is vice like. He refuses to let go, even black out drunk and dead to the world. Giving up, he works Dean’s boots off one at a time, pulls the blanket up around his shoulders, and leaves quietly the way he came, flipping the light off as he goes.
In the kitchen, after he explains where he found him, Eileen asks what he thinks Dean was holding. Sam hesitates, and then slow and fumbling signs - “I think it was a mixtape.”
//
Jack waits.
He knows it will follow, like a clap of thunder after lightning.
And then one day, soft and hesitant, Dean calls out to him -- “Jack? Can you hear me?”
He spreads his wings, and the next moment he’s in Dean’s bedroom, one hand held up in greeting. Dean startles when he realizes he’s no longer alone, but there’s a clear relief that wins out over any annoyance he might have felt at Jack’s abrupt entrance. They’re silent for an awkward beat, and then Dean clears his throat and stands to approach him. “Thought you were hands off?”
Jack grins.
“I am, but this is different.”
Dean scoffs. “Yeah? How’s that?”
“Because you want to ask me something.”
Dean falters and looks to his feet. He takes a deep breath, seemingly shrinking before Jack’s very eyes. This man, who had once seemed so impossible and unknowable, now so fragile and soft. So human. “I know I don’t really have the right to ask you for anything, Jack. After everything I --” he stops himself and exhales shakily, running a hand backwards through his hair. “Can you do it?”
Jack cants his head to one side and does his best not to notice Dean’s almost imperceptible flinch. “Do what, Dean?”
“Bring him back.”
For a long time, Jack says nothing. Long enough that Dean starts to grow noticeably uncomfortable. Amara, from where she’s carved a space for herself, says -- “Balance.”
“No, I can’t.” Jack answers thinly. He watches Dean’s face crumple into what can only be described as abject agony, tears welling in his widened eyes. He tracks the trajectory of a single tear all the way down to his chin before he lifts his fingers and snaps loudly. A portal leaps open behind him, an angry red scar against the room, through which only darkness waits. “But you can.”
If Jack tried to say it wasn’t ultimately all a test, he would’ve been lying. He knew what Castiel would do for Dean Winchester, and he had lost him because of it. He wanted to see if Dean Winchester would do the same for Castiel. To his credit, Dean doesn’t hesitate. Not even for a second. He takes off stumbling towards the portal so quickly that Jack has to stop him and remind him to bring a weapon, at the very least.
Angel blade in one hand, the demon killing knife in another, he stands at the entrance and takes a deep, steadying breath. A small smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “Hey kid, will you tell Sammy I’ll be right back?”
Jack nods and tries to hide his smile.
“Good luck, Dean.”
He’s through the portal before Jack even finishes saying his name.
//
The Empty is chaos.
Whatever Dean expected, it wasn’t this.
What should have been never ending, suffocating darkness is alight with grace; bright, thunderous flashes strobing from every direction. He squints against it uncomfortably, and as his eyes adjust, notices the unmistakable twist of black smoke flowing alongside the bursts of light. Adjusting his grip on the blades at his sides, Dean swallows roughly, and prays that they’ll be too busy to notice him.
This, unfortunately, is not the case.
Almost immediately, the sound of mountains moving, a burst of light, and then before him -- three angels. He doesn’t recognize them, but he doesn’t really need to. He sees the intent in their eyes, he knows what’s about to happen. Squaring himself for the onslaught, he tries his best to smile.
The first angel falls for his misstep and all but impales itself on the angel blade. The light intensifies, gutters, and then disappears along with the body back into the darkness. He sneers at the other two, “So you can die here, huh?”
“Not quite,” Stunt angel number one says, descending on him in a blur. In between taking a fist to the nose and trying to stagger to his feet, there’s another raucous clap of energy. When the stars clear from his vision, he realizes someone is between him and the angels -- six golden wings flared in warning.
“Beat it,” and the voice is familiar enough that Dean finds himself laughing.
The angels decide facing off with an archangel isn’t worth getting to Dean Winchester, and promptly disappear back into the nothingness. Gabriel turns around with a lopsided grin and a dramatically arched eyebrow, “Deano!”
Dean almost hugs him. He almost runs and wraps his arms around his stupid, small little shoulders, but he stops himself at the last second. “Son of a bitch,” he breathes, shaking his head. “It’s good to see you, Gabriel.”
Gabriel saunters over, a knowing look in his hazel eyes. “Let me guess, here for our dear Cas?” Dean nods mutely, unsure of what his face might betray, because Gabriel’s gaze suddenly softens and he hums. “I had hoped so -- always rooted for that little weirdo.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Approximately. You’re gonna need help getting to him.” Dean opens his mouth, but Gabriel bowls over him. “I mean, seriously, Dean. Every angel and demon you and your brother ever killed is here -- and they’re pissed.”
“You think?” Dean deadpans.
Another shudder of energy, and to Gabriel’s left appears a face Dean had almost all but forgotten. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says in his slow, british drawl. “You’re just full of surprises.”
Gabriel barely reacts to his appearance. “Oh hey, Balthazar,” he comments dryly.
Balthazar inclines his chin towards Gabriel slightly, but his eyes never leave Dean’s. “Heard there was a visitor -- could scarcely believe the whispers when they said it was the Dean Winchester, though.”
“Can you take me to him?” The reality of the situation is slowly settling into Dean’s bones now, and the fearful tremor it causes begs for action. He needs to move. He needs to get Cas out of here.
Balthazar’s face darkens, but he nods. Gabriel rolls his shoulders and turns on his heel. “We’ve got to move quickly,” he says, head swiveling from left to right. “No doubt the angels and demons felt your entrance, but if the Empty catches on, it’s game over kiddo.”
They run through the nothingness, once or twice squaring off against a cloud of black smoke or a flash of white-hot righteous anger. One look from Gabriel seems to send most of them scattering, but Dean’s beginning to doubt how long that particular tactic will hold up.
There’s frustratingly no real indication that they’ve traveled any distance save for the burning in Dean’s thighs and lungs. Eventually though, a light on the horizon starts to swim into view. It’s familiar, somehow. Still too far away to say for sure, but his heart leaps into his throat in that unique way that only ever follows in Castiel’s wake, so he’d hazard a guess that it’s his.
Gabriel grinds to a halt and curses hotly under his breath. The next instant they’re surrounded. A quick glance shows not only angels, but demons as well, ravenous and hateful. He can recognize a few of the faces, watched the light in their eyes die at the end of his blade, and a sense of dread curls around him like an old friend.
A clap of energy, a burst of light. Another. Two more bodies between him and the growing crowd. He recognizes Anna briefly, but her back is to him and her shoulders are drawn up, ready for the fight. The kid next to her flashes him a small, nervous smile. He thinks, Alfie? but Gabriel grabs him by the shoulder and forces him back to attention. “Dean!” Gabriel’s wings shift restlessly on either side of him, massive in comparison to his body. “We’re going to cover you. Just keep heading towards the light, okay?”
Dean takes a breath and sets his shoulders. Another flash of energy and -- Zeke? No, Gadreel. The woman next to him looks familiar, as well. Hannah, maybe. He shakes himself free of his thoughts and looks at the light on the horizon, a sudden resolve replacing any anxiety. With a signal from Gabriel, he takes off at a sprint.
He’s conscious of things grabbing for him, hands and claws and teeth, but he pushes through them with ease. The sounds of battle erupt all around him, a cacophony that beats alongside the pounding of his pulse as he gets closer. Black smoke twists past him, keeping time with his footfalls. There’s no identifying features, no way to know for sure, but he hears a voice somewhere in his head that sounds a lot like Meg’s telling him to hurry the fuck up.
The next second a plume of red smoke blasts past him, and he watches it clear a path through the bodies amassing ahead of them. Crowley’s laughter bounces around his head, slow and soft like velvet. He feels something swelling inside him he can’t really name, and knows, with certainty, this isn’t for his benefit -- that none of them are here for Dean.
This is all for Cas.
Cas who thought he was undeserving of the love he gave to everyone else.
And yet here it was, all of it, everyone he’d ever touched, coming to save him.
Closer now, Dean sees Cas strung up like he’s been crucified, black tendrils holding him aloft by the wrists and ankles. The Empty had wanted to make an example of him, a warning, but all it does is light a brighter fire in Dean’s gut. He snarls and pushes his body past it’s breaking point, desperate to get to him, desperate to take him home.
His eyes are closed, eyelashes fanning across his pale, slack face. Wherever he is, he’s dreaming. He’s far, far away. Dean clambers to a stop in front of him, screaming his name, but Cas makes no indication he’s heard him. He takes him by the shoulders, shakes him soundly, but nothing changes.
“You have to wake him up!” Gabriel shouts.
“Yeah, thanks!” Dean whirls around and screams, “How?”
In perfect, fed up unison, Gabriel, Balthazar, and Anna scream back -- “How do you think?”
A stone hits bottom in Dean’s stomach. He sinks with it briefly, then buoys all his courage and surges forward, hands fisted in Castiel’s coat, and smashes their lips together in a harsh, bruising kiss. The sounds of battle around them fades to nothing. Dean can hear his heart beat, the shaky intake of breath through his nose, and nothing else.
Then, a stirring of energy, a familiar static dancing against his lips. Something is building around him, some endless, timeless thing. He feels the light on his eyelids, but won’t open them to it, not yet. A snap as something breaks free, and then, slowly, almost hesitantly, hands slide up his arms, cup either side of his face.
Dean pulls away far enough to see the shine of Cas’ eyes, wide and incredulous. They breathe together, and then Cas says his name on the tail end of a sigh and they’re kissing again. Fast and urgent and --
“Dean!” Gabriel screams, tearing his attention away. “The Empty!”
Cas grips Dean around the waist, and in the next breath they’re with Gabriel and the rest inside the tight circle they’ve formed. The demons and the angels they’d been fighting slink away one by one, as a presence so hateful and dark surges towards them that even Gabriel falters briefly.
“Gabriel,” Cas says, and Dean feels it rumble against his chest. “My wings.”
Gabriel grimaces. He shares a look with Anna, who nods, and rallies the others to her side. Balthazar appears and grabs Dean by the shoulder. “Hang on,” he clips, and then they’re in the air, soaring so fast he’s not sure even the Impala could hope to match it. He cranes his neck desperately to one side, warm relief flooding through him as he clocks Gabriel and Cas a few feet away, gaining speed.
The archangel is screaming something, but the rush of wind in his ears makes it impossible to hear. He catches bits and pieces. “Your grace” and “let go” he thinks, but then the portal Jack created starts to grow larger in front of them, and Dean loses whatever else might have been said to the pounding of his own heartbeat. Almost there, almost there, almost --
Balthazar loosens his grip, and then Dean’s on his bedroom floor, skidding across the concrete hard enough to bruise his forearms where they fly out to try and brace his fall. He looks up just in time to see Cas come through after him in an inelegant heap. Jack, from where he had been standing vigil in the corner, raises his fingers to snap but Cas screams -- “Wait!”
Before Dean can even process what he’s doing, Cas plunges a hand into his own chest, and screaming through gritted teeth, wrestles out a ball of pulsating, living light. He holds it between them for a second, almost unsure, and then tosses it to the portal. Jack snaps his fingers, the rift seals definitively, and then Cas collapses bonelessly across Dean’s chest like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
“He’s okay, Dean.” Jack says before Dean can cry out. He kneels beside them, lays a hand across Castiel’s forehead and smiles, wide and bright and brilliant. “He just needs to rest.”
Sam barges in moments later screaming for Dean, but anything else he might have said dies when he sees Cas curled up against his chest. They share a look, and Sam smiles so wide Dean thinks his face might split from the effort of it.
“Heya, Sammy.”
//
Cas sleeps on and off for two days straight.
When he opens his eyes, Dean’s slumped over in a chair next to his bed, fast asleep. He only has to clear his throat once for Dean’s eyes to snap open, and then he’s there, hands all over him -- pushing back his fringe to check if he’s feverish, finding the pulse point on his neck and counting along.
Cas tries to fight the smile that grows the longer Dean fusses over him, but when Dean sees it he beams back so he thinks -- why should he? Then he remembers how he got here and he feels a sinking in his gut as the memories slowly slot into place. Millions of things bottleneck in his throat as he opens his mouth to speak, none of them enough, none of them feeling right. In the end he settles on -- “You came for me.”
“Of course.” Dean’s hand moves to rest over his heart, and it immediately picks up its pace, as if in a desire to be closer to the touch.
“Why?”
Several emotions flash across Dean’s face at once. Guilt, shame, sadness -- for a second, even anger. He deflates with a small laugh, and shaking his head, says, “Good things do happen, Cas.”
It takes Cas a few moments to realize what he’s saying, but once he does, all the air leaves him in an amused rush. He shakes his head, and then pitching his voice somehow even lower, says mockingly -- “Not in my experience.”
Dean rolls his eyes, and then he’s leaning over Cas, lips against his lips, hand over his heart. When he pulls away, his eyes are shining, but there’s a peace in them Cas doesn’t think he’s ever seen before.
“Welcome home, Cas.”