Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Act of Falling
Below the surface of guilt and shame was something else. This wasn’t familiar anger, cold and bone-deep. This wasn’t flickering happiness; in the warm pastry of an apple pie, the autumn sunshine on the shiny black exterior of his car. This wasn’t even the edge of desperate confusion within him: dizzying desire for something unnamed, or the years and miles pulling him back from that dive.
Dean felt...he felt something. Problem was, he wasn’t sure what. He was certain it involved the angel, lost forever to the Void with a capital V. Nothingness. The Empty. Dean laughed, a small, bitter sound. He was feeling a lot of things right about now, but “empty” wasn’t it.
The oak trees lent whistles and soft whispers to the otherwise still air around him. Dean leaned back on Baby, driven to his elbows by exhaustion of the highest caliber. Though he had tried to avoid looking up at the night sky for reasons all his own, his eyes found their way to the heavens anyways.
Dean could admit that the night was perfect. The stars were sharp and the moon was bright, the light knifing through the sparse clouds. It was pleasantly cool outside for a change, bringing sweet relief from the blazing summer afternoon. In the West, a wall of gray clouds was mounting an offense miles above and away. Dean knew fall was approaching, and with it, more time spent in the bunker with all the ghosts he was currently escaping.
Inexorable: ceaseless, inevitable, unable to be halted. Time, life, death.
Perfect as the night was, it was missing something. Dean knew that this had always been a dangerous path to go down. He had once told Cas,- and god did that hurt to remember,- that he had to forget about the people he couldn’t save in order to protect his own sanity. A million years ago, across a diner table, staring into the face of divinity defined and disabused, he had known that he could never take his own advice. It would be smart, he had thought. It would be so nice to forget. But he couldn’t forget.
And really, how could he have tried? He could never forget his mom, how she had been both everything he loved and hated. How he had seen himself in Mary and had a chance to free the burden of resentment from his heart.
He couldn’t forget Jo, with the tough-as-nails attitude and reckless grin. She had been that grey line in the sand, the one who Dean tried and failed to protect.
Protect Sammy, protect Jo, protect Kevin, Charlie, Jack, Cast-
Yeah, dangerous road. He had failed to protect the people he had loved the most. Sam was alive, certainly. But Dean was certain he’d had to fight to really live ever since he’d pulled him from his apartment in Palo Alto, a silhouette wreathed in flames reflected in his terrified eyes. Survival means nothing without something to live for, and Dean knew he wasn’t Sam’s answer. Hell had proved that. Purgatory had proved that. He didn’t blame him, but he sure as hell blamed himself.
But a strange thing had happened at that table, back when he still had his best friend. Cas had looked through him. “That’s not true. You’re a great role model.”
Dean had brushed it off at the time. He always brushed it off. He had always brushed him off. He hoped Cas knew it wasn’t personal. The angel had always believed in Dean, even when Dean didn’t believe in either of them. Dean had realized something alone in that dungeon, the hardest farewell still echoing silently off the walls of a bereft room, that Cas’ faith in him wasn’t forced. It wasn’t manufactured for his benefit. It wasn’t a delusional byproduct of love. It wasn’t Heaven’s highest order to love what should not be loved. Lucifer and Michael were proof enough of this. The glorious, hideous truth was that Castiel, who had been witness to creation and time and evolution and love and pain of death had seen Dean’s soul at its worst, and it burned bright enough, brighter than even heaven. It burned so bright he fell. The angel of Thursday, God’s shield, Dean’s best friend, had fallen irrecoverably.
So it fucked Dean up every time he thought about it. He couldn’t fathom why Castiel loved him. He knew why Cas said he did, but it didn’t make him believe it any more. But the alternative was that there was something wrong with Cas, some sparking wire or loose bolt. And that was unacceptable, so Dean carried on and tried to be who Cas thought he was. He sipped his beer and tracked a shooting star as it fell. Huh, ironic.
Fall: To fall, falling, the act of descending. Icarus, autumn leaves in dusky red, Lucifer, clumsy children at play, shooting stars, love, seasons, the Angel of Thursday
There was no watch on his wrist to tell him how long he’d been out there, just sitting on the Impala with nothing but his thoughts, the night sky, and a lukewarm beer. He’d left it behind on purpose. He wouldn’t be reminded of the months, days, hours, minutes, seconds since he had watched the death of Heaven’s greatest oversight. And he’d be damned if that didn’t bring a vindictive smile to his face.
His best friend, his Castiel,
Chuck’s downfall.
Of course he was.
Castiel had been the definition of a trouble magnet. Dean remembered a night gone by long ago, one of the rare times he and Sam and Cas weren’t at odds or six feet under. They had been laughing all night, probably celebrating a successful hunt or one day without the world ending. Cas was his usual endearing self, all head-tilts and bemusement at Dean’s side. Because he had never wanted to be anywhere else, right?
A hand gripped his shoulder, and a searing pain shot through him. Around him was popping and flashing and screaming and hellfire, but this pain didn’t feel like damnation. It felt impossibly familiar and foreign.
The conversation turned reminiscent, as it usually did with the Winchesters. A few fingers of whiskey melted residual ice, and a flood of memories came pouring out before they knew it. This was as close to therapy as they could get.
That hand found his shoulder again and again through the years. It was always a measured glimpse of how to be okay again, worlds of stability in a simple touch. “Someone who knows me,” Dean would think to himself, “someone who is still here, someone who will fight by my side until we both go down.” An iota of pressure became the callback to when they were both beings of energy at the start of it all: the light and the dark. An Angel and a near-demon. A celestial wavelength of intent saving the soul of the Righteous Man, again and again and again. Dean had wondered if Cas was channeling grace through his fingertips whenever it happened, whether intentional or not. He knew better than to think it was a piece of heaven now. It had always been Castiel and Castiel alone.
“How many times do you think we’ve died?” Sam knocked back a shot, inhibitions long gone.
Dean frowned in contemplation. “What, altogether? Or are you talking about deaths per person?”
To Dean’s left, Cas’ head tilted in a gesture familiar as the legos in the Impala’s air con unit.
“Why would you want to know that?”
“I mean, it’s not important. I just...you know...I’m curious I guess.” Sam’s eyebrows knit together.
Dean took the liberty of responding, “You died for the first time when you were stabbed. You got struck by lightning at some point. Number three came when Roy and Walt shot us. Anna killed you once. Werewolf hunt took you out. So uh,” he paused, whiskey dimming his mental calculus, “six or seven? Hell if I know.”
Sam nodded.
“Cas, how many times have you died, man?” Sam squinted at the angel, who looked none too pleased to be a part of this morbid discussion. Dean guessed that for the angel who had given up everything to save him and Sam, hearing them discuss death so flippantly had to be irritating. But that was par for the course. People die, angels fall, life goes on.
Despite his obvious chagrin, Cas responded, “Five.”
Dean wondered if Cas would expand on that, but instead he had knocked back his finger of whiskey and risen to his feet abruptly.
“And Dean has died more times than I suspect either of you could count. I know that’s where you two are taking this conversation, right?”
“You got that right, buddy. So wh-”
“119. You’ve died 119 times, Dean,” as soon as Cas noticed Dean’s mouth opening to respond, a rush of words, clipped like feathers with the force of missiles behind them, came out of his own, “No. If you say ‘cool’ or ‘awesome’ or brag about your number of mortalities being higher than Sam’s like you are doubtless about to do, I will punch you.”
Dean huffed, “and what’s it to you?”
Cas affixed him with a glare that could probably knock John Winchester unconscious.
“Everything.” And then he was gone with a rustle of wings, only lingering tension left in his wake.
Across from him, Sam had looked both extraordinarily uncomfortable and surprisingly not-confused. Dean had sensed that it would be pointless to ask, so he’d just opted to shrug it off and suggest they play chess.
What’s it to you?
Everything
Looking back, Dean guessed he should have known what Cas had meant. But he had been so wrapped up in whiskey and misery, so ensconced in self-loathing, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. He couldn’t see the damned forest through the trees, so he had spent more than one restless night wondering what everything meant.
As it turned out, everything was just that. Everything was not Cas’ charred wings and fading grace, the physical manifestations of just how far he’d fallen, was falling, and would still fall for the Winchesters. For Dean. Everything wasn't his broken wings, but the truth that he’d lose it all to see Dean Winchester live.
Dean drained another bottle of beer, feeling something clawing at his chest. It was probably a panic attack. He should probably try to breathe through it, put down the beer, call his brother. He couldn’t drive back to the bunker in this state, but he hadn’t intended to go back to the bunker at all. What he needed that night, deep down in his grieving soul, was to be close to Castiel. And since he was gone, Dean would have to make do with the stars.
They had gone stargazing exactly once, and like so many other things in Dean’s life, it was entirely unplanned. Despite the spontaneity of it all, it had been one of few truly happy memories Dean had with Castiel.
Sam was tired, having just lost a considerable amount of blood on a werewolf hunt. It hadn’t even been a werewolf-related injury, but rather a very sharp, flying kitchen knife and a scuffle in the back of a diner that had gotten out of hand. Thankfully, Cas had been with them at the time. Dean didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Sammy conked out in the backseat of Baby as soon as they’d declined legal action, on the account of them being dead, wanted in all fifty states, and nonexistent. Soon as Dean made sure his brother was secure, he climbed wearily into the front while Cas sank into the leather next to him.
Dean was smiling now, remembering the angel’s perpetually-irritated expression. Cas possessed what the kids would call a resting bitch face.
Despite sore muscles and stiff joints, Dean felt adrenaline in every beat of his racing heart and mind. Dean liked simple hunts like this, the thrill of action and the singing of a blade in his hand. No apocalyptic crap hanging like a guillotine above their heads. He felt good. He felt alive.
Next to Dean, Cas looked equally as wired. He held himself with a soldier’s poise, broad shoulders squared, chin held high, eyes wide open and attentive. Dean knew without confirmation that Cas was currently tuned in to every movement and noise around him despite his singular focus on the horizon. Every now and again, Dean caught sight of the Castiel he had met all those years ago. The angel on a mission with an aura of command around him.
Dean cleared his throat. Cas was still deadly, but he was also the same dorky, compassionate, determined person at heart.
“Cas, you wanna stop for the night or drive back to the bunker in one shot?”
Cas blinked out of his apparent trance.
“Are you not tired?”
“No man, I’m definitely awake. But Lebanon is a six hour drive and I don’t want to have to sleep it off in the morning.”
Cas raised an eyebrow at him, cocking his head to the side in a gesture that Dean usually read as “dumbass”.
“Why are you asking me if you’re the one who needs sleep?”
Dean faltered a little. Fuck if he knew.
“I’m trying to be considerate, I guess. I don’t know if you want to be stuck in a motel with us for a night while we’re sleeping. Kinda boring, ain’t it?”
“I’m surprised you don’t know the answer, Dean.”
“Uh, want to clue me in there?”
Another pointed look.
“Dean, find a motel.”
“Thank you, Cas.”
As it turned out, there were no motels on that particular stretch of road. Or service, apparently. Or much of anything. So Dean pulled over on the side of the road, into a large clearing full of wildflowers and tall grass. Alongside the clearing, silent sentinels of tangled trees were silhouetted gently against a night sky.
“Dean, I’ll wait outside the car if it makes you and Sam more comfortable.”
“Screw that, Cas. For one, my brother isn’t conscious enough to care. For another, I’m not tired and I wouldn’t mind either way.”
“So, what? Do we just sit in here and converse or do you wish to attempt sleep?”
“Neither, actually. I got an idea. Here, why don’t you grab the cooler and get out of the car.” Dean popped his own door open and stalked around to the trunk, where he kept a ragged yet comfortable blanket for nights exactly like these.
Cas had set the cooler down on the hood. Dean, grabbing a beer, hopped up and sat back on his elbows on Baby after spreading the blanket out all neat.
When Cas seemed unsure, Dean waved for him to sit next to him. He laughed a little at the angel’s visible confusion.
“What do we do next?”
“Just look up.”
“Why?”
“Cas,” Dean rolled his eyes forcefully, “just do it, man.”
Now, Dean knew Cas had seen stars before. Because no shit. The guy had probably witnessed the birth of whole galaxies. And yet, Dean knew with a weird feeling of satisfaction that Cas had never gone stargazing just for the hell of it. But such was the nature of their relationship; Dean introduced the angel to shitty westerns and greasy diner food and fuckin’ looking up at the goddamn void because it made people feel all kinds of existential shit, and Cas gave Dean everything.
Anyways, Castiel had gasped, and for a second Dean had forgotten all about the stars. Mental acrobatics came later about if analyzing another man’s reaction to the sight of thousands of stars, on the hood of his car atop a soft blanket, his face illuminated in moonlight like a goddamn Vermeer piece, was gay. Dean remembered how the night had thawed the ice blue of Cas’ eyes to the Arctic fucking ocean. He remembered the open wonder in his face. He remembered feeling like he’d go back to Hell a thousand times over if it meant they’d always end up here, just so he could experience Cas seeing, well, whatever he was seeing right then.
That’s not to say he didn’t get it, though. In fact, he would wager that him and Cas had never been in such a similar state of being than they were in that moment. The stars really had been beautiful, more so than usual. The moon was spectacular, and light permeated every foot of that clearing. Stalks of grass and the rims of the Impala and the line of treetops and Castiel’s dark hair were rendered silvery by it. A soft breeze washed the scent of night-blooming flowers and the sound of flowing water towards them from nearby. The night had been full of crickets and starlight and Sam’s muffled snores, and most importantly, Castiel’s undaunting presence as he and Dean watched the universe for the hell of it. Dean had never felt so content in his life.
He sure as hell didn’t feel like that now.
Cas was gone.
Sam was at the bunker.
The moon was a crescent and light pollution choked out some of the natural brilliance of the stars and heavy-looking thunderheads had begun to creep into Dean’s peripheral vision and the night felt suffocating and Cas was gone.
Dean remembered that he had woken up that night, which felt like centuries ago, and found that Cas had stayed with him. Dean had drifted off, and Cas had still been in that exact position when he had awoken: his head tilted back, his eyes fixed on the stars.
A dam seemed to break in Dean, and suddenly the flood rushed through. The water pulled at his mind. His heart was washed out to sea, and there wasn’t a fucking life raft in sight. Dean didn’t notice the crack of thunder like a whip above his head, nor did he care to determine whether the rivulets of water running down his face were tears or rain or both. He felt like he had that night, but somehow it was twisted up inside him. He felt alive, terribly so.
Now every inch of Dean was soaked through with rain, but he wouldn’t leave the downpour if it threatened to wash him away like that little spider in the nursery rhyme. The stars were hardly visible now for the thick clouds gathering above Dean, except in a little cluster to the east. Lightning flashed around him, and wind whistled all violent through the trees. Still, Dean lifted his eyes through the blur of his own tears and tried to find Castiel in the raging storm around him.
The storm was more like a hurricane, and yet Dean wouldn’t budge. He ought to have been chilled to the bone, but all he felt was numb. There was no heat or cold, no sense of danger to move him to shelter. There was no voice reminding him that Castiel wouldn’t want this for him. There was just the pounding of his pulse and his own gasping breath and the tears that were coming in earnest; only the rushing of the wind and the howling thunder and the sting of rain on his scalp. Only Dean and the hellish storm both inside and out.
Until it wasn’t only him.
Until Castiel inevitably returned to his life.
Until lightning cast the clearing into sharp relief for a moment, and suddenly he was right there.
Until Dean Winchester slid off his car and dropped bonelessly onto his knees in the mud. Until Castiel started towards him, and Dean scrabbled to his feet. Until they met halfway in a muddy clearing somewhere in a Midwest thunderstorm and thunder crashed again but they were too busy crashing into each other to notice and Dean was shaking apart with the force of his relief.
Until Dean realized that he felt right at home as the weather raged around them. He felt overjoyed as Cas leaned back, and there was rain cascading down his face as a calloused thumb swiped a tear away from Dean’s own. He felt alive, his heart a tsunami within as he caught lightning in those eyes, and began to lean in as he remembered a barn in Illinois in 2009. He felt every breath close the distance that was rapidly shrinking between them, aware of standing a fraction of a second back in time from a supernova. They kissed there, in the pouring rain in the middle of nowhere, with the taste of Dean’s tears on their lips. And though the stars were hidden miles above and the moon was a sliver where it was beginning to emerge from the clouds, Dean felt like he was swimming in light.