Chapter Text
The bunker feels cold, but Dean is thankful to be back ... back somewhere where he can be locked down if needed. He hadn’t spoken much the entire drive home. After they dropped off Cas and Claire at a motel, there was a thickness to the air. Dean choked on the words he wanted to say to Sam. He wanted to talk to him—about the mark, about what it kept doing to him ... hell, he actually wanted to talk about his feelings. He and Sam have been so much closer lately; closer than they’ve been in years. Dean didn’t want to ruin that by not talking; but then again, the mark would ruin it either way. It probably already has. The look in his brother’s eyes when he skidded towards him on knees, slipping in the pools of blood that Dean had spilled. Human blood. Skeethy, depraved humans, but humans none the less. Why the hell does there always have to be something? Something to screw everything up. Something to make Dean perfectly aware of what a fuck up he is? There always has to be some giant, flashing sign outside his window screaming “They’re all better off without you!” They would be too. Dean knows that. The whole drive home—that’s all he could think about.
Once inside the bunker, Dean heads off to his room, claiming to be tired, claiming to be okay; but instead of sleeping, he’ll clean his guns. He can sharpen the demon blade ... he can record the strongest exorcisms he knows. He can get everything ready … everything ready for Sam to take him out if necessary … if there’s no other option. The mark mocks him as he starts—peeking out from under his sleeve. It hisses and yelps. It leers and snickers. Do you really think some guns will hurt me? No—nothing will hurt it. The only thing that can is currently residing with the king of hell. But even with it so far away, Dean can still feel the first blade in his hand. He feels the power humming through his veins. All his nerves scream. They want to feel blood rushing over them again. Four tiny humans weren’t enough. He needs twenty. He needs a thousand! Fuck! He has to stop thinking about this! Perhaps, prepping Sam isn’t the way to go ... not tonight at least. Hell, maybe not ever. He doesn’t want Sam to go through all that again. Sammy can’t go through that again. Dean saw what it did to his baby brother. He saw how much he hurt when Dean went all “dark eyes”. And Dean almost hurt him too ... he nearly killed him. No, even if he had the perfect way to take himself out right here, right now—he couldn’t make Sammy deal with the after math.
Cas.
Dean seems lighter just by thinking his name. Cas promised to help. That guy could always help. For years, that’s all he’s done. Dean feels more guilt plague him as he recaps their friendship in his head. Even in the times Cas has failed, Dean could rely on him; and what did he do in return? He called Cas a “child” and a “baby”. He sent him away with those words still fresh off his tongue; knowing that he was really only ever talking to himself. But he was always too much of a coward to admit it. For every little bump on the head and scraped knee, he went crying to the angel. Now, here he is again—needing the guy to clean up his mess. Dean slumps back onto his bed, letting a heavy sigh tumble from his lips. But things are different for Cas now. Who knows what he’s going to do about Claire; but if the guy is anything, he’s loyal to his charge—and damn if he didn’t make Claire his charge now. Dean sighs and scrubs his hand down his face, still feeling the slight stick of blood on his fingers. He slides the small arsenal he had assembled over to the other side of his bed, eventually climbing under the covers and wrapping himself up. He thinks about his best friend a little more. He really wishes he didn’t have to put this on him either, not after everything they’ve been through. The angel didn’t need to bare this weight along with the weight of a teenage girl; but he still has some mojo in him. He’s stronger than Sammy, and he’s the only one Dean has left. The guy has taken on heavenly wars since the dawn of time—if anyone can handle killing off one bastard, little human, it’d be Castiel.
The clock on his wall drags like the hands are powering through mud. Dean can hear Sam in the study, flipping through books and muttering to himself. He is either researching the mark or trying to find some way to help Cas get his own grace back; or maybe even find a place for Claire to go permanently. Good ol’ Sammy. Always thinking of everyone else ... and here he is, hold up in his room, drowning in his pathetic “woe-is-me” bullshit. He needs to get his mind off of things. He needs to try and think of something happy. The mark hasn’t cut him completely to pieces ... not yet. He’s still human—sort of. Dean can’t pout through the little good-time he has left. He slides further into the warmth of the heavy blanket, trying to think of the last point he felt truly happy. Amazingly, he finds he doesn’t have to reach that far back. No, only a month ago to that stupid musical those kids put on. That Calliope bitch was a piece of work, but those kids ... he wasn’t ashamed that those damn kids got to him. They were pretty funny too. Dean had genuinely laughed quite a few times through that whole ordeal. Shit, that Marie sure had him pegged on some things! Dean hates to admit it, but her songs and the script she wrote could be pretty spot on in places ... minus the space, and robot heads ... and that damn subtext!
What was it? Deestiel? Destiel? Whatever the fuck she said. The thought actually makes him chuckle again. Him and Cas? People actually believe that shit? He figures it’s slightly better than a bunch of people wanting him and Sam to get together—slightly. Dean closes his eyes a little, letting the memories of the play flood his brain, pushing back the red and the taste of metal in his mouth. The silly sets, the songs … fake Sam, fake Cas … the real smiles on their faces. The real smile on his face. He sighs when he thinks about the purple goo that exploded on the crowd. Those idiots loved it. Man, what it must be like to think that kind of shit is only special effects. He starts to drift off to sleep, thinking about the fake amulet that the girls gave him; and the scarecrow-thing that flung him across the stage. That thing was nasty. Dean wishes he had been the one to take it out ... save Marie the therapy later on. Yeah, he should’ve been the one to stab it. He could have cut it to pieces. He could have ripped its head off. Calliope too. He could have gutted the bitch—watched her eyes go dark as her insides poured over his fingers. He can smell the blood ... he feels her flesh snap with his bite. God! He wishes he could have been the one to ... No! No, no, no!
Dean yanks himself from the sheets. He can’t be thinking of that shit! Damnit! He needs to get his mind off killing. He needs something to overtake his senses. Anything! His closed laptop catches his eye. Dean shoves off the mattress and fumbles over to the desk chair. Perhaps a little release will do some good. He dances his fingers along the top of the computer before flipping it open. The screen turns on, and he squints against the bright white of the background. In a moment, he has a browser open. He types the letter ‘B’ and auto fill takes care of the rest. Soon, busty Asian women are flaunting their assets in every corner of his screen. He scrolls down, looking at all the thumbnails, trying to find a particularly, delicious clip. A sweet young thing catches his eye. “Amber wants you to play with her” it says in bubbly, pink letters.
“I need to play, Amber” he grunts, quickly clicking on the link.
The video begins and soon, the young girl is slinking into view; and she is young. She almost looks too young. Dean feels the slight bulge in his pants, flatten again. He clicks the back button, not wanting to see any more of the girl who looks like she could be Claire’s age. He makes another attempt, but as he siphons through two more pages of gifs, he finds that every single girl looks more and more like a child—they all look sad. They look forced, like the ones those demons took and pushed into “working” for them. God damnit! He can’t even turn to porn anymore! He slams his laptop shut and pushes out of his chair. The room starts to shrink as he paces back and forth. He has to get away from the carnal—that’s all he’s been thinking about lately … sex, food, blood. He needs to be more than the animal the mark is making him out to be. He needs to hold onto his humanity.
Humanity. The word seems so weighted now. Ever since Cas came into his life, he has looked at humanity differently. It’s something more than just what humans have—it can be earned. Benny had it. Hell, he had more of it than Dean has now. And Cas … well, Cas almost doesn’t even qualify. He’s better than humanity and all those other labels for good and just. He has proven himself better than God; more reliable than death … he doesn’t possess the flaws that come with humanity. He’s just Cas. It’s taken him too long to see that. Shit, it was probably that play that made him realize it completely … the angel is more than just his family. He’s the better version of everything.
Dean lets his mind wander back to the girls’ production and fake-Cas. The girl who played him did a great job with his innocence. She pegged him and his naivety; just like the Dean-girl had him pegged. Damn, Marie did good he thinks again, too good. What did she call his actual life when he told her about it? ‘Some of the worst fanfiction’ she’s ever heard? He smirks. If only it were fiction. Hell, probably the only thing furthest from truth any more is any version of his life that ends well. Sadly, the worst part of what she said is true … fiction would be a blessing. He looks at his laptop again, feeling the wisps of an idea start to lick at his mind. He needs to hold on to his humanity … what’s more human than imagination? He’s tried reading to distract himself before, but he can’t read other stories. He knows that there’s too much truth in myth and mystery. Love stories—well, he just doesn’t believe in love. No, there’s no use reading other books; but if he reads about himself … about happy versions of his own life through other people’s eyes, well, maybe he can actually imagine something that’s not true. Maybe he can actually let his mind wander into fantasy and the unbelievable.
***
Two hours in and he’s still searching. He would have never believed there was so much fan fiction about his life! God, and so much of it is gay! He wants to use his imagination, but not that way. Dean nearly stops after the seventh story he reads turns out to either be too close to his life as it is, or too filled with incestuous smut.
“What the fuck am I doing?” he grumbles to himself, taking a peek at the clock in the corner of his screen. It’s three in the morning and he is reading porn-filled stories probably written by teenagers. He has a lot of issues, but this has to be a new low. He reaches up to close his lap top when another story catches his eye. It’s not the description or the title that peaks his interest, but simply, the amount of people who have actually read and commented on the thing.
“Over five hundred thousand? Seriously?”
Despite his better judgment, he clicks on the link—curious as to what all the fuss is about. The first thing he reads is a date.
“April, 1965.”
“Well … it’s certainly not going to be realistic.”
He continues to read; feeling a little uneasy when he finds it’s from Cas’s point of view. Dean can’t really speak for the guy, so seeing someone else try is a little unnerving; but he can’t help but be intrigued. There has always been a part of him that’s wanted to peek inside the angel’s messy head. It had to be interesting in there—all those memories, since the dawn of time. Dean knows that this story will most likely be nothing like the real Castiel’s brain, but it’s enough to keep him reading.
He reads. He reads and he groans. He reads and he rubs his eyes with the calloused pads on his fingers. He sighs when the fictional version of him and Cas finally kiss. It’s not what he would normally want to spend his time looking at—not by a long shot, but these two share their names and not much else in his opinion, so he can feel justified when he admits … the moment is kind of endearing. He reaches the end of the first chapter, yawning a little and wondering if he should continue. There’s only twelve chapters—given, the first one was long, but he read it quickly. The others might be shorter, and there has to be a reason so many people like this story. There was certainly plenty of other gay-stuff around these websites, so that couldn’t be its only appeal. He has curiosity and some time … not much else. He relents and clicks the button, moving him to the next chapter.
***
“It was all so painless, falling in love with Dean. There was something so mindlessly ordinary about it, like Dean was just another fixture, just another glass in his cupboard that he had begun using.”
He had already gotten a through the second chapter, it was easy since he skipped over the sex scene; but he couldn’t help coming back to that first line. It amazes him, how someone could even look at his effigy and see it as worthwhile. To see him as ordinary as a glass, or as someone who was easy to love, painless—he wants it to be true, but he knows, that’s probably the most unbelievable line he’ll read tonight.
***
The chapter rolls out just like the waves it’s describing. He looks around his room half way through—a little embarrassed about the smile that’s curling onto his lips. He’s happy Cas got to see the beach. He’s happy he’s taking pictures. He’s happy that the guy got to see a crab and walk along the rocks.
"I really liked it there,” he murmured. “We should go back.”
"We will,” Dean had said softly over the crackly twang of a guitar, “I promise.”
Dean's smile falls hard from his lips and cracks against his fingers, shaking on the mousepad.
Why did he have to promise?
***
He knew it was coming. He’s not stupid. All those years of learning lore made him pretty adept at dates and historical facts. He knew the military draft would come up somewhere in this story; and he knew that the fictional-him was probably going to be the one to go. Cas might be a warrior of heaven, but Vietnam was a human battle. He knows that these writers most likely wouldn’t make the angel participate in that … even if the story is in alternate universe, or whatever they call it. It just wouldn’t make sense. Dean’s the grunt. Not Cas.
***
He could barely read about the dreams. The war—the death, that was all nothing to him. But the dreams: Cas—Cas falling apart, bloody and broken. Dean sits on his bed, staring at the laptop from across the room. He had to walk away. He couldn’t watch himself hurt the guy, not again … even if it was the fake-him and a dream-Castiel. Dean was still hurting the angel.
***
He did the right thing by leaving. He had to. No one else gets it … the comments are angry.
He gets it. This Dean had to leave him.
***
It’s hard for him to imagine—it’s probably the hardest thing; Cas, looking thin and weak. He has seen him bloody, sure … hell, he’s seen him dead. But weak? Never.
The story says he’s dying; but Dean knows … even if he does, Cas will always come back. That’s just how it is.
***
The future Castiel that he met rushes back to him—the drugs, the orgies, the maniacal laughter. That’s who Balthazar is describing to the fictional-him. No matter what words are actually on the screen, that’s all Dean sees. It’s just his angel, wrecked by the humanity he fell trying to save.
***
This Dean is better than him. Even though it took him too long, he’s still is putting Cas first. He’s thinking of his best friend before himself.
He smiles when he reads about the projector and the footage of their time at the beach. He should take the real-Cas to the beach, or to a movie sometime … if he can.
***
He hears his own voice sing the words. He has sung the song before—in the Impala, in the shower when Sam was out on a run. It surely wasn’t one he sang often, but he’s sung it. It’s a song he knows Cas would probably like too. The real Cas.
***
The waves crash.
The monitor flat-lines.
Dean feels himself sink.