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Sam and Dean Winchester are sitting together at the end of the world, drinking cheap beer.
It’s a pretty familiar scene, all in all; they’ve had a moment like this in almost every one of the apocalypses Dean can remember. A fleeting moment where they just exist, the mistakes nipping at their heels momentarily distant and the task ahead of them looming like a thunderhead, dark and weighty on the horizon.
But at this point, they all sort of run together. The apocalypses, that is. Like melting ice cream. Dean landmarks his memories by which Big Bad they were facing at the time, not so much by years. He can tell you that there was a night where he and Sam crashed at Bobby’s and watched Chuck Norris movies and bickered over licorice whips until they both passed out on the couch, and that it was pretty early on in the Lilith clusterfuck, or maybe even just before; when they were both still full of bravado and thought they could beat anything. But what month it was? What the big bold number at the top of the calendar was? He draws blanks, mostly.
How fucked up is that, huh?
Neither of them are really drinking. Dean’s still riding a nice wave of numbness from whatever he drank last — whiskey, maybe? — and Sam’s never been quite as prone to falling into the welcoming arms of alcohol when shit hits the fan. They’d both taken a couple of half-hearted sips at the beginning, just for something to do, for the routine of the thing, but now they’re just sitting here. Dean’s bottle dangles loosely from his hands, the condensation slick under his fingertips.
“So,” Sam starts quietly, “where does this leave us? We need that book open, and we’re out of options.” He’s trying to keep it together, but Dean can hear the faint, pleading note in his voice. He’s looking to Dean for answers, answers Dean doesn’t have. Answers Dean never has.
But Dean hasn’t felt much of anything since… yesterday? Two days ago? Fuck, he doesn’t even know how long it’s been since…
Since…
So he answers honestly, tonelessly. “Where’s it leave us? Screwed. I’m sure Chuck’s ready to make a move.”
Then his phone lets out a cheerful blip and starts ringing.
When he looks back on it later, the connection between that astute fucking observation and the call itself is blindingly obvious. In the moment, the significance is blown straight out of the water as soon as he sees the name on the screen.
Sam frowns. “What?”
No. No way. It can’t—
He swipes the accept button with a thumb that feels like a too-full sausage. His head is spinning. “Cas?” He asks as metal bands snake around his lungs, crushing the air out of him.
“Dean, I’m here,” Cas’ voice rumbles out from the speaker, and Dean looks over at Sam, his heart leaping into his throat. The voice is exhausted, but it’s him. It’s him, he’s—
A slightly crackly groan of pain kneecaps the tilt-a-whirl of Dean’s thoughts, and his focus snaps back to the phone. “I’m hurt. Can you let me in?”
Dean’s already scrambling to his feet, his beer forgotten.
Distantly he hears Sam trying to caution him; it doesn’t even give him a moment’s pause. Because it’s Cas, and Dean is— Dean is flying up the steps two at a time, shaking, vibrating out of his skin, because Cas is hurt but he’s alive and Dean can—
He stalls for a second in front of the door, hoping against hope that this isn’t just another one of Chuck’s sick jokes. But the doubt is already being swamped by a warm, buoyant feeling rising in his chest like helium; he pulls the door open, and—
Cas leans against the wall just outside the door, the corners of his eyes pinched with pain, his hands pressed to his stomach. He smiles.
Dean has him wrapped up in his arms before either of them can say a goddamn word. Cas lets out a small, pained wheeze, but Dean can’t hold on less tightly. He can’t let go. He has to try three times before anything resembling a word passes his lips.
“You… you’re…”
“I’m here,” Cas says again, his voice resonant with tired amusement. “But. Inside, please? I’d like to sit down.”
Dean laughs, and it’s genuine if a little wet. He tugs Cas through the door, onto the landing, and cups his stupid, beautiful face in his hands. Cas blinks at him, wide-eyed, and Dean couldn’t care less that Sam’s standing right here next to them. He wouldn’t care if the Bunker collapsed around their ears right this minute. He caresses Cas’ cheekbones with his thumbs, fully aware that there are a couple of big fat tears rolling down his cheeks, and not giving a single flying fuck about it. “Cas, you— I’m so goddamn mad at you, I’m gonna kick your ass after all this is done, but— me too, you idiot. Me too.”
And he kisses Cas with all the wild, relieved, desperate love he has to give.
It’s wrong in every possible way.
Sam is still gawking at the kiss as Dean stumbles away, leaning heavily against the wrought iron railing and whipping his gun out of his waistband to point, trembling, at whatever the fuck that thing is. Because it’s not Cas.
The thing drops the injured act and straightens it’s coat, smirking at them.
Sam’s gun is up too, at this point, but the thing is nonplussed. “Wow,” it says, “that was way easier than I thought it was gonna be. And what a reception, too! I feel so special. True, I have always been a little more partial to your brother, Dean, but I’ve gotta tell you, that was really something. I definitely felt a tingle.”
Dean’s lower lip smarts. Lucifer flicks his tongue out to lap up an errant spot of the blood he drew, and winks.
“Get out of him,” Dean chokes, strangled, and Lucifer shrugs off the trench coat, shutting the door behind him.
“No can do,” he says airily, tossing the coat and then the suit jacket aside before loosening Cas’ tie and starting to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt. “I kinda need a vessel out here, guys, and I don’t see either of you offering. Unless…?” He adds hopefully, turning a hungry gaze on Sam. Dean growls, and Sam lets out an incredulous, mildly hysterical bark of laughter.
Lucifer shrugs. “Eh. As sad as that makes me, I expected it. I’m resigned. But since Cassie here got his whole body sucked up by the Empty and permission isn’t as big a deal in that corner of the universe, we’re all sympatico.”
Dean’s world shatters for the fourth time in five minutes. Sam can speak, so he’s the one who asks the question. “Wait, so is… is Cas in there? With you?”
Lucifer reaches out and uses one finger to nudge the barrel of Sam’s gun aside. “Now, now, I’m not one to kiss and tell. Besides, I’m on a mission. Uh, normally I'm not very good at following orders, as you guys know, but you do not want to mess with the Empty, man. Total bitch, especially after Jack blew up all over her.”
He grins, looking down into the War Room. “Where is the squirt, anyways? I was thinking we could fit in a game of catch before killing his gramps.”
“But why are you here?” Sam spits, his knuckles white where he grips his gun. “Why not just go after Chuck now?”
Lucifer raises an eyebrow, looking from Sam to Dean. Cas’ face, not Cas behind the eyes. Dean wants to throw up. “Guys. You’ve got the God book, and I have a way to read it.” Sam goes still, and Lucifer spreads his hands. “Dontcha see? We’re on the same side, here. I wanna waste dear old Dad just as much as you do. And if I’m not mistaken, that’s eau de Mikey I’m sensing.” He inclines his head like he’s telling them a secret. “Look, two archangels are better than one. You’re gonna need all the help you can get.”
There’s a brief moment, a hesitation.
“Fine,” Dean whispers.
Sam looks over at him in shock; Dean still hasn’t lowered his gun. He hasn’t lowered his gun, but he— he said it.
Lucifer grins.
— - —
“So. Castiel finally grew a pair, huh?”
Dean’s fingers spasm where they rest on the table. “Don’t talk to me.”
Lucifer ignores him and perches on the tabletop right next to where Dean is sitting, resting his hands on his thighs.
No, Dean tells himself harshly. Cas’ hands. Cas’ thighs. Lucifer is a parasite and this is sick.
He still can’t help but feel a sloppy flush of relief whenever he sees Lucifer. Can’t help but stare. Even though it’s not him.
“Oh, come on,” Lucifer wheedles, leaning in a little. “You haven’t stopped looking at me since I showed up. This hot and cold treatment is really throwin’ me for a loop, babe. No wonder Cassie waited so long to spill the beans.”
Dean sets his jaw, heat gathering high on his cheekbones. “Don’t think just because we’re on the same side I won’t punch you in the fucking teeth.”
Lucifer laughs. “That’s not why I think you won’t punch me. I think you won’t punch me because I’m wearing your favourite angel’s face.” He leans in even closer. “But maybe I should watch my step. These pretty eyes never stopped you when it was him in here.”
“Is there a point to you,” Dean grits out, his hands clenched into fists, “or are you just annoying me for no reason?”
“Well,” Lucifer drawls with a razor-sharp smile, “I was thinking. If you’ve got some unfinished business with Cas, I’d be happy to let you work it out. You’re distracted, big boy, and we can’t have that. Gotta have your eyes on the prize.”
Dean finally looks up at him in disgust. “Seriously, fuck you.”
And in the space of a second, the expression Lucifer is wearing shifts into a warm, teasing, slightly challenging one that Dean’s— fuck, he’s seen before.
Seen on Cas.
“If you’d like,” Lucifer rumbles, reaching out to brush his fingers against Dean’s. “I’m more than amenable.”
Dean almost falls out of his chair in his rush to get away.
Lucifer laughs, dropping the expression and sliding back down to the floor. “Oh, Dean. So easy to mess with. Thanks, I’ve missed that. Come find me next time you’re missing him too much and maybe I’ll return that smackaroo you laid on me earlier.”
Cas, Dean can’t help but pray, his stomach turning miserably. Cas, come back. Just come back.
The only answer he gets is the cruel curve of Lucifer’s smile.
— - —
“I wondered when you’d come to me.”
Dean feels his face settle into a stubborn scowl as he stops in the doorway of the kitchen. “Yeah?”
“The answer is no, Dean. I can’t separate Castiel from Lucifer.” After a moment, Michael meets Dean’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He has a beer in his hands, but he’s not drinking it. Funny, how they’ve all been doing that lately. Occupying their hands with beers they won’t finish.
Michael is looking at his like it confuses him.
“So he’s— he is in there.”
Dean doesn’t think he’s ever honestly been pitied by an archangel until now. Turns out he hates it just as much as he hates being pitied by anyone else. “Castiel is an enigma,” Michael explains. “There has never been a being like him, and there will never be another one. He has Grace, but it hasn’t been fitting right for quite some time. You must have noticed. He’s not an angel, and he’s not human. He is… something else.”
The way Michael keeps talking about Cas in the present tense is digging hooks into the ragged shreds of Dean’s hope and dragging it back up into the light where it can hurt him. “All I’m hearing are a lot of excuses.”
Michael sighs. “What I can help you do is kill my Father. Lucifer’s contribution will allow the book to be opened and read, and we can finish this. But Castiel’s fate is out of my hands.” Then he looks up again, and his gaze pins Dean to the spot. “Though you should know: if I have to fight Lucifer, I will kill him. I don’t care who he looks like, Dean. He will die.”
Michael’s eyes don’t glow, but they spark with righteous fervor, and Dean knew this was how it would be. This is still Chuck’s story, and Chuck loves a good fratricide. The two of them being here together is going to end in a fight.
“Please.”
Dean thinks he might be as surprised as Michael looks; he hadn’t meant to let that slip out, and the shame of it is already crowding up inside his chest. “Please,” he croaks again anyways. “I can’t… I need him. At least tell me you’ll give him a chance.”
Michael looks at him for a long time. Finally, his eyes drift back down to his untouched bottle of beer. “I will try.”
There’s nothing more to say.
Michael pushes the beer away slightly and gets to his feet, nodding once at Dean before turning to leave.
But he stops in the doorway.
“We would have been powerful together,” he says over his shoulder. “You and I.”
Those words sit heavy in the air between them, weighted down by fate. Dean shivers, the phantom-limb sensation of wings arching over his shoulders mingling with the memory of another Michael’s Grace scorching through him, turning him into a nuclear reactor. An atom bomb caught at the point of explosion.
Then Michael shrugs, and the echo of what could have been collapses into so much ash. “But I’m glad it wasn’t you.”
Dean doesn’t know whether that’s supposed to be offensive or complimentary. He doesn’t find out, though. Michael’s gone before he can figure out if he wants to ask.
— - —
Maybe it’s because he’s already lost Cas so many times in the past few days. Maybe his brain has just checked out and said nope, sayonara, we’re not playing another rerun of this crappy episode. Change the channel. But as Dean kneels next to Cas’ body, he doesn’t feel so much as a flicker of grief.
Lucifer was working for Chuck. (Of course he was.) He tried to betray them. (Of course he did.) He and Michael fought. (Of course they did.)
And now Dean gets to stare down at Cas’ lifeless body.
The stealth part of their plan went off without a hitch, at least. Michael isn’t paying attention, but Dean saw the way Jack stiffened every time one of the heavy hitters threw a fireball. He was sucking up their power. Maybe… maybe this will work.
Dean’s brain is still out to lunch on emotions, though, so he’s not even that hopeful about that. He presses two fingers to the side of Cas’ neck instead: no pulse. His chest isn’t moving either. But that doesn’t mean anything. Angels don’t need that stuff, they—
He swallows. “Is he…”
Michael shifts somewhere off behind Dean, an uncomfortable shuffle. “I can’t tell. There…” he lets out a frustrated huff. “There might be something. The only way you’ll know for sure is if he wakes up.”
So Michael’s feelin’ a little winded. Good.
Silently, Dean reaches down and gathers Cas into his arms. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to stand, but he manages it. Just. Sam has a hand outstretched towards him, and Dean doesn’t know whether it’s an attempt to stop him or if he’s trying to make sure Dean doesn’t stumble under Cas’ weight.
“Where are you going to put him?” Sam asks carefully. His voice sounds strange.
“My room.”
The others are staring at him. Dean looks back down at Cas’ face, at his closed eyes. At the way his head rests against Dean’s shoulder.
“What, on your bed? You won’t… need it?”
Dean starts walking. “Why would I need it?”
Sam doesn’t ask any more questions after that.
— - —
So. There might be something wrong.
Chuck — pathetic, human Chuck — has just gone skidding off towards the road after Dean refused to kill him, yelling about how they’ve doomed the universe. Sam and Dean let him go, because they’ve… they’ve got bigger fish to fry.
Jack’s eyes are wide and bright, consumed by gold. There’s a wind starting to kick up out of nowhere, and Jack can’t seem to hear a thing they’re saying.
Sam and Dean look at each other for a second, eyes locked. Then Sam nods, and Dean smiles faintly. Yeah. They’re gonna stay, no matter what happens. Dean’s… Dean’s good with that. He fucked up with Jack, he knows that, but… he can do this. He can be here. Jack’s not going to be alone.
The outlines of Jack’s body are starting to vibrate with a frenetic glow, and a low, uncomfortable hum that’s slowly climbing in register and intensity is rumbling through Dean’s marrow. “Jack?” Dean tries again, raising his voice. “Jack, c’mon, you’ve gotta snap out of it. I know you’re in there, kid, you’ve got this.”
Slowly, Jack turns to him.
Dean?
His mouth moves, but he’s not exactly talking. The sound he makes actually hurts to hear, like, a lot, but Dean just grits his teeth and tries not to whimper as it thrums through him like the pulse of a subwoofer. “Yeah, buddy, it’s me.”
“We’re here,” Sam adds, bringing one hand up to shield his face from the wind. “We’re not leaving you, Jack.”
Jack’s expression is tight with pain. I’m… Sam, Dean, there’s… it’s too much.
“Then let it go!” Dean shouts, grabbing Sam’s arm. The wind has whipped up to gale-force levels, and Dean’s seriously starting to get worried that he and Sam’ll just… blow away. “Don’t give up your life for the world, kid! It’s not worth it!”
Jack pauses, obviously struggling. Let it… go?
Dean doesn’t know if Jack even hears the yes he screams. The wind seems to snatch it right out of his mouth.
The glow turns into an eye-aching supernova, and Jack spreads his arms, looking up to the sky. He’s speaking; not words, but pure power, rolling out from him in impossible waves. Dean holds onto Sam, squinting, crying, feeling like he’s coming apart at the atoms, and—
The sun shines brightly.
Dean lies still, staring up into the cloudless blue expanse.
And a bird flies overhead.
A tiny groan trickles out of his throat as he pushes himself up, looking around warily. Everything feels crisp and pristine, like someone’s gone over the world with a pressure washer. Hell, he feels like that too, all the way from the backs of his teeth down to the soles of his feet. He feels new.
Sam is sitting up a few feet away; he looks oddly boyish for a moment, his hair mussed and his face lax like he’s just woken up from a good sleep. He blinks at Dean. Then together, they turn to the spot where Jack stood.
He’s curled on his side on the ground, facing towards the lake.
Dean’s left knee doesn’t click when he scrambles to his feet, as he and Sam dart to Jack’s side, but his voice still cracks around Jack’s name. For a moment, the kid's face is still and slack. Then his eyes flutter open and he makes a small, puzzled noise. “Mmph?”
Sam lets out a helpless, joyful laugh, and Dean squeezes Jack’s hand, hard. Jack’s eyelids droop, and he looks exhausted, but he seems… peaceful. He smiles, a little drunkenly, and sighs. “Balance,” he mumbles happily, and Dean doesn’t know what the fuck that’s supposed to mean. But he doesn’t care. Jack looks up at them, his expression still glazed and dopey. “Sam. Dean.”
“You did good, Jack,” Dean says, his voice throaty with emotion. “You did really good.”
“I did…” Jack murmurs, his brow creasing. “Then why’re you still sad?”
Dean’s mouth snaps shut.
Jack blinks slowly, guileless and innocent, waiting for an answer.
What is Dean supposed to say?
He stares down at Jack, drawing a complete blank. But then, apropos of nothing, Jack’s expression clears in understanding.
“Oh,” he says.
And before Dean can even open his mouth to ask what that means, Jack is reaching up to press two fingers to Dean’s forehead, his nose scrunched up in concentration.
There’s a familiar sort of pop.
And then Dean is crouching in front of the door to his room, in the hallway of the Bunker. Alone.
He can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he gets to his feet. He… Jack was so out of it, there’s no way this means… fuck, he…
I can’t do this, he thinks to himself.
Because it’s obvious why Jack sent him back here. This is where Cas is, and Cas makes Dean happy. You don’t have to be a genius to figure that one out.
Except the Cas behind this door… Dean doesn’t dare hope. Not after last time. The Cas behind this door was still and unmoving when Dean laid him down on his bed, when he peeled his shirt off and dressed the wound in his side where Michael stabbed Lucifer. (Because if he woke up, he couldn’t have an open wound. Michael told him it didn’t matter, that Cas would probably be able to heal it if he did wake up, but—)
(Dean had to do it anyways.)
The Cas behind this door was dead when Dean last saw him. And if he’s still dead when Dean sees him again…
He’s not gonna come back from that.
He’s on his last leg, here. Standing at the edge of the chasm. Every tiny shuffle of his feet is sending little rocks skittering down into the abyss, and it won’t take much to put him over, too. He doesn’t want Sam and Jack to come back and find him kneeling, dead-eyed, next to his bed. He doesn’t want them to have to try and drag him away from Cas’ body. He won’t do that to them.
He just has to go sit in the kitchen and call Sam, let him know what’s up. Then… maybe he can drink. Or go sit outside or something.
He’s just turned away to walk back down the hall when he swears he hears a sound from inside his room.
He stops.
He turns around.
He’s hearing things, he knows he is. He has to be.
Still.
He feels like he’s a passenger in his own body, watching as someone else steps in close to his door and wraps their hand around the knob. Is he really…
He doesn’t want to do this. (He has to.) He’s terrified. He…
Despite everything that’s happened, he’s—
He hopes.
He takes a long, slow breath, every nerve in his body strung taut. Hoping and despairing and so in love he feels sick with it.
And he opens the door.