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His boots squelch against the goo on the ground of The Empty. It’s dark, it’s damp, it’s desolate.
There’s no colour, no life, no sunlight. It numbs his skin. It forces him to trust his gut. Something he should have done a long time ago.
He should have said “I love you, too.”
He lied to Cas, to himself. They weren’t just friends, and they weren’t just best friends. Dean’s heart belonged to him, it has for years now. He was too scared to say it, but he should have. He failed him, for not letting him know sooner. He should have fought for it, fought against the fear sooner. Cas died for him, and he should have known that he was loved back.
The admission of it all still makes Dean’s heart race. Loving an angel? That was never in Chuck’s cards. But Dean is still reminding himself that Chuck is gone. God does not rule over them the way he used to. Jack doesn’t interfere (much); he comes over for breakfast every morning.
The Empty is disorienting. The ooze drips down around him, in slow, fat dollops, like the oil to a drip pan. His eyes strain searching through the sludge, he refuses to touch the oily substance. Everything he knows as a hunter is useless here. He only hears the ooze sucking on his boots, fighting to keep him glued down. Every step forward pulls at the muscles in his calves, shooting up to his thighs. He doesn’t know how long his knees can take the strain.
There’s still so much Dean doesn’t know. Does Cas even want to come back? Dean didn’t even say it back; would Cas still want to come home to him? What will the words sound like out of Dean’s mouth?
He’s lost – not that he started with much to go off of. He doesn’t know where he’s going or how to get there. All he knows is that he needs to find Cas. He needs to say it.
He’s shouting and screaming at the abyss, calling out for Cas. It doesn’t do him any good; the ooze eats his words, smothering them.
He’s trusting his gut; he’s trusting his heart.
Dean prays.
“Cas? I hope you got your ears on.”
The goo swallows his feet, enveloping his boots. It starts to swallow them, swirling up and around his ankles.
“I know you said everything you wanted. I know you said goodbye. I know you want me to be happy.”
The ooze continues circling up Dean’s legs, encasing his calves. It’s holding him back, dragging him down.
It’s no different to the grasp of fear; nothing he hasn’t faced before. He should have fought it then. He’ll fight it now.
He keeps walking. He keeps praying. He knows, and he knows and he knows.
But Cas didn’t.
The Empty is up to his knees now, soaking into his clothes, bleeding into his skin. Each step forward is an effort, and he isn’t making any ground.
“But back home, I’ve got nothing.”
He drops to his knees; he can’t feel his legs. The goo swims up around his thighs, circling his hips. Dean can feel it creep up his back, following the curve of his spine.
“Not without you.”
The cold sludge starts curling around Dean’s neck. It’s trailing down his arms, dripping out of his sleeves, chilling his hands, staining his skin.
“And I don’t want to be without you.”
It swims over his shoulders, wrapping around his collar bones. It drenches his clothes; the fabric fused against his skin. From behind, the ooze wraps around his stomach. The sludge rises, pressing against his ribs, crushing his chest.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to say it.”
The Empty follows the line of Dean’s jaw, its lifeless hold cradling his cheeks. It swims up the bridge of his nose, like a mask. Its trickles from his hairline, streaming down his face.
“But I can now.”
It blankets him, it smothers him, it suffocates him.
“I love you, too.”
Around his chest, The Empty retreats, sucking itself away from Dean’s heart. It pulls away from his hands, following the path of his arms back to his shoulders. He isn't burdened; he's glowing, he's free.
It leaves him shivering, shaking against the nothingness. The circulation returns; he stands to his feet. Blood rushes through his limbs, warming his hands. It burns under his skin. He stares at his left hand, pale against the inky sludge retreating from him. It's the only light he has against the darkness.
The ground starts bubbling in front of him, rocking the ground beneath him. The sludge spits and gurgles, and parts, revealing Castiel from its inner depths.
He needs him. He’s needed him for a long time. And now’s his last chance to get him back. He deserves it, even if Cas doesn’t want to come back to him. But if that’s the case, Dean will let him go. He can do that, for Cas. He just wants him back.
And right now, it’s enough.
Cas doesn't look serene; his mouth is turned down, the lines deeply etched in his face. He looks pained, he looks exhausted.
Dean should have never let him go, not alone.
He kneels down beside Cas, heaving him up, fighting against The Empty's grip. He props Cas’ head against his leg, and reaches for his knife in Cas’ coat pocket. The blade splits the skin of Cas’ neck. Dean holds the vial to Cas’ neck, collecting the stream of crackling blue grace.
Dean feels a gust of wind graze his cheek. It’s sharp, stinging against the cold of his cheeks. The Empty’s touch lingers even now. Dean grimaces, watching the waves of sludge pick up speed, gaining air from the increasing speed of the wind.
Ooze swirls around them, the wind whips at his skin, biting him. The Empty is creating a vacuum around them, the heart of the vortex.
Dean wraps himself around Cas, hunching over to protect him from the wind. He presses his warm cheek to Cas’ cold one. He squeezes his eyes shut. In Cas’ ear, Dean whispers, “We’re going home.”
The wind continues picking up speed. Its deafening as it howls and screams in Dean’s ears. Dean wonders if they’ll be ripped apart before it spits them out.
At least they would be together, in the end.
With a great pop, the suction of their vortex bursts. It's sudden, the silence that follows. It can't be a good sign. Dean doesn’t dare open his eyes. He clutches Cas to him tighter. His heartbeat drums in his ears. He holds his breath.
He hears the rustle of wind between the leaves. He hears the orioles sing.
Dean slowly opens one eye, squinting at the bright sunlight around them. Warmth begins to spread along his spine. He inhales and smells wildflowers.
His eyelids fly open, and Dean sits up, his arms still around Cas. They're drenched and damp and stained with muddy, black residue.
The Empty let them go. It regurgitated them into the tall grasses of the meadow.
Cas’ meadow.
The meadow is a vibrant rainbow; the colours burn at Dean’s eyes. The pinks of the primrose and violets of the larkspur. The greens of the clover and the yellows of the goldenrod. The oranges of the daylily and the reds of the begonia.
Dean looks back down. Cas is awake; Cas is looking at him.
The blue of Cas’ eyes.
"Morning, Sunshine."
*