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It manifests in his head as an incredulous idea, then swelters there as a plausible solution. His soul, a currency fought over by both Heaven and Hell, was his in the here and now, his to do with as he pleases, to bargain and throw away at even the slightest impression of disaster. And he can do it, call upon someone greedy enough to give him exactly what he wants: to collect his grandest desire and turn it into a truth, and all he has to pay for it is his mortal life. The luxury of living somewhere beyond here after death. Somewhere that wasn’t cushioned, that wasn’t surrounded by friends and family, loved ones and lost ones. He was granting them his eternal life, just to live a few measly earth years with the one his heart craves and sings a nightly song to, yet knows it's destined to never touch again. To never truthfully know the curve of his smile pressed against his lips, or the dips of his hip bones and the arch of his spine.
He will never be able to taste true happiness unless he does this, and that settles it. The incredulous idea of more, of his plausible solution. The good outweighs the bad, however dark and weighted it may seem. Even one more second with Cas, where he can sooth the Angel’s antsy mind and tell him, just blurt it out, confess his love to the frenzied creature, the pace of which he speaks creating the illusion of them standing at the shoreline, a docked ship waiting at the bay, billowing smoke and blowing horns signaling his inevitable departure as he once again has to pack up and leave, to part himself from Cas and never touch the man again. It’s all worth it if Cas just knows Dean feels the same, that he always has, always will.
The truth has set in the darkest corner of his mind, gnawing away at the most fragile parts of himself as it deconstructs the walls implemented by his father, forced to erect by hate and rejection; by intolerance and anger. It swelled within his heart, rattled there for safe keeping, carrying him through the roughest days and reminding him, when he lay broken and bloody on the floor, hopeless and on the cusp of giving up, that he had someone waiting for him. Someone worth fighting for.
He kept it there, used it as a suit of armor, hiding behind the faux disgust at the suggestion of more inhabiting the space between him and Cas because a weakness was lunged upon in their line of work, pried apart and shredded the moment someone caught even the faintest scent of Dean’s happiness being a possibility. It was always there, always apparent, hidden behind gentle caresses and long gazes; behind late night movies and shared snacks. If Cas just looked, paid attention to the way Dean’s hands always lingered on his shoulders for seconds past being socially acceptable, or the way Dean’s fingers chased Cas’ own when the man walked away; pinky brushing pinky, twining for the slightest of seconds to solidify the foundation of their promise. The promise of forever, the promise to return.
It was there. And Cas never saw it. To no fault of his own. It wasn’t his fault Dean was a coward. Hiding behind arrogance and anger, using the same tactics as his father, creating the aura of intolerance and belligerence when it was even addressed. Cas had no way of knowing how the Mark of Cain responded to him, only him, to the rasp of his voice and the brush of his hand. How it flared, bright and hot, caught up in the Angel, in his intoxicating presence, preening when he was near and crying when they parted ways.
That day, in the bunker. The confrontation. The anger. The blows. The fight. Dean losing himself to the increasingly persuasive mantra of the mark, only to be startled out of his trance moments nearly too late when the Mark began rebelling against him, burning his arm, singing his flesh until it got its point across. Got it through Dean’s thick skull that killing was fine, killing was great, but Cas was not part of those statistics. Cas was not to be harmed.
It could feel the power humming beneath the skin of the vessel beneath him, restrained and intentionally coiled, kept to a low simmer rather than allowing himself to lash out and hurt Dean in all the ways Dean was hurting him. The Mark recognized Cas, his rankings, his powers- his strength, and recognized his refusal to raise even a finger in defense. Cas could have stopped Dean, easily, could have killed him. And yet, he didn’t.
It was in that moment, when the blade was suspended between them, heavy breathing and rapidly pounding hearts, that the mark weighed Dean’s emotions, calculating their options, and decided Cas was not a foe, but an ally. He was who The Mark had been calling to, searching for.
And Dean denied it.
Because Cas was never meant to be a bargaining chip, never to be used as a parcel of humanity, of morality.
“You and Sam stay the hell away from me,”
The spiral after that was quick, and dark, and painful. All because Dean denied himself, and The Mark, what they truly wanted. What it felt they needed to live.
Cas died believing the purest parts of Dean, the parts he highlighted in his speech, were not by his own doing. Encouraged by Cas’ words, by his presence, influencing Dean to be good, to be better and kinder and more understanding. All of the good in Dean, was planted there by Cas. Watered by the man with no intention of reaping the benefits.
And so, Dean must do this.
-----
The forest floor bristles beneath his stamping feet, each snapping twig bracing for the impact of the solid sole of his shoe. Behind him, the thicket groans. Swaying trees repositioning their bent limbs with silent, “whooshes,” to once more obscure the path less taken. The path he is creating with the mud caked to his shoes weighing down the towering weeds and the nimbleness of his fingers snapping off overgrown leaves and thin branches.
His face and hands are numb, chapped lips parted as his cheeks puffed in and out with exertion, but fear pushed him on, forward, towards a destination unknown but definitely a lot further than here. Though not seen, but rather heard, Dean could feel their presence, could feel them gaining on him second by second, closing in on him with trained ease as their paws padded across the forest floor deftly. Cautious, precise, bleeding into the shadows effortlessly as they bound after him.
His empty satchel slapped against his damp thighs, previously forgotten but now a noted hindrance he couldn’t exactly get rid of without leaving a paper trail. He pulls at the scratchy strap, readjusting it mid-run so it’s no longer digging into the sensitive parts of his neck, leaving there a burned line that stung in the cool air.
Under leaves he ducks, weaving through wilted branches struck bare as the seasons shifted, slamming them into fall with no warning, no preparation, dew clinging to the few lingering leaves clinging to their barren trees, to their last chance at life. Dean’s heart is beating erratically against his chest, adrenaline stampeding through his veins, knowledge of what's to come the only thing keeping him running when his stamina is quickly slipping down a slippery slope with absolutely no hope for him to catch it, to hang on as the leaves are.
He’s been here before, participated in the hunt between life or death while playing on both sides. He was a good hunter, a good hider, but there was no hiding from what’s to come. No avoiding the predator closing in on its prey.
To his right he hears the harsh exhale of a hound, catches the gritty slide of his paws against the mud as it suddenly changes trajectories and begins in Dean’s exact direction. He stills for a moment, breath gusting out in transparent clouds, quick and short as he calculates his next move and dives into a row of bushes. Thorns prickle at his sides, at his arms and legs, piercing through his clothes to dig at his skin and aid a reminder of exactly what’s coming, what he’s to expect.
His guns and blades lay in their bed in the trunk of Baby, who lays on the opposite side of the canyon, in the direction opposite of which he is running. His only form of protection that he thought to bring, the Angel blade, was left on the dirt road, next to his little brown box. He couldn’t defend himself, couldn’t kill what was coming, not if he wants Cas back. Not if he wants to have some semblance of hope.
And so, when they find him hidden beneath a fallen tree, tucked beneath gnarled branches, he doesn’t fight. He lets the beasts drag him out by his feet, let’s their mangled claws rip him apart; shredding apart his skin with every frenzied swipe. And as the blood gurgles from between his lips, he smiles his crimson smile up at the hovering moon.
“Soon.” he gurgles, a whisper overpowered by the grunts of the hounds. “Soon, Cas.”
And then, it’s over.
_____ (time jump: a few hours previous) _____
Dean pauses in his trek upwards, through the forest, and takes a deep breath, settles himself, before continuing forward.
It’s a process that takes place in silence. Grieving, of whatever length, has never been done properly by Dean. He hides away, locked behind closed doors and loud music. At mountain peaks and deep within the thicket of a dark forest. He speaks to the shadows of trees, to the lowering sun, to the flickering overhead light; he divulges all of his regrets to them as if they can talk back to him, offer him the advice he so desperately craves and searches for in all the wrong places. Whiskey bottles, empty impala’s and bedroom floors.
He searches, and he scrambles, and he screams and he curses. He blames Sam, and he blames Cas, and he blames God. On the better nights, he just blames himself. For not being quick enough, or smart enough, or good enough. He couldn’t save them, any of them. Couldn’t save them from the fate that was sealed the moment he stepped foot into their lives.
Jo.
Ellen.
Ash.
Mary.
John.
Bobby.
Cas.
All their fallen soldiers, all who have lost their lives fighting by, or for Dean.
His way of grieving is different, unhealthy, destructive. And today… today is no different.
He misjudges his next step and stumbles a step, foot catching on a gnarled tree branch hidden beneath thick tendrils of dark green vines. He rights himself almost immediately, hand moving down to tap the satchel pressed firmly against his hip. He taps it once, just for reassurance, before continuing forward, careful now of his footing.
It wouldn’t be too long, he reminds himself, green eyes searching the increasingly darkening forest floor as the moon slowly rises to greet them. It wouldn’t be much longer before he finds a place, the place best suited for the ritual.
Baby sits about a mile back, down the hill and across the small river he’d crossed, balancing and hopping from rock to rock just to keep himself from getting wet.
His legs ache and his stomach is sloshing with the copious amount of alcohol he’d regrettably consumed on an empty stomach, but nothing is going to stop him or intervene in his plans. His silenced cell phone is wedged in his pocket, cell service up here shitty but knowing Sam, the first three calls Dean received before silencing his phone, were just warning calls. His brother would be out here in no time, tracking his phone- using whatever god-given talents he possessed to attempt and stop his drunk, idiotic brother who was on a path to self destruction.
A very beautiful path, that is. If Dean does say so himself.
A few more steps forward and he’s breaking through the tree line, boots crunching across gravel as he’s deposited onto a thin trail that stretches for a couple of yards before connecting to a dirt road- the dirt road.
Dean’s heartbeat picks up speed at the exact moment his feet do, too. He’s not quite running, but he’s at a fast jog, the satchel smacking against his thigh with the strap digging into his neck and his breathing is harsh to even his own ears; but nothing is going to stop him now.
Yellow and white yarra flowers litter the ground around him, and when he reaches the end of the gravel trail and steps out on the dirt road, he’s greeted by four different directions.
A crossroads.
To his credit, it was the best one he could find that would do a good enough job. Yarra flowers surround him, it’s in a secluded place and Sam wouldn’t be able to find him in enough time to stop him.
Going to the direct middle of the crossroads, Dean drops to his knees and dumps out the satchel. He places his photo in first, face down, too sickened with himself to stare at his own face, then following that is the graveyard dirt and the bone of a black cat. Setting the box off to the side of him, Dean retrieves the small hand-held shovel Sam usually uses for gardening and makes quick work of digging up the dirt, cupped hands gently brushing the dirt aside for safe keeping.
When it’s deep enough, he sits back on his haunches, retrieves the box and sets it in the hole before covering it back up with the dirt. With his heart in his throat and his entire body tense with anticipation, Dean gives the freshly dug mound one finalizing tap before slowly rising to his feet.
He’s done this before, knows what to expect, but even so much experience and preparation never prepares him for the sudden gust of sulfuric wind that hits him directly in the face, followed by a low scoff.
“A Winchester- why am I surprised.”
Dean turns around, perhaps a little too quickly because his slow-coordination kicks in and he stumbles a bit, only having minor difficulty to catch himself before he falls and makes a complete ass of himself.
“Do I know you?” Dean asks, voice hard- even harder, now, intimidation steeling the edge of his words as he squares his shoulders.
A middle aged woman stands before him, black jeans, white tank top- black hair. Her eyes bleed red for the slightest of seconds before returning to the faux color of blue. “No,” she hums, circling him. “But I know you.”
Dean’s skin prickles in the way it always does when he’s near a demon. “I’d tell you I'm flattered, but I got more important things to deal with here.”
Her eyes narrow, calculating. “Your deal.” She states, not asks, but the tilt of her head conveys a question Dean knows he can never answer. He swallows. “What is it you want?”
He opens his mouth to say it, but he can’t. Can’t voice the name that has haunted him for months, that has invaded his dreams and coerced them into nightmares. He can’t breathe his biggest desire into the air, because he knows it may never come true.
“A friend,” he grounds out, sounding just as pained as he physically feels. “I’m offering my soul, and in return, you bring back my friend.”
Her laugh is chiding. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that, Dean. You have lots of friends, both dead and alive. I could bring back any number of them and call good on our deal.” she pauses, studies him, takes a step forward. “But I have a feeling you’re talking about someone very specific here.”
“Yes,” he grunts, and it’s all he can manage. Panic strikes his vocal cords paralyzed, his mind blank.
“Say it, Dean.” She taunts, privy to the way Dean’s body jerks in response; hands curling into fists while he fights to keep himself up right rather than doubled over, “Say. His. Name.”
Impatience wins the war, and Dean’s response is punched out of him with so much force it leaves him breathless. “Cas.” he whispers, the night air responding to his plea and picking up with the slightest breeze. “Castiel, the Angel. I want him back from the empty.”
To his surprise, the world keeps spinning.
“And what makes you think your soul is worth the trouble it would take to get him back?”
Dean straightens at this, no longer burdened by the weight of his incompetence. Because he’s strong, he’s an asset, and he knows it. “Heaven and Hell have been fighting over me for years,” he barks, all arrogance and bite, flawlessly masking his previous slip up of his pathetic display of weakness. “Figured I’d bite the bullet and give myself over to one of you, but on my terms.”
He’s got her, he knows he does. But still, she continues her show of careful consideration as she once again circles him. A vulture hunting its prey. “You’ve done this once before, and you were admittedly a good asset to us down there- but what makes you think we want you again? The trouble you bring? We have enough souls to break in and dust off the shelf.”
He grins, fauxly cocky when he knows she holds all the cards and he’s playing with an empty hand. “Take me, don’t, I don’t really care. I’ll go to the next crossroads, summon a new demon, and continue on until I get what I want. You’re nothing special to me, so don’t flatter yourself with this little back and forth game you got going on here. I know what I’m worth.”
“You’re nothing special, Winchester,” she snaps, and Dean grins. He’s struck a chord, watches as she flicks hair over her shoulder and settles her now-red eyes on him with a glare that rings with victory bells. He’s won. “If I agree to do this, if I even can, you must agree to my rules.”
Dean freezes in his silent gloating. He didn’t anticipate this, the tables to be reversed. His hand inches behind his back, just on pure instinct, closer to the angel blade.“What would those be?” he entertains, not stupid enough to immediately agree. “What, you want me to be your own little bitch down there? Only listen to you?”
It’s her turn to smirk, to set Dean right back on the edge he’s so dangerously teetering on. “There won’t be any, “down there,’” she says boredly, studying her cuticles while the moon continues its slow rise behind her. “As I’ve stated, you’ve done this before. Proved yourself to be an asset. We do this, you won’t be a bottom ranking torturer like before. Your soul won’t just sit on a shelf, collecting dust while it waits for it's turn to be tortured for hundreds of millenials- no. We do this, you’re becoming a demon. Immediately.”
“What!” Dean snarls, jerking the blade from behind his back and brandishing it with far more confidence than he truly felt. He’s knocked off kelter, unsettled by the rapid change of events, at the stipulations he didn’t plan for. “No way in hell am I becoming one of you bastards. Bite me.”
“Not even for Castiel?” The way she says his name is wrong, mocking, but it hits her intended target and Dean hesitates. He knows she catches it, knows that she knows she’s quickly winning this battle and all it takes is one name. One name to bend Dean’s resolve and have him right where she wants him. “Think about it, Dean. You get him back, Hell gets a Winchester doing it’s bidding and Heaven will leave you alone- for the most part.”
Dean pauses, hates himself for honestly considering it, but it’s his best option. Jack refuses to bring Cas back from the empty, claiming he must keep the restored balance and doing one small thing like this would only open the door for future opportunities and he can’t risk it. Refuses to abuse his power for his own benefit.
The kids a good apple, making Dean proud- but also fucking frustrated.
Dean’s exhausted every other option, too. And they all lead him back to square one; nowhere.
The moment he lowers the Angel blade, the woman smiles. “Glad we have a deal.”
____________________
The next time Dean wakes up, it’s to the sight of two blue eyes as vast as the Ocean. Peering down at him with love, bewilderment, anger. Wait- what? Dean has to blink a few times before he realizes that, yeah, Cas looks pissed.
“Dean.” The Angel says, and the way he says it- the disappointment, the sheer exasperation, completely stampedes over Dean’s relief. “What did you do?”
But Dean made a vow to himself. A promise, regardless of how pissed off Cas is.
“Hi, Cas.” He breathes, remembering only now how it actually, truly feels the breath.
Then;
“I love you too.”