Work Text:
i.
Castiel visits Dean Winchester. He goes alone.
Dean is in Bobby Singer’s kitchen, frowning at the contents of an open cupboard. He startles when Castiel appears to him. “Jesus,” he says. “I wish you guys’d learn to frigging knock.”
“Hello, Dean.”
“What do you want?” Dean closes the cupboard door. “Let me guess. No luck tracking down Anna?”
This is true, although not relevant to Castiel’s visit. “We have not yet located her, no.”
“Well, I’m not helping, if that’s what you’re here for.”
Dean has folded his arms across his chest, leaning back against the kitchen counter. Even with Castiel’s limited understanding of these signifiers, his stance and tone are clearly combative.
“You wouldn’t be able to help,” Castiel points out. “You don’t know where she is.”
“Most times you guys show up, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, or what you expect me to do about it. Don’t see why this should be any different.”
Castiel pauses for a moment. His instinct is to remind Dean once again of his place within a war that far outscopes him. But this is not why Castiel has come.
“I’m not here in relation to Anna,” he explains.
“No? So what is it this time? Plague of locusts you need help spreading?”
“I’m here in a personal capacity.” Dean’s eyebrows raise at this. “I wanted to express my gratitude.” Dean’s eyebrows raise further, and his eyes widen.
“Gratitude?” he repeats. “I didn’t think you had a word for that in the angel dictionary.”
“You prevented Alastair from exorcising me from this vessel. Had he succeeded, the results would have been complicated and unpleasant. I’m grateful that you stopped him.”
“Oh.” Dean’s arms are still crossed, but there appears to be less tension in his body. “Sure. You’re welcome. I wouldn’t go all out on the gratitude, though. That wasn’t so much saving your ass as kicking Alastair’s.”
“I see.”
“I got good reason to hate Alastair’s guts. Anything I can do to screw him over, that’s worth doing. You, on the other hand…” There is a pause. “Let’s say I’m undecided.”
The mouth of Castiel’s vessel moves minutely, into a partial smile.
“You really got no leads on Anna?” Dean asks.
“Not yet. She must be using her grace to shield herself from us. Usually it would act as a beacon. She may have found some way to invert it.”
“Good for her.” Dean’s arms have dropped to his sides, and he levers himself away from the counter’s edge. “So how about you just leave her alone? She saved your ass too, you know.”
Castiel considers trying to explain to Dean the length of time for which he and Anna have coexisted, including their millennia in the same garrison. He could detail the myriad instances on which Anna’s actions have saved Castiel’s life, and on which his have saved hers. None of this has any bearing on heaven’s will that Anna should now be destroyed, or on Castiel’s duty to carry this out. It seems unlikely that Dean will understand.
But Castiel is interested by Dean’s attempted defense of Anna, even now. Evidently some connection was formed between them in the days before Castiel and Uriel tracked them down. Something more than Dean’s propensity to protect anyone he sees as human and defenseless, as Anna had at first appeared to him to be.
Well: Dean is the righteous man, and therefore glorious to angelic perception. It is possible that Anna experienced some shadow of this perception even while graceless. And that perhaps Dean, created to serve heaven, was drawn to some vestige of holiness in her.
Nevertheless, it had been a surprise to see Anna kiss him. Castiel is familiar with the gesture, and its range of conveyances holy and secular, although what Anna had meant by it in this instance was harder to understand. It had seemed a peculiarly and almost pointedly human action.
Castiel’s vessel has memories, several, of the same gesture. Soft, cursory kisses to the top of his daughter’s head. The warm and regular brush of his lips against his wife’s. Rarer, but the most interesting to examine, are longer kisses, open-mouthed and unhurried. But the memories offer no explanation as to the impulse behind the actions, nor their effect.
“Hey, man,” Dean says. “You’re doing the staring thing again.”
Humans seem to spend much of their time looking at one another, and Castiel is yet to understand why Dean occasionally takes umbrage at this. It is in Castiel’s nature to contemplate and revere God’s works, humanity included. Humanity especially. He is fascinated by the unwavering pulse of Dean’s soul, just as bright a beacon as it had been in the pit. The human body’s ability to carry such a thing within it is among God’s finest designs.
“Cas? Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?”
Castiel considers again the deliberate manner in which Anna had pressed her lips to Dean’s. It would be easy to replicate. This might shed some light on the nature of the connection between them.
Dean frowns when Castiel moves nearer, although he does not give up his ground. “What…” he says, when Castiel leans in, but Castiel is too busy concentrating to explain. He inclines his head, calculating the angle necessary for the alignment of their mouths, and then brings them together.
The point of physical contact between them is small, but Castiel’s vessel experiences a surprising onset of physiological effects. It is as if the narrow channels of the vessel’s senses have been blown wide open. The hair on his forearms and the back of his neck stirs. His blood pressure increases, warming his skin. His heart beats faster than he has previously experienced. The overall experience is singularly arresting.
Castiel is intimately familiar with every atom of Dean’s body, and yet this gentle pressure between them is unlike any interaction he has had with it before. He does not know why. All he can recognize for certain is a pervasive and profound sense of yes. In its exultant clarity, it is not unlike receiving revelation.
Castiel’s contemplation of this kiss is immeasurable. He could devote several human lifetimes to it, although no more than a few seconds can have passed in linear time when Dean pulls his mouth away. Above them, the bare lightbulb in the kitchen flickers.
Dean moves jerkily backwards, his body sliding away along the edge of the countertop. For a moment, his mouth works soundlessly. Then he says, “Dude, what the hell?”
There is a fleck of wetness at one corner of Dean’s mouth which was not there previously. Castiel realizes that the moisture has presumably been transferred there from his own vessel. Fascinated, he reaches forward to touch it with the pad of his thumb.
“What the— no, stop that.” Dean’s hand flies up, his reflexes admirably swift, and grasps Castiel’s wrist.
Castiel realizes that Dean expects to be able to exert enough force to move his arm. He modifies the strength of his vessel so that Dean can do so. Dean pushes Castiel’s hand away, and then lets go of his wrist quickly, as if he is touching something dangerously hot.
“No,” Dean says again. “If this is some kind of test or whatever— or, or some freaky angel ritual— I’m not up for it. No way.” He takes another step back.
Castiel is surprised by Dean’s evident agitation. It had not occurred to him that a gesture so small and simple could trigger discomfort of this kind; Anna’s kiss certainly had not done so. But then Anna had been human when Dean first knew her, and presumably on some level he still conceptualizes her this way. Perhaps it is unsettling to share a human experience with a being that Dean understands to be as powerful as Castiel.
Castiel’s duty is to keep Dean physically safe, spiritually unsullied, and ready to subjugate himself to Michael when the time comes. Dean’s lingering distrust and occasional aggression are not particularly helpful in this regard, and it is therefore also Castiel’s duty to quell them. What has just passed between them was essentially a thought experiment of Castiel’s own interest, and had he realized it would disturb Dean as it has, he would not have performed it.
The most expedient solution is simply to unperform it. So Castiel raises his vessel’s hand, bringing the tips of his fingers to Dean’s forehead, and reaches inside.
The adjustment in Dean’s mind is easy. Dean blinks, and his memory of the last two minutes is gone. Castiel tucks it away among his own recollections of this visit. There will be time later for further contemplation.
“Cas?” Dean says. “Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?”
ii.
Their time at the brothel having been abruptly truncated, Dean tells Castiel that they are going to undertake an alternative course of action.
“We’re just gonna hit up a bar, okay? Old school, nice and simple.” Dean’s hand is warm against Castiel’s shoulder, through his coat, as he directs him round a corner. “We shoulda started there. Less pressure.”
“Dean, whilst I appreciate your efforts…”
“Hey, I made you a promise.” There is a lightness in Dean’s eyes, possibly born of amusement, though after a moment his expression softens. “Look, we’ll just have a few drinks, maybe play a little pool. And if there’s nothing doing for you in here, then, whatever, you still had fun on your last night. Better than nothing, right?”
They have reached the front doors of a loud and busy building on the intersection of two streets. There is a general impression of bodies, music and laughter through the smudged glass of the windows. But Dean pauses before leading them inside, and turns back to Castiel, casting an appraising look over his vessel.
“Do your— okay, do that button back up. Leave the top one open.”
Mystified, Castiel does as Dean instructs. Dean then reaches over to straighten Castiel’s necktie, tightening its loosened knot.
“See if we can’t show you off,” he mutters. “You shouldn’t have to do anything but stand there.” He looks Castiel up and down once more, frowning slightly. “Well. Maybe stand a little less like there’s a stick up your ass, but other than that.”
Castiel has very little idea what’s happening, but he says, “All right.”
In the bar, Dean buys them both a beer, and they sit on high stools by the counter. The bartop is grimy with spilt drinks, and the bottles stick there. Castiel lifts his bottle carefully to dislodge it.
“The purpose of drinking this is to become intoxicated,” he says. “Is that correct?”
“You got it.”
“And that’s pleasurable?”
“If you do it right.” Dean drinks about half of his beer in a few large swallows. “Do it wrong, it’s all yelling and puking, sure. But if you know how to handle yourself, it makes it easier to talk to people, makes you forget stuff you don’t want to think about, makes you feel— I don’t know. Good. Better.”
These all sound like desirable states of being, although it seems unlikely that Castiel, his possession of his vessel having vastly increased its resistance to toxins, will be able to experience them.
Nonetheless, he understands that Dean would like him to drink the beer, and so he does. The concept of taste escapes him, but a brief assessment of the liquid’s alcohol content makes it clear he would have to consume far more of it than they have time for— and indeed possibly more than the bar has in stock— to achieve the intended effect.
“Okay, Romeo,” Dean says, drumming his hands briefly against the countertop and twisting on his stool, sweeping his eyes around the room. “You see anyone you like?”
Castiel follows his gaze. The bar is busy, full of groups of people talking and laughing. There is a human vibrancy about the scene that he finds engaging. But he is fairly sure this isn’t what Dean is asking.
“You mean as a potential sexual partner.”
The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches upwards. “Uh, yeah. Although, fair warning, it’s not exactly grab and go. But if you got a feeling about somebody, then there’s no harm in giving it a shot.”
Castiel knows nothing about any of the the people in the room. He wonders how one might expected to experience a feeling towards any of them under these circumstances. He is aware of the ebb and flow of human thought and emotion around him, of the bright sparks of dozens of souls, but to examine any of these people in detail would take time. Besides, Dean, warm and smiling, is right next to him. It seems a shame to spend that time with anyone else.
“Not really.”
Dean shrugs. “All right. Just keep an eye out, Casanova, huh? Oh, hey— ” he slides to his feet. “Pool table’s free.”
Pool turns out to be a tabletop game based around the intersection of physics and mathematics, which Castiel finds very interesting. Dean finishes his beer while he explains the rules, and another while demonstrating the mode of gameplay, but Castiel, concentrating, forgets to drink his own. When Dean next goes to the bar, he brings Castiel instead several mouthful-sized glasses of much stronger alcohol. Castiel cannot taste these either, but they are quicker to dispose of.
Pool is very easy, once Castiel has understood and adjusted the level of force required. He nearly rips the green material on the tabletop on his first attempt, which makes Dean laugh aloud, and Castiel finds that his vessel is smiling in response. Dean’s evident happiness stirs a corresponding lightness in him. It makes him realize that he has rarely, if ever, seen Dean happy over the past year of their acquaintance. He is sorry for it.
Dean is clearly an accomplished pool player, and once Castiel has understood the game, they are fairly evenly matched. He also has an impressively high tolerance for alcohol: they run the game several times over, Dean drinking steadily throughout, but his motor functions never become impaired.
Hours have passed by the time Dean glances at his watch, and says, “It’s dawn we gotta be at the warehouse, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s too late to go to bed now. We better go get coffee so I can drive.”
Out in the street, the cool night air feels welcome against Castiel’s skin. He realizes that it had grown hot, indoors. The sounds of the bar fade as the door swings shut behind them.
Castiel is grateful, really, that Dean seems to have forgotten his promise to find him a sexual partner for the evening. The night has already been busy and instructional enough as it is, and he would prefer not to spend it any more out of his depth than necessary. Once or twice he had watched Dean surveying women in the bar with an almost professional eye— whether as a potential match for himself or for Castiel, he wasn’t sure— but then he’d been distracted by their game, or a question, and his assessment was forgotten.
But Castiel is also grateful for Dean’s company tonight. There is a reserve of simple kindness beneath Dean’s often brash exterior, and it is affecting to find it turned towards him. Dean had wanted him to enjoy the last hours he might spend on earth. And, Castiel thinks, he has enjoyed them. He liked the unbridled energy of humanity in the bar, and learning the rules of the game, and the steady glow of Dean next to him all evening.
The impulse to touch Dean surprises him when it surfaces. Earlier that evening, when Castiel had been sequestered with Chastity, she had kissed him, first on the mouth and then at the juncture of his vessel’s neck and clavicle, while unbuttoning his shirt. The physical sensation had not been at all unpleasant, although he had been distracted by attempting to examine her soul, which had seemed a reasonable precursor to physical intimacy.
Castiel already knows Dean’s soul very well. It seems natural to want some way of being even closer to one another, for a moment.
“Dean,” he says.
Dean turns to face him, and when he sees that Castiel has stopped walking, he stops too. His face is open, waiting. So Castiel places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and then, the movement surprisingly easy, he leans forward to kiss him.
A puff of breath escapes Dean’s lips just before Castiel touches them. His mouth is soft. Castiel feels light, and hot, as though something inside him is sparking with energy. It is— exhilarating. Pleasurable. Castiel likes it, much as he had liked the bar, and the game, and Dean’s company. But this is a different kind of liking, bigger and sharper and more insistent.
Castiel is buoyed by the feeling of it even when Dean wrenches their mouths apart. It is only when Dean steps back, and Castiel sees the displeasure in his expression, that the sensation begins to fade.
Dean is looking furtively up and down the street. Castiel isn’t sure what he is looking for: there is nobody here, apart from a few people congregated outside the door of the bar, now far enough away that they can no longer hear their conversation.
“Okay,” says Dean, in a strange, stilted voice. “I know you don’t get how this stuff works, but rule one— don’t do that.”
Castiel swallows. He can still feel the phantom pressure of Dean’s lips against his. Of course he remembers that Dean had been unsettled when Castiel kissed him once before, in Bobby Singer’s kitchen. But Castiel had been something else to Dean then. A messenger of heaven, an unearthly being impossible to conceptualize. Now, they are allies. This evening, Dean has treated him much as he might a friend.
“You’re confused,” Dean says. “But this ain’t that, okay? We ain’t that.”
After a moment, Castiel nods, although what Dean means by that is unclear. What is evident is that Dean’s experience of the kiss was not the same as Castiel’s. It has not stirred the same pleasure in him. “My apologies.”
Dean breathes out, long and slow, and closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, he looks calmer, although the ease and lightness of the past few hours has gone. “Forget it,” he says. “Let’s just forget that happened, all right? Let’s go.”
But Castiel does not feel at peace. He cannot see how he can be expected to forget anything that he has experienced directly. Besides, Dean had been happy, and now he is not. These may be the last hours they spend together, and Castiel had been pleased to think that Dean might remember them with fondness. But now they have been soured by an unthinking mistake.
There is no sense in leaving Dean with a memory he does not need or want. Castiel reaches up to his forehead, and there is time only for a flicker of confusion and surprise to cross Dean’s face before Castiel smoothes the last few minutes away from his mind. Then Dean’s eyes soften.
As Castiel drops his hand, Dean grins. “Hey,” he says, “you wanna try a real diner burger before you die? Scratch coffee— food, I didn’t even think.”
“Yes,” Castiel says. “Why not.”
“Well, we’ll get both. Dessert too. I saw an all-night place this way.”
Dean claps Castiel on the shoulder as he pulls him in the direction of the car, and Castiel follows him.
iii.
The warding on Bobby Singer’s house is incomplete. A couple of the sigils are inaccurate, and one is missing altogether. But for what must have been a quick job at short notice, the red paint not yet quite dry, it is a valiant effort. There is enough protection in place for the house to attempt to resist Castiel’s entry, and he feels the scrape of the warding against his grace, clawing at him uncomfortably as he forces his way through. It would be easier to turn back. But it is too late for that.
He materializes in the front room, where Dean is asleep on the couch. Even at rest, his face is lined with worry, a furrow still between his eyebrows. One hand lies on top of the blanket on his lap, half-clenched into a fist, as if ready to swing.
Castiel stands quietly and watches him. He could do this for hours, and has done, although he knows Dean dislikes the thought of it. He is still confused by Dean’s discomfort at being watched without his knowledge: as far as Castiel understands, this is a given of existence. God sees all. Or, at least, he once did.
Eventually, Castiel speaks. “Hello, Dean.”
Dean wakes instantly, on an indrawn breath. His fist clenches fully, and then his frown deepens, mouth twisting in displeasure, as he takes in the figure of Castiel at his bedside. He sits up, and asks, “How’d you get in?”
“The angel-proofing Bobby put up on the house is not complete.”
“Yeah, well.” Dean swings his legs off the couch, pushing himself to his feet in annoyed, abrupt motions. “Shame we gotta angel-proof in the first place, huh?”
“No, Dean, you don’t have to. That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh yeah? You here to say we misunderstood you, we got it all backwards? Nice try.”
Castiel swallows. Dean is already angry with him, and when Dean is angry, he finds it hard to listen. It is crucial that Castiel choose his words carefully. “Everything I said earlier today was true.”
Dean huffs out a breath, looking away from Castiel, eyes fixed on the floor. “Great. Well. You’re working with Crowley, and you’ve been lying your ass off about it the whole time, and you think that’s totally fine, so, we’re done. I don’t want to hear any more.”
“Dean, I need you to understand. Thanks to you, the apocalypse was averted. If Raphael gets his way, all that sacrifice could be for nothing. That is what I’m trying to prevent. Everything I’m doing now— it’s for you. I’m doing this because of you.”
Dean raises his head slowly. “Because of me,” he says. “You have got to be kidding.”
“Why would I be anything but serious about this?”
“You’re something else, you know that? This is all about you, Cas. This is about— being on top, being the sheriff, whatever. And sure, go ahead, knock yourself out. Make yourself top dog. But don’t go saying it’s for me that you want it.”
Castiel stares at Dean, taken aback. This last year has been brutally difficult: with the toll of the war’s casualties, the relentless strategizing and re-strategizing, and the unpleasant feeling of lying to the Winchesters, as much as Castiel knows it has been for their own benefit. But it is only now, in the face of Dean’s flat refusal to believe him, that Castiel feels the creeping approach of despair.
He had thought— foolishly, perhaps— that Dean, of all people, would be prepared to listen. Dean, who knows the burden of an impossible choice. Dean, whose desperation to protect one person has reverberated outwards into a ferocious drive to protect the whole world. Castiel learnt these things from him.
But Dean, glaring back at him, is not listening. Unable to see past the idea of betrayal, he is too hurt and too angry to be reasoned with. Castiel feels a sharp burst of frustration. Of course everything he has done has grown out of an attempt to keep Dean from harm, to a degree that should be obvious. Except, apparently, to Dean.
Castiel lets the tide of despair and frustration wash through him. Then he grounds himself in its wake. If Dean will not listen, perhaps Castiel can show him.
Castiel has kissed Dean before. Both those instances were questions, unformed and shapeless, inquiries that he had not known how to make in words. But this is different. This is a statement, as clear as he can make it.
Leaning forward, he kisses Dean again. He does so with purpose and care, and with their mouths pressed together, all doubt in Castiel’s mind evaporates. He curls one hand at the back of Dean’s neck, against the warmth of his skin and the sweep of his hair. His other hand touches Dean’s face, his fingers against Dean’s cheek. It is momentarily blissful to hold Dean like this. They are so close. Castiel can feel the bright heat of Dean’s soul touching all the edges of himself. He would give up much, for this. Far more than he has already lost.
When Castiel allows their mouths to part, Dean is gasping for breath. Castiel’s body is singing with energy, and he doesn’t want to let Dean go, so he doesn’t. He keeps Dean’s head in his hands, his palms against his neck and his jaw, as he rests their foreheads together.
“What the fuck, Cas,” says Dean. His voice is low and quiet, but Castiel knows this tone of voice from Dean. It promises danger in its calm.
Castiel doesn’t reply. He has made himself as clear as he can, and there is nothing more to say.
“How dare you,” Dean says, barely above a whisper. He reaches up to the hand that Castiel has cupped against his jaw, and pushes it away; for a moment, stubborn, Castiel doesn’t let him, before he relents, and lets Dean pull away from him entirely. “How dare you— after all that lying, all that spying, think that you got the right to, to fuckin’ touch me. What’s wrong with you?”
Dean fists are clenched by his sides, his jaw twitching. Still hurt, still angry; if anything, more so than before. The euphoria of the kiss is fading in Castiel. Despair and frustration are rising again.
“When I first touched you,” Castiel says— he knows that it will be fruitless, but still he tries to explain— “in hell, you don’t remember, but I do. I felt something, when I saved you. I think it was joy. I’d never felt anything before. Can you understand that? Aeons of nothing, and then— ” Castiel’s voice is wavering. It is not helpful. “It changed me. You changed me. I rebelled for you. I am doing this for you. And I need you to trust me to do it.”
Dean swallows. “No,” he says. “No, Cas, I don’t trust you. How can I, after what you’ve been doing? You can see that, right?”
Castiel lets out a short, hopeless breath. The weight of the last year pushes on him from all sides, and not for the first time, he wonders if it would have been better if none of this had happened. If he had not raised Dean Winchester from perdition. If he had never had to act without orders. Everything had been so much easier before Dean. Doubtless he would have made fewer mistakes.
But this is pointless to dwell on. Castiel is bound to the course he has chosen. Dean must be saved again, and the world must be saved with him, whether he likes it or not.
“I’m sorry,” Castiel says. He lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder— selfishly, letting the tips of his fingers brush the exposed skin at his collar— and then for a moment, he wavers.
But it will be better for Dean not to remember this. Maybe, when the world no longer hangs in the balance, Castiel can try again to explain himself, and maybe then Dean will be willing to listen. But this is not the time. He lifts his other hand to Dean’s forehead.
“Hey— ” Dean says, alarm interrupting his anger, but Castiel has already reached into his mind and pulled the memory from it, and Dean falls silent. Then Castiel leaves him.
iv.
When Castiel finds him, Dean is kneeling, head bowed. He is getting his breath back. Around him on the ground, Castiel counts seven bodies.
Dean’s head jerks up at the sound of Castiel approaching. His eyes are blank, clouded over, and his hand tightens on the machete in his hands. But then he blinks, and says, “Cas?”
“Hello, Dean.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to help.”
“Too late, buddy.” The corner of Dean’s mouth turns up in a mirthless smile, and then he frowns. “How did you find me?”
“Sam called and told me where you were. He’s on his way, but he knew he wouldn’t make it in time.”
Dean makes an irritated noise. “Why’s Sam coming? I told him I had this covered.”
Castiel watches as Dean pushes himself to his feet. Blood is trickling thickly down the handle of the machete, running over Dean’s hand, through the grooves between his knuckles. Gore is splattered further over his arms and chest, staining his shirt a dull dark red.
But this is not what concerns Castiel. It’s the blankness still in Dean’s eyes: the way the mindless fog of violence that descends on him no longer fully clears, even when Dean is quiet and lucid. And the way that Dean, exhausted, is succumbing to it. Since Castiel has known him, Dean has often been angry, and he has often been tired, but this is something else entirely. Castiel hates it, watching this relentless darkness batter Dean’s soul from all sides.
“See?” Dean says, gesturing around the room of vampire corpses. “I got this.”
“That’s not why Sam called me.”
“Then what…” Dean’s expression darkens. “God damn it, Cas, I’m fine. This— ” he wields the machete in a brief circle around himself— “this is me doing the job, okay? This is what I do. I kill monsters.”
“Yes, I know.” Castiel moves to the nearest vampire’s body, and crouches to examine it. Its head has been removed, and so has one of its arms. The other arm looks broken. There is also a deep, wide gash across its torso, through which blood is still sluggishly leaking. If this were a human, and if Dean and Sam were hunting whatever had killed it, they would be appalled.
“What?” Dean says, from behind him. When Castiel doesn’t respond, he repeats it, louder. “What?”
Castiel stands slowly, turning to face him again. “You’re finding it more difficult to keep the Mark’s influence on you at bay. And the periods in which it controls you are increasing in frequency.”
“No.”
“Yes. Dean, I know how hard you’re trying. But it’s not working.”
Dean takes a step towards Castiel, as if to make a point, and then seems to stop himself. “I’m coping, okay?” he says. “I know this isn’t ideal. But I’ve got it under control. If this is making me want to kill shit— well, luckily I kill shit for a living. At least I’m taking out the ones who deserve it.”
Castiel has no desire to enter a conversation about deserts, or about who or how many might yet die by Dean’s hand. It would be laughably hypocritical of him. Instead, he says, “When you killed these vampires, were you in control of yourself?”
“It doesn’t matter. I was killing vampires.”
“Were you in control of yourself, or was the Mark controlling you?”
“What difference does it make?”
“If someone else had come into the room— if Sam had got here— would you have been able to recognize him?” Dean’s mouth hardens. “Could you have hurt him? Could you have killed him, just for being in the way?”
“No, I wouldn’t fucking— ” Dean’s knuckles are white where they grip the handle of the machete, raising it a few inches higher in the air. He pauses, looks at it, and then locks eyes once more with Castiel. “Why are you trying to make me angry? When you know— ”
“I’m not trying to make you angry, Dean, I’m just trying to talk to you. If you’re angry, it’s because you’re not in control of yourself.”
Dean blows out a long, hard breath, and looks away. He flexes his bloody fingers. Castiel can see that his jaw is set, his teeth gritted.
Castiel wants to heal him. To reach out and touch Dean, let a pulse of grace slip through his fingers and knit him back together. But Dean is not injured. In fact, thanks to the Mark, his body is stronger than it has ever been. He is coming apart, but not in the flesh. Castiel does not know how to hold him together.
“Dean,” he says, nonetheless, his voice deliberately as calm as possible. “We’re going to fix this. I promise.”
“No, we’re not.” Dean glances at his own arm, at where the Mark is hidden beneath his shirt. “Only way to get this off of me is to pass it to someone else. You know that. And then it’s on someone who maybe we can’t control. How is that better?”
Because I wouldn’t have to watch you go through this, Castiel doesn’t say. “We’ll find another way. We’ll eradicate the Mark entirely.”
Dean shakes his head and laughs, short and unhappy. “Not gonna happen.”
“But to do that, you need to let us help you. You need to be honest with me and with Sam about what the Mark is doing to you. It’s the only way we’ll have a chance of beating it.”
Dean’s body is rigid with tension, but he is not poised to attack. When Castiel moves towards him, he remains perfectly still, at least until Castiel enters what Dean would describe as his personal space. Then he twitches, and looks down again at his forearm.
“Does it hurt?” Castiel asks.
“No, more like— ”
Dean cuts off, abruptly, as Castiel takes his arm in both hands. Castiel pushes Dean’s sleeve up and out of the way so that he can see the Mark for himself, sitting red and raised and angry on Dean’s skin.
“Don’t,” Dean says, and tries to pull his arm from Castiel’s grasp.
The Mark makes him unfeasibly strong, but Castiel is still stronger. Instead of releasing him, Castiel turns Dean’s arm back and forth a little, trying to examine the Mark in the dim light.
“I said don’t.” Dean wrenches again, harder. There’s something hotter and darker in his voice when he says, “Cas. Let me go.”
Castiel looks up, and sees the harshness in Dean’s face. “Or what?” he asks. “Will you hurt me, too?”
“I don’t know.” Dean’s jaw tics. “Maybe.”
It is awful to see Dean like this. Dean’s anger has never governed him before, not in the overwhelming way the Mark is seeking to do, seeping into his soul until nothing but darkness remains. There must be a way to bring back the light.
Castiel’s stolen grace does not quite fit him. It writhes uneasily when he tries to muster it, already fraying at the edges. But, for now, it still works. So Castiel touches the Mark, just a brush of his fingers, and he lets a tiny burst of grace surge through them and into Dean’s skin. Dean’s lips curl immediately into a snarl, and the Mark flares hot in protest. But Castiel feels something like hope. If the Mark is defending itself, then this must be having an effect.
He digs his thumb into the Mark, and Dean makes an outraged noise, although not of pain— or at least not physical pain— as he tries again to pull away. But Castiel holds his arm fast, corralling his grace, willing it into Dean in an unsteady stream.
Dean’s arm is shaking in Castiel’s grip. He is writhing, trying to escape, and there is something savage in his expression. He needs to be reached. To be tethered to something other than the rage the Mark is stoking in his soul. When Dean surges suddenly forward, it is almost without thinking that Castiel kisses him.
The kiss is hard. Desperate. A last resort. The Mark burns white-hot under Castiel’s hand, seething in the flood of his grace, and Dean gasps and growls and bites under the pressure of Castiel’s mouth. The Mark is fighting him— but Dean— Dean is kissing him. Furiously, messily. It is like nothing Castiel has ever felt before.
Castiel’s heart hammers. He opens his mouth, letting Dean’s breath spill into it. How he wants this: he’s shuddering with how much he wants it, groaning when Dean’s teeth sink into his lower lip, when Dean fists both hands in the lapels of Castiel’s coat, the machete clattering to the ground. The sensation is brutal and ecstatic. Castiel feels as if he has been electrocuted.
He can feel the pounding of Dean’s pulse in the Mark under his hand. Eventually, when he has pushed as much grace into Dean as he dares, he lets go of his arm, panting. His lips part from Dean’s.
“Cas,” Dean says, his voice a rough scrape in Castiel’s ear. “What did you do?”
Castiel’s throat is tight. “I’m saving you.”
Dean is shaking his head. The haze in his eyes has lifted, his expression clear, and Castiel feels his heart jump. But then he realizes that what he can see in Dean’s expression is fear.
“No,” Dean says, “No, what you’re doing, it’s not— it’s not good. You can’t, it’ll make me— ”
Dean shoves him away. Still reeling from the kiss, Castiel is thrown off balance, stumbling backwards. The Mark is burning a deep, wicked red on Dean’s arm as he follows Castiel step for step, knocking him backwards again and again, teeth bared in fury.
Castiel hits the opposite wall, his head bouncing off it hard enough to cause a concussion, or possibly a minor hemorrhage, were he not cushioned by grace. Dean thrusts his arm up against Castiel’s throat, pinning him there.
Castiel feels himself begin to panic. Not that Dean will hurt him, which he could not do— despite everything, Dean is still no match for him— but that, not for the first time, Castiel’s attempt to fix things has only made them worse.
Dean looks almost inhuman with rage. Castiel can feel Dean’s soul shaking and cracking under the pressure of it, even as he thrusts his arm harder into Castiel’s throat. It is agony to watch. Castiel needs to make it stop.
He reaches for Dean’s forehead, but Dean snarls, ducking out of the way and catching Castiel’s wrist. He gets as far as, “Don’t you fucking— ” before Castiel’s other hand presses against his temple.
Castiel tugs everything that has just happened from Dean’s memory, the extraction harsh in his urgency and with his unwieldy grace. Dean’s eyes go wide with shock, and then they fall closed as he is rendered unconscious. He slumps, once again, to his knees. Castiel catches him under the arms before he can collapse, and lays him gently on the ground.
Castiel stands still, letting his heart slow. The panic ebbs away as he looks down at Dean, briefly safe and quiet as he sleeps. But underneath, perhaps worse, is a cold, constricting guilt. Castiel knows what it is to have memories rewritten. He knows the sickening feeling of realizing that you cannot trust your own mind. The outrage of it. Dean would not forgive Castiel for this, if he knew.
But there are many things that Castiel will not be forgiven for. This is only one leaf in a very long book.
v.
Castiel is alphabetizing a shelf in the library when he becomes aware of Dean’s presence. For a moment he pauses, undecided. He has almost finished this task and it would be satisfying to see it completed, and the rooms here have a tendency to reset themselves when he leaves them.
He has settled into a quiet, undemanding life in this private version of the Winchesters’ bunker, mostly watching television and reading. It is quite peaceful. For the stretches of time that he lets his mind drift entirely away from the outside world, Castiel is— not happy, perhaps, but at least content.
But the knowledge that Dean is nearby is hard to ignore. Castiel’s equilibrium is already disturbed. So he lays the book he is holding on the nearest table, and leaves the room.
Castiel never quite forgets that the real world is there, but it is distant and muted. It is an effort to concentrate on it, to walk the length of the bunker and climb the stairs. The front door is locked, and Castiel does not have the key. But he is not trying to leave, only to look outside.
Here at the top of the stairs, Castiel’s head feels a little clearer. He takes a moment to re-adjust. He can remember where he is and what is happening. He can see and hear once again through his vessel’s eyes and ears, and feel something close to the experience of physically inhabiting it. But of course he cannot control what it does, only watch and listen.
Castiel’s vessel— Lucifer— is in the bunker, the real bunker. He and Dean are in the archives, where Dean is crouching in front of a dusty cardboard box, cutting open a knot of string with his penknife.
“—might not be anything,” Dean is saying, “but you never know. It’s Aladdin’s goddamn cave down here.”
Hello, Castiel. There’s a thread of amusement in Lucifer’s thoughts. Come to play peeping Tom?
Castiel ignores him. For the most part, Lucifer has left him alone these last weeks. He has been busy, from what Castiel has bothered to glean, shoring up his position in Hell. But since it is in Lucifer’s interest to destroy the Darkness, and Lucifer is reliably self-interested, it follows that he will keep his word to use this vessel to that purpose. That being the case, Castiel prefers not to engage with the details.
Dean has opened the cardboard box. He is gingerly removing a series of small, curved blades from inside, each of them around the length of a finger, and lethally sharp. “Whoa. Check it out.”
Lucifer steps a little closer to Dean. “Hmm. Let me see.”
Dean hands him a blade. Castiel’s discomfort must be easy to feel, because Lucifer smiles inwardly as he turns the metal over in his fingers.
Don’t fret, Castiel. If I were planning to do away with your pet human, I’d have dragged you up here myself to watch.
“These are very finely made,” Lucifer says to Dean. “Around two centuries old. I can’t sense any unusual properties or spellwork on them, though. I think they may simply be unhilted blades for a ceremonial set of knives.”
“Huh,” says Dean, his disappointment somewhat overshadowed by his evident interest in the find. “Still cool, though.”
“Very cool,” Lucifer agrees. He shapes his voice slightly hesitantly around the word, as Castiel would have done, and Dean’s face flickers with a smile. Despite everything, the sight of it ignites its usual little flame of something in Castiel.
Oh, of course. I’ve got it the wrong way round. You’re the pet angel these days, aren’t you?
Castiel is long-inured to the insinuation that his allegiance to the Winchesters is in some way demeaning, and he ignores this, too. But Lucifer seems to have found an idea he is interested in toying with.
You know, I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve come out to play. You only ever do it to get a look at your little friends. Usually this little friend in particular. Why is that?
The question is unnecessary. Lucifer has access to any part of Castiel’s mind he chooses to examine, although up until now, he has appeared not to be very interested in doing so.
What, you don’t want to talk about it? With your own brother?
When Castiel does not respond, he feels the sensation of Lucifer slipping between the seams of his own consciousness, moving through his thoughts. It is— uncomfortable. Once upon a time, his mind was all but indistinguishable from those of his brothers and sisters. This would not have been an intrusion. But it is strange, now. There are things in here that Castiel has grown used to knowing belong to him and him alone.
My my, it’s a real mess in here, isn’t it? I knew you had a sick little thing going on for humanity. But this is worse than I thought. Some of this stuff is… well, that’s just embarrassing. And that? That’s disgusting. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.
Castiel has plenty to be ashamed of, but he is fairly sure he and Lucifer disagree on exactly what.
“Here.” Lucifer hands the blade back to Dean, and dulled as the sensation is, Castiel feels their hands brushing as Dean reaches up to take it from him. Inwardly, Lucifer tuts.
Castiel supposes Lucifer had expected to utilize Castiel’s confinement inside his own mind as a kind of torment. But Lucifer had forgotten, perhaps, that Castiel is unlike anyone else he has possessed, and the separation of mind and body does not particularly unsettle him. And as for Lucifer’s unfettered access to his thoughts— well, it is unpleasant to be derided, but Castiel has grown used to it. As long as Lucifer has no intention of harming the Winchesters, there is little he can do to truly disturb Castiel.
Anyhow, failing to get a rise out of him, Lucifer seems to have grown bored. His presence lifts away from the tangle of Castiel’s thoughts. And on the physical plane, as Dean packs the blades back into their box, Lucifer turns and drifts away, towards the nearest archive shelf.
Castiel supposes he may as well go back downstairs and return to the library. There is little for him to do up here, other than to see Dean and ascertain that he is well, which he has done.
But then Lucifer stops in front of a box on the shelf, seemingly at random, and says, “Dean. Come and look at this.”
“What is it?”
“I want to show you something.”
Castiel feels a trickle of dread. For a moment, he cannot work out what is happening, although he can feel the malevolence beneath Lucifer’s words, and he knows it will be bad. “No,” he says, aloud, although of course his vessel does not speak the words.
Castiel hears Dean push himself to his feet, and the sound of his footsteps as he approaches. “No,” Castiel says, again. His voice is rough and strange with disuse. “No. Don’t touch him.”
Oh, come on. Only nice touching. I won’t hurt him.
The trickle of dread is suddenly a flood. Lucifer has turned to face Dean, and Castiel can feel his glee, although outwardly his expression is grave.
“What is it?” Dean asks.
“Don’t,” Castiel says. “No, stop— ”
Why not? You want to, don’t you? I mean, you’ve done it before.
Castiel doesn’t want to be here. Lucifer might be in the archives, but Castiel’s mind, in its simulacrum of the bunker, is still at the top of the stairs. The front door in front of him is locked, but when he looks behind him, the stairs are also gone. He is trapped on the landing, unable to descend and block out the outside world. Lucifer is making him stay here and watch.
If he cannot go backwards, perhaps he can go forwards. So Castiel pounds on the metal door with his fist. It hurts, but he does it again, and again. He has no idea if there is any possibility of success through brute force: he has never had a vessel fight him for control. He turns and shoves his shoulder against the door, colliding impassably with its reinforced steel. It does not move.
Beg me, Lucifer says.
Castiel stops, resting his head against the door.
Beg me not to do it.
“Please,” Castiel says. “Please don’t. You’ll ruin— everything. You don’t understand. But please don’t.”
In the archive, Dean is frowning, glancing at the shelf and back again. “Cas? What is it?”
Lucifer lays a careful hand on Dean’s shoulder, and flicks his tongue momentarily between Castiel’s lips.
“I’m begging you,” Castiel says, louder. “Like you said. What else do you want me to— ”
Everything flares momentarily and painfully bright when Lucifer kisses Dean. Castiel sinks slowly to sit on the ground, feeling the cold of the metal door at his back, even as he also feels the muted warmth of Dean’s mouth.
Lucifer drags one deliberate hand along the flannel at Dean’s shoulder, and over the back of his neck, curling his fingers there. Numbly, Castiel realizes that Lucifer is not just kissing Dean, but kissing him as Castiel has done before. He is creating a collapsed copy, a mockery, of the few times that Castiel has given in to the desire to do this.
Castiel knows, too, what comes next. Dean’s indignation and rejection. He doesn’t want to see it, but Lucifer still makes Castiel watch as he breaks the kiss with predatory gentleness, pulls back far enough that they can both see Dean’s face.
Dean looks astonished. His lips are still slightly parted, his eyes wide with surprise. “Uh— Cas?”
Lucifer moves the hand on Dean’s neck, running it back across his shoulder to rest against his upper arm, and Dean turns to look at the press of it against his shirt. He gazes at it for a moment, confusion plain in his expression. Castiel waits for it to resolve itself into anger, or fear, or distaste, but Dean just looks up at him again, a faint crease of something unreadable in his brow.
When Lucifer brings his hand to the side of Dean’s face, Dean’s eyebrows raise. But he doesn’t, as Castiel expects, jerk away. He lets Lucifer touch his cheek with the back of his knuckles.
You’re pathetic, Lucifer says, and moves the hand up to Dean’s temple.
Castiel feels a sharp burst of grace, and Dean’s expression turns slack and peaceful as Lucifer wipes the memory away.
“No,” Castiel says, again, miserably, and too late anyway. “Please don’t do that.”
But this is what you wanted. You begged me not to do it. So now I haven’t. See? It never happened.
“Let me go,” Castiel says. “Let me go downstairs.”
Besides, this is what you do after you touch him, isn’t it?
Castiel pushes himself to his feet. The bunker is spread out below him once again, and he can walk down the stairs. As he goes, the world closing off behind him, Lucifer laughs.
vi.
Death is coming, and Dean is afraid. Castiel can feel it. Not in the same way he would once have felt it, by curious examination of the energy radiating from Dean’s mind, but in some way more immediate and instinctual. He looks at Dean and he just knows.
Dean is not afraid of death, but he is afraid of death without purpose. Of death that means failure. And he is palpably afraid that he and Castiel will both die in this room, right now, and that it will be for nothing.
Perhaps it is strange that Castiel’s overwhelming desire in that moment is to remove that fear from Dean. Not to destroy Billie, or to save them both, or even, necessarily, to save Dean— although of course he wants all of those things as he searches, desperately, for a course of action. If Dean dies here, he must not think it is in vain. Better still for Dean not to die here. Better still—
The solution comes to Castiel in a moment of such clarity that it is as if he has has been washed through with light. The way is clear. It is the holiest he has felt in a long time.
“I know how to stop her,” Castiel says.
Dean looks up at him, and for a terrible moment Castiel wonders whether this, the open hope and gratitude on Dean’s face, is all it will take. The feeling he has been waiting for, coming too soon, too quick. But no, of course it isn’t. He knows exactly what it will be.
“How?”
Castiel pauses. This is important. They don’t have much time, but even so, he needs Dean to understand. He chooses his words carefully.
“When Jack was dying, I made a deal to save him. The price was my life. When I experienced a moment of true happiness, the Empty would be summoned, and it would take me forever.”
Dean’s expression shifts to confusion, and then consternation. “You— you did what?”
“Since then,” Castiel presses on, “I’ve been wondering what that moment of happiness could be. Whether it might arrive without me even realizing. If I saw something beautiful. Or if I was with the people I love.”
“Cas, why are you telling me this now?”
“Because I think know what it is. The moment.” Castiel pauses. Breathes. “I think I’ve known ever since I made the deal. But if I let myself think about it, it was too… well, I didn’t want to think about it. Because I thought I could never have it.”
Dean’s frown is deepening as he follows this train of thought. “Wait. You think if you summon the Empty, it’ll take out Billie. But then you— you’ll be—?”
Castiel nods. “Yes. It’s all right, Dean.”
“No.” Dean’s face is suddenly pale. Stricken. “There has to be another way. Or a way of, of stopping the Empty before it gets to you— ”
There is another resounding crash as Billie’s fist hits the door behind them. Castiel can feel the sigil beginning to fracture under the pressure.
“No. There’s no time. This is the only way. But I promise it’s all right.”
Dean looks up at Castiel then, really looks at him. There is fear and panic and desperation all mixed together in his expression, and he says, “What is it? The moment?”
Castiel smiles. He lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder. There is a brief, stinging pain as his flesh catches on the rough material of Dean’s jacket: he had forgotten his hand was cut open and bleeding. Castiel feels it, although it is drowned out almost entirely by the rising tide of what is to come.
Dean looks at Castiel’s hand on his shoulder, and then looks him in the eye as Castiel takes a half-step closer.
Castiel lays his other hand to Dean’s temple as gently as he can. He lets the memories ebb back into Dean’s consciousness slowly, gradually. He is careful not to overwhelm him.
Forgive me, Castiel says, not out loud, but wrapped around each of the recollections as they return. Please forgive me for having taken this. He watches Dean’s eyes widen and his mouth drop open. This was yours. This was yours. This too was yours.
When Castiel removes his hand from his temple, Dean doesn’t speak. He swallows, staring at Castiel. Castiel almost hopes that Dean will be angry with him. It would make parting easier.
But Dean just says, low and rough, “Cas.”
Castiel nods. “Yes.” He smiles. His cheeks are wet.
The door shakes behind them under Billie’s fist. The sigil is crumbling.
“Don’t do this,” Dean says, his voice cracking.
The kiss that Castiel gives to Dean then is not the longest or hardest or most desperate of those he has given him, but it is the best.
Dean makes a soft, wrenching noise against his mouth, and then his hands are at Castiel’s shoulders, holding him, pulling him closer. His hand grasps the back of Castiel’s neck, and his breath wavers against Castiel’s lips, and Castiel is so, so happy.
I love you, Castiel tells him, in a voice greater than his vessel could conduct. It is loud, loud beyond the scope of human comprehension, and it should be too loud for Dean to bear, but it does not harm him. The room is filled with a roaring cacophony of truth and relief, rattling against the walls, drowning out everything else. It fills Castiel until he is nothing but that sound. And then there is silence.