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“So you, uh.” Dean clears his throat. His beer kind of tastes like dirt. “You talked to him.”
“Yeah.” Sam peels a long strip of faded label off of his own IPA, which he’s barely touched. He’s sprawled across his chair, as low to the ground as he can get without sliding off. “Lucifer was gonna—and Cas—”
Dean grunts, releasing Sam from having to finish the thought. An inarticulate Sam is a seriously rattled Sam. “I get it,” he says. The overhead kitchen light’s the only one on in the bunker; they didn’t talk about it, but they maneuvered their way back underground in the dark, feeling their way to the badly-stocked fridge. Half-mourning, or something. Whatever you do for someone who’s not actually dead.
There’s quiet, except the tapping of Sam’s fingernails against the glass of his bottle. Then he says, “I don’t know if you do.”
Dean raises his eyebrows. “’Scuse me?”
Sam’s brow furrows. “I just. I mean. I’ve been there, you know? Pretty much literally.”
Dean’s next sip burns as it goes down. “Son of a bitch,” he says. He can’t come up with a better answer for the shoulda-been-obvious revelation that the two people he loves the most have been puppets for Satan.
“Yeah.” Sam’s voice dips low. “I don’t know if it’s the same for an angel.”
“What, uh…” The question’s half-out before Dean can stop it. Tactless, probably. “What d’you think it’s like? For Cas?”
The silence lingers for another slow moment. Dean’s thoughts keep slipping around the idea of Cas doing this on purpose, swerving and dodging to avoid wondering why. There can’t be a why, because that’d mean Cas intended to leave them. It would mean—
“Cold,” Sam says. “Icy fucking cold.”
“Shit,” Dean says.
Sam laughs, sort of. “You know how people talk about getting caught in really extreme conditions, ice storms, and they got so cold they just wanted to lie down and go to sleep right there? It’s like that.”
His heart somewhere around his ankles, Dean polishes off his beer. He should say something. Thank Sam for sharing.
“Even when I wanted to fight,” Sam says, “it was hard as hell. So to speak. Because he makes not fighting seem like the only way. Like it’s gonna be so easy as long as you close your eyes and drift away and let him take over.”
“But you did.” Dean swallows back the bitter lump in his throat. “Talk about taking back the reins with style, Sammy.”
And okay, there’s a smile lightening up Sam’s sad-puppy expression. “You and I have always gotta be so dramatic. Cas fought too,” he adds. “He saved my life.”
There’s something prickling at Dean’s eyelids again. He shuts his eyes and hauls in a deep breath. “He didn’t really want this.”
Sam hesitates, his trepidation practically palpable. “He wanted to save you.”
“Great,” Dean says. “Angel walks into Hell and does something stupid to drag my sorry ass out of the fire. Second verse, same as the first.”
“Look,” Sam says. “He was trying to do the right thing.”
Dean could go for the obvious dig, but he doesn’t. They’ve all been trying to do the right thing. Instead, he inclines his bottle toward Sam and says, “Try to get some sleep tonight, okay?”
The dream comes in fits and starts at first. Dean doesn’t fall asleep easy, even with the two backup beers he carried back to his room, and he keeps on jerking awake, his heart knocking hard against his breastbone.
He sees Amara, her mouth open and inviting, leaking black like an oil spill.
There’s Charlie, pulling him into a hug and not letting go. Hanging on so tight and unrelenting that Dean could swear she’s breaking him, but he doesn’t struggle.
Dean’s phone tells him it’s 3:26 a.m., and he’s wondering when it got this late, and then there’s Cas.
He’s dressed like he was the last time Dean saw him, jacket gone and hair rumpled. When he smiles, easy and inviting, Dean wants to sink into him.
“Hello, Dean,” he says, and Dean’s tipping forward, the fall easy, and then.
“Wait.” It’s wrong. That wasn’t Cas. It was Lucifer, eyes locked on Dean’s and hand curled just this side of too hard around Dean’s right shoulder.
“Wait?” Cas’ eyebrows lift, but they’re not his eyebrows anymore. His mouth forms a sardonic tilt. “Isn’t waiting all you two have been doing?”
“Just get out of him,” Dean says. It might be a plea, actually. Reality keeps drifting around the edges of his vision, the setting changing faster than he can keep track, and his brain-to-mouth filter is on the fritz: “Please. I need him.”
Cas—Lucifer, fuck, that’s Lucifer—he rolls his eyes. “Waiting for the right moment. Waiting to see if he feels the same way. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Very boring.”
Dean steps closer and his breath freezes in his lungs. It’s as cold as Sam said it would be. “Shut up.”
“Nah.” Lucifer grins widely, then holds up a hand. Cas’ fingers hover in the air as if he’s bracing himself for something, and then his eyes are wide, the lines of his face heavy and earnest. “Dean,” he says. Low and resonant.
“No,” Dean says. There’s ice in his veins, in his chest, in all the dark and secret spaces in his head where he doesn’t let himself linger.
“Yes.” And shit, Dean wants to touch. The swell of Cas’ lower lip looks the same as it always has. “I’ve been waiting for you for such a long time, Dean. I wanted you to notice how much I—”
Dean punches him, thwack, and it’s like hitting a brick wall.
He’ll be damned if he’s gonna hear those words out of that mouth with Lucifer in control.
“Oh, come on.” Lucifer pouts. The rumble in his voice is gone, like he’s giving up on the Cas impersonation.
“This isn’t even fucking real,” Dean tells him.
Something twitches in Lucifer’s expression. Something like annoyance or even anger.
“It’s not,” Dean says. He’d shove his hands into his armpits to warm them up if that wouldn’t sort of ruin the somber confrontational mood they’ve got going.
Lucifer’s jaw clenches. “I,” he grits out. There’s a rasp there, an edge, and Dean’s heart flies up all the way to his throat.
“Oh, God.”
“It’s me,” Cas says. His hands are in clenched fists at his sides, color high in his cheeks. He’s staring at Dean, almost through him. “He didn’t want to walk in your dreams, but I.” He hiccups, which would be hilarious under any other circumstances. “I wanted to see you now that you know.”
“Cas, Jesus Christ, why—”
Time skips—fucking dreams—and Dean doesn’t have a second to prepare before Cas is on him, hands around the back of his neck. Kissing him.
He’s dreamed about this before. A million scenarios, about a billion kisses, ones that blur together in the faultiness of dream-memory into vague impressions of an open mouth, of a breathless rumble of Dean’s name, of hands here and there and everywhere.
This kiss is sharp. Cas’ teeth sink into Dean’s lip and Dean almost chokes on a gasp. He can taste Cas’ tongue, he can feel the pinpricks of near-pain as Cas’ fingernails dig into the nape of his neck, and he can hear the slick noise as their mouths fit together one way, then another.
“Hey,” he murmurs. His hands settle so easily at Cas’ hips. “Hey, hey, I got you.”
Cas tightens his grip, kisses him hard, and bursts into laughter.
“Oh boy,” he says, so close the words shape themselves against Dean’s parted lips, “you are a real sucker. I guess my acting’s getting pretty good.”
“What?” Dean says, made stupid by the rise and fall of Cas’ ribs under his hands. Lucifer’s ribs. Shit.
“That was me,” Lucifer says. “In case you’re too slow to get it. The whole time. I think I’m up for Best Supporting Actor by now.”
Lucifer’s laughter ringing in his ears, Dean wakes up. It’s nearly five in the morning and he can smell his own sweat where it’s soaked through the armpits of the ratty T-shirt he wore to bed. When he shifts, an empty beer bottle goes clank as it falls to the floor.
The whole time, Lucifer had said. All of it. Cas breaking through, the desperation of their kiss, the hum of his own pulse where Cas’ thumb had rested against Dean’s carotid.
Dean’s hands are still freezing, but—but. He touches a hand to his own chest, careful, and keeps quiet and unmoving as the last of the unmistakable warmth there scatters.
Demons lie, and so does their former king.
In the morning, there’s coffee. Dean doesn’t even have to make it—it’s waiting for him when he shuffles into the kitchen, face scrubbed and teeth brushed in a last-ditch effort to feel closer to human. That’s how he knows Sam feels bad for him.
“You got some more,” he says, accepting the mug Sam holds out for him. Splash of cream; Sam knows his order.
Sam shrugs, ambling back toward his own coffee and half-eaten piece of toast. “Found some in the pantry.”
That means Sam didn’t sleep. It means he drove around for a while by himself. It means he’s about as fucked up over this as Dean. Maybe not for the exact same reasons—he’s the one who got all up close and personal with pretty much his least favorite entity in creation—but Dean’s not one to split hairs.
“Cas needs us,” Dean says.
“Yeah,” Sam agrees without hesitation.
“We’re getting him out,” Dean adds.
“Yeah,” Sam says again. His hands are folded and he looks pale.
“We gank Amara and lose him, that’s not—that’s not gonna save me.” Dean’s chest feels like it’s constricting. “That’s gonna kill me.”
Something goes soft in Sam’s expression, so soft Dean has to close his eyes and bolt down a long drink of coffee. “Yeah,” Sam says, one last time. “I’ll hit the books today.”
Dean breathes out. “I’m—don’t laugh. I’m gonna go pray.”
The corner of Sam’s mouth quirks up, but he’s in really good brother mode and he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even look like he wants to. “Go get him, tiger.”