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Dean’s gaze is fixed on one of several T.V. screens hung above the bar, but he’s not watching it, not really. He already knows about the bloody deaths of the O’Neil family, and the Kavanagh girl killed just a few hours ago. He knows more than the reporter, and his face twists into a bitter smile at the word ‘accident’.
The bartender glances at the picture, grimaces and switches over to a music channel. The sound is low enough that Dean can’t make out the words, and that suits him just fine. He sips his drink and watches tanned, toned girls shake their bodies out of beat to the Hickory Tavern’s soft background music. The whole world is out of beat these days. He motions for another scotch, barely tearing his eyes away from the screen.
One of the backup dancers has blue eyes and dark, unruly hair; he reminds Dean of Cas, the way his hair stuck up at odd angles as though he's never seen a comb before in his life.
He lets out a sharp bark of laughter as the man gyrates his hips- Cas would make a terrible dancer. He turns, grinning, before he realises there’s no one to share the joke with. The grin freezes on his face, melts into a grimace and he slams back the whiskey, orders another.
Sam’s been dead for eight months, and he hasn’t seen Cas since the day his brother fell into the pit. Brothers, he reminds himself, because Adam was his brother too; not in the same way that Sam was, but he was still family. Dean’s the last one left one left now.
He chases the thought from his mind with more alcohol, and it takes more tonight than it did last week to send him stumbling the two miles down the road to his motel.
In his dreams, Castiel is the vision Zachariah gave him, all wide, dark pupils and a cynical smile. Sam’s face twists with the smile of the devil, and then Sam is on the ground, bloodied and broken, head lolling like a loose puppet. Dean watches them, unable to reach out and help. He’s less than a ghost, and they don’t see him. The world behind them is on fire, but Dean doesn’t care. He just wants to get them out.
When he wakes up he immediately reaches for the bottle by the side of the bed.
He wonders what it would have been like if he’d kept his promise to Sam and gone to stay with Lisa. Better, he thinks, for him, but not for her or Ben. The life of the hunter isn’t for them. This way they can still live their lives. If Lisa took him in, she'd have been taking the Winchester family curse in with him.
The curse ... For most of his life, Dean had never thought of it that way, had either frowned or laughed when Sam mentioned it. He had loved the hunt, the life on the road with his family, and yeah, it wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs. Now there’s no family left and if that isn’t a curse then the Winchesters have to have the shittiest luck in the world. He knows now that it wasn’t just bad luck. He has another drink from the bottle and pulls off his t-shirt, heads for the bathroom.
The shower runs hot and he thinks of all the times when it hasn’t - the motels and empty houses where the water ran cold if you flushed the toilet. For a kid, or even a 26 year old man, it was like magic. And not the bad kind that left you bleeding through your skin. For Sam and Dean, whole prank wars were often started from the singular act of flushing a toilet.
---
He parks the Impala in the driveway, checks the paper lying on the empty passenger seat beside him to remind himself of the victim’s name. His eyes scan quickly over the article, checking the facts. The girl's name was Cate. She was 25, an art student home for the summer.
He rings the front doorbell. No one answers. Dean wonders where a family could possibly want to go the day after one of their own is killed, and then he remembers that the Kavanaghs are catholic, that they’re probably praying and lighting candles or whatever else people do in churches.
The lawns here are green, well trimmed. There’s a white picket fence to separate the front garden from the back, and rose bushes are growing at the side of the house. The thing about white picket fences, is that they’re largely for decoration, and it’s easy for Dean to just step over it.
The lake stretches out in front of him, a vast expanse of water surrounded by pine trees. The back of the house has glass patio doors. They’re not even locked, he just slides them open.
The living room he finds himself in is expansive, to say the least. The couches are leather, scattered with soft, red cushions. Not a single item is out of place, everything is immaculate. There’s even a fucking table tennis set in the far half of the room. He laughs, and it’s a foreign sound, harsh, and he stifles it quickly.
Cate Kavanagh’s room looks more like a guest bedroom, but he knows it’s hers by the forget-me-not blue plaque on the door with her name etched into it. The room, like the rest of the house, is spotless; a white shirt folded on the chair, a pair of blue slippers by the door, and a book, open and page down on the bedside table, are the only things to suggest the room has been occupied recently. The windows go from floor to ceiling, overlooking the lake, but the shutters are pulled down and the room feels stifling, restrictive despite all its wide, open space.
The EMF reads nothing, but there had been only the slightest chance that it would; the banshee isn’t really a ghost, rather something between ghost and faerie; sometimes a death omen, sometimes the cause of death, its scream lethal.
A long, white strand of hair is curled on the carpet by the door jamb. Dean doesn’t need to examine it to know what it is- he’s pretty sure this wasn’t grandma coming in to say goodnight, not when he knows that a banshee killed this girl. It might have been written off as an accident, Cate’s head having hit the bedpost as she fell, cracking her skull, but Dean knows the truth. Admittedly he had to search through an entire library and spend several hours on the laptop to find the truth, but he knows it now.
He treads the hallway into the next room- it belongs to a young boy, age 12 if Dean remembers the article correctly. The name on the door reads Aidan. The walls are green in here, bedcovers The Incredibles themed. This room has more personality than the last. A stuffed elephant sits on the pillow, comics on the nightstand. A dirty sock lie forgotten in the corner.
There’s a chest at the foot of the bed, which Dean assumes holds toys, but it could just as easily be linen. On the lid stand a group of four army men.
Dean feels his chest tighten, he clenches his jaw, curls his fists into balls. They used to play with these as kids. They didn’t have many toys, but these … they’d play with these for hours. He reaches out a hand to pick one up, stops himself midway and stands with his arm out-stretched.
He can hear Sam’s laughter, the little boy who still doted on his big brother, who listened to him as though he was The Oracle or something. Except he could be wrong, because he also sees Sam pursing his lips, rolling his eyes, expression conveying ‘God, why is my brother such a dork?’ far more succinctly than words could.
There’s a low singing coming from the walk-in closet, a humming that rings in his ears. He lifts his shotgun, but not before the song rises to a screech. His hands fly to his ears, the gun falling to the floor, and he’s reminded of a gas station in Pontiac, Illinois. His eyes roll back into his head, and he hits the floor with a thud.
His head feels as though termites are gnawing at the inside of his skull and there’s a strong taste of iron in his mouth, blood thick and choking. The room is a dark blur, but he can make out the shape of a young woman leaning over him, her hair white and flowing. She’s singing, and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.
Was he supposed to kill her? He tries to move, to reach for his gun, but he can’t tell if his body is obeying him or not. It might be, but he can’t feel anything except the pain in his head.
He can see Sam, falling. Castiel sits beside him on the ride back from his brother’s death, and then he’s gone, not even a goodbye.
His Dad would be disappointed. He’s screwed up this hunt, he’s lost Sam. He even lost Cas, wasn’t enough to make him stay.
Dean recognises this song. He smiles and reaches out toward the woman.
His mother smiles at him, beaming, and Dean grins back. She turns away again, chopping carrots for the evening meal, the knife moving so quickly that Dean thinks she might have enchanted it. Sammy gurgles happily, and Dean tightens his arms around him.
Dean isn’t supposed to be in the playpen, he’s too big for it now, but Sammy was crying, and Mommy was busy. He hadn’t even thought about it, had pulled up a chair and clambered in. Dean had picked Sammy up and rocked him gently back and forth, and Sam had stopped screaming and started laughing.
Mommy’s singing now, and Dean knows this song, even knows the name, Blackbird, because the title is in the lyrics. Dean sighs happily and rests his head gently over Sam’s, hums along.
---
He turns, Gazardiel by his side, two angels before them and three dead at their feet. Gazardiel throws himself forward and Castiel is about to follow him when he hears the faint hum of song, distant and remote. There’s a burning sensation in his hands, and suddenly it feels as though each of his ribs are cracking under an immense weight. He falls to his knees in the dry dust of the desert.
One of the enemy angels, Harshiel or Sarakiel, he doesn’t know which, lunges at him. Castiel thrusts the blade up and into the angel’s stomach, forcing it deeper until there’s the all-too-familiar flare of death.
Gazardiel lays a hand on his shoulder, concern seeping through the touch. Castiel just shakes his head and gets to his feet. Dean Winchester is dead, but Castiel has a war to fight and he can’t afford to be weak now.
---
Dean is stretched out across Bobby’s front porch, staring out across the scrapyard, metal frames skeletal, glinting in the moonlight. This scene feels familiar, the warm, dusty weight of the air, the scabs over Dean’s knuckles, the way he crosses his ankles.
Castiel looks up and sees himself, standing behind Dean, shoulders tense, body stiff, the beer in his hand seeming out of place. Did he always look so rigid?
His gaze returns to Dean, his body natural, all fluid motions as he reaches for another beer, twists the cap off with his hand, effortless. He’s had 30 years to become accustomed to his body, of course, while Castiel has been cramped into someone else’s for less than two.
Castiel watches as he moves to sit beside Dean, their shoulders brushing against each other, legs lightly pressing together. His hand finds Dean’s, palm flat against the wooden boards, supporting himself. The edges of their pinkies touch, and Dean’s expression melts from a frown, becomes more relaxed, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth. He looks, if not happy, then at least content, secure in this moment. There’s a change in Castiel’s face too, hard lines softening, just a little.
Castiel is surprised to see this in Dean’s heaven, but then, he supposes Dean didn’t have a lot of happy memories, and any peaceful moment would be one to remember.
The two of them sit in silence, crickets chirruping around them. Then there’s the sound of something smashing from within, followed by Bobby shouting “Careful, idjit!”
Dean chuckles and pulls himself away, stands, and turns to head inside.
Castiel leaves as Dean does, both the memory version and his present self. He’s back in the desert. He hates it here, the lifeless pit that Heaven has become.
There is life, of course, the gardens, the oceans, but Castiel hasn’t seen them in a while. This is the only place he can’t be found, it is endless isolation. But he has the others, his band of rebel angels, ready to die for their freedom. They all look to him for guidance now.
Rachel lays a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of reassurance, an attempt to comfort him. Castiel can only think that, if she were Dean, it might work.
Raphael’s army is growing stronger; as an archangel, his is the more persuasive argument. Castiel’s name might be famous now, but for many it is synonymous with traitor.
Recruitment is of the utmost importance. A war cannot be fought without soldiers to fight. Castiel knows that many of the angels he persuades will die, but they will die having chosen their own course of action.
---
“Guy needs some new clothes,” Sam grins. “He probably stinks like a toilet under all those layers.”
Dean shrugs. “I don’t think he’d get why he should. I might teach him how it’s customary to cross-dress on the first of every month though.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Dean, I don’t think he’s that naïve.”
“You were.”
“I was six!”
They chuckle and sip their beers in unison.
“He’s good for you,” Sam says quietly, and hastily takes another drink.
Dean doesn’t reply, but Castiel catches the pleased little smile on his face as he looks away.
Castiel barely has time to flex his wings before the memory dissipates, another taking its place. It’s night, and Dean’s arm is slung around Castiel’s shoulders. Dean is laughing for the first time in a long time, and Castiel wants to push his old self out of the way, to pull Dean close and kiss him.
---
His side is winning. Raphael might have greater numbers on his side, but Castiel has loyalty, love, and the desperate desire for freedom on his. The victory is theirs, and Rachel smiles as she passes him, the gesture very nearly passing for human, though her eyes are cold and unyielding.
Rapid pain bursts at the base of his spine, and he falls to his knees, topples over, face in the dust. He can taste the dry earth, and it’s like blood on his tongue. He struggles to get up, but he can only claw futilely at the ground, and it just makes the pain worse. He tries to calm himself, to rationalise this, but he can feel his life seeping away, pressure building at the open wound.
“Give up, Castiel,” Raphael’s deep voices reaches him, clear over the harsh cries of the angels around them.
“It’s already over, Raphael,” he spits out.
He closes his eyes, grits his teeth, tries again to get up, and again, he fails. He hears Rachel’s voice ringing out, “eat this, you arrogant ass!” before Raphael is nothing but dust.
The earth sparks around him, and he feels it as it bursts through him, his whole being on fire and in agony, and he’s glad of the pain, glad that he knows now, how the others felt at his hands, when he showed no mercy.
And then all is quiet and dark, and there’s nothing but the gentle chirp of crickets and the gleam of metal in the light of the moon. Dean’s leg is warm and comforting against his, and he can feel the rough skin of Dean’s hand, barely there against his own. Dean smells of motor oil and beer and earth, and Castiel drinks it in, savours it.
They stare out across the scrapyard together, and Castiel knows that no matter what happens, this moment is theirs.