Chapter Text
Castiel once thought he knew what true despair was.
Ever since his descent into Hell to rescue and rebuild the Righteous Man, he slowly came to realize what humans meant by emotions. His first encounter with desperation happened nearly ten years ago, when Dean was determined to say yes to their world’s Michael. During that time, the betrayal Cas felt was enough to overpower it—the anger clouding over everything else. Now, those very clouds were dissipating. He was watching the same scene unfold, and he wasn’t sure he could interfere in time.
“Dean, you can’t,” Cas calls to his friend. Dean turns around to face him with wide, fearful eyes.
“Lucifer has Sam. He has Jack. Cas, I don’t have a choice!” Dean yells. The realization that he’s correct leaves Cas speechless. What good was a powerless Angel, a dying Archangel, and a human against Satan himself? A lack of a response for Dean causes Cas to tighten his jaw in frustration. The silent air of the bunker’s War room is only emphasized by Jack and Sam’s absence.
Castiel understands, in his own way. He’s stood by time and time again as Sam and Dean went through the process of sacrificing themselves for not only each other, but the greater good of the world. They’ve both been to Hell and back, they’ve fought the worst of the universe so, really, Cas gets it; he also wants to think that there must be another way.
Dean turns back to said dying Archangel, the fear in his eyes slowly being replaced by the signature Winchester determination. His voice is harsh as he speaks, “If we do this, it is a one-time deal. You’re the engine, but I’m behind the wheel. Understand?”
From behind Dean, Cas takes notice of the small smile that appears on Michael’s face, but before he can say anything aloud, Michael’s speaking in a hushed voice. His vessel continues to show signs of death and decay as he leans against a pillar, coughing out blood along with the words, “It’s a deal.”
Cas wants to say more. He wishes there was a way to convince Dean that his compulsive martyrdom won’t get them anywhere, that they’ll just be stuck with the same problem when it’s all over. Yet, his silence persists, because he stood in Dean’s shoes only a few short years ago. When Amara was plaguing the world with Darkness, he said yes to Lucifer in order to save his friends, because he couldn’t see another way out. So who is he to tell Dean that there are other options, when he knows deep down that there isn’t?
While he continues to ruminate on the Darkness and his own possession, he notices Dean’s head fall, considering this decision. They both know what Michael is capable of, they’ve seen the damage inflicted upon the Apocalypse-World hunters, both physically and mentally. Dean straightens himself and digs his nails into his palms, and Cas, with his depleted grace, feels the determination click into place. He knows Dean is thinking of his brother and that century of Hell, and he truly understands now.
Dean never had another choice.
“Yes.” The word echoes.
Instantly, the Bunker is filled with a blinding light. The bright hum of Michael’s grace rings in Cas’s ears for a few seconds before everything returns to normal. Except, the man who once held the Archangel lay crumpled against the pillar, dead. Cas’s eyes shift from the dead vessel to Dean’s tense back, and he takes a slow step forward, unsure if he’s approaching his friend or one of the most powerful beings in all of creation.
He hears the man in front of him exhale shakily and slowly. His hands unfurl from their tense, tight fists as his body steadily relaxes. Cas takes another step towards him, and his mouth moves to ask the question—Dean or Michael?—when the sound of wings flapping stops him in his tracks.
Castiel doesn’t get the answer to his silent question, and he’s sure that this is what true despair feels like.
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Michael takes them to a church bathed in colorful mosaics, where they find his brother and Jack, faces bloodied and bruised. Instantly, he notices the stab wound in Jack’s abdomen, no longer able to heal himself due to his lack of grace. In fact, he notices… well, everything.
A millisecond has passed since his arrival behind the pews, and he can see Jack and Sam’s human souls, as well as Lucifer’s true form. It melds with the stolen grace, appearing to Dean as a strange concoction of blue, black, gold, and colors and shapes he couldn’t even begin to describe using the English language. Another millisecond passes, and the newly acquired grace reminds him of drinking coffee before the sun has fully risen. It’s an instant wake-up call, with an aftertaste of warmth and nauseous energy.
Brightness and hope shine down from Heaven as Dean’s eyes glow blue with Michael’s grace. He feels the phantom wings between his shoulder blades, and he can’t help himself from straightening his posture, relief and power flowing through his body as his wings extend fully. Michael’s do, at least.
The moment passes, and the glowing light of Michael’s true form begins to dim when he finally meets his brother’s eyes. As the grace finally settles into his system after the flight, a wave of whispers erupt from behind him. Dean forces himself not to turn his head, willing his body to calm down. From behind the rows of pews, Sam appears apprehensive.
“Dean?” Sam calls out hesitantly. The whispering behind Dean quiets, and he feels like he can finally move without exploding into particles of grace and light. He wants to comfort Sam in any possible way, to assure him that everything will be fine from here on out. It’s what the grace makes him feel, anyway.
“Hiya, Sammy,” is the tactic Dean settles on. A flicker of a wondrous smile appears from Sam before he moves to help the injured Jack.
Lucifer, in all of his hideous glory, moves slowly to stand before Dean. He stops roughly twenty feet in front of him with a confident, foul smirk settling onto his face. The instinct to protect Jack and Sam transforms into a drive to kill his brother—
His brother?
The Devil finally speaks, “You let my brother in.” The smirk on his face grows into a humorous leer, but Dean refuses to falter.
We must strike first before he can get away, a voice that sounds like Dean’s whispers. He almost jumps at the new voice in his head, but it’s just Michael, and they need to work together in order stop Lucifer. He steps forward, about to reply with a sarcastic comment, but Lucifer continues.
“Are you sure that’s what you want to do? Fight? A decade ago, that’s what you were trying to stop, is it not?”
The words make Dean pause before he can fully process what they mean. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Sam and Jack are sharing a similar look of perplexity and dismay. Jack is still bleeding heavily from the wound in his abdomen, and Dean’s mind momentarily drifts to healing the kid.
Don’t concern yourself with the Nephilim, I must kill Lucifer, Michael roars from within the muddle of Dean’s head. He gives a minute shake of his head, as though he was trying to dodge the meaning behind the Archangel’s words. He takes another, smaller step forward.
“We’ll see,” is the only thing Dean can force out before the feeling of fury and protectiveness for his family floods his senses. He grips the Archangel blade tightly in his hand, and moves to strike the Devil.
Dean’s kick to Lucifer’s stomach lands hard, sending him reeling back. In an instant, though, he’s standing back up among the broken pews, a nasty smile plastered on his face. His eyes flash gold with Jack’s grace as he dodges a punch from Dean. Lucifer’s left fist finds Dean’s right, and the Archangel blade swings shakily through the air, both of them fighting for control of the weapon. Locked in a rigid stance, Dean watches Sam grab the second golden dagger from the floor. Jack is nearly unconscious next to him.
“Get Jack out of here!” Dean yells roughly to the two figures behind Lucifer. The split second of worry allows Lucifer to wrestle the blade free from Dean’s grasp, and he launches his elbow hard to his cheek. Dean staggers back while the grace quickly heals the explosive pain.
Lucifer is on him almost instantly, blade drawn high, reflecting heavenly hues of purple and blue against the gold. Dean stumbles back into the first row of pews, weaponless. The dagger descends on him, and suddenly…
A rush of power.
He reaches both hands to catch Lucifer’s arm before he’s stabbed, and the grace explodes. The windows of the church are pulverized into a million shards of color. The wooden ceiling splinters, and particles of sawdust fall on to the two of them. Lucifer’s free hand attempts to shove Dean away, but the powerful surge of grace keeps him standing still and tall.
Dean feels the flash of Michael’s grace behind his eyes as he just shoves Lucifer back with as much strength as he can muster. The Devil ends up landing hard against the back wall of the church, a thunderous crack of the wood resonating in the room. It takes him much longer to regain his balance this time.
Then, Sam is shouting from the entryway, “Dean! Here!”
Lucifer’s Archangel blade.
Sam tosses the golden weapon to his brother, who catches it swiftly before turning to charge Lucifer once more. The sound of rumbling thunder outside grows in volume.
By the time Dean reaches Lucifer, he’s standing back up, albeit with some difficulty. Dean slashes the blade down and Lucifer holds his own weapon up in defense, and the impact is nothing short of monumental.
A bolt of lightning strikes upward from where the two blades collide, and through the roof. More sawdust and burnt chunks of wood continue to fall while Dean and Lucifer dodge one another’s attacks. Each collision of the daggers results in dozens of lightning bolts across the rainless sky. A static hum of energy steadily fills the air until, at last, a quick and unexpected swipe allows for Dean to disarm the Devil—his blade flying fifteen feet to his right.
“Fine. You want to fight?” Lucifer snaps in panic. Dean raises his weapon higher, but he lets him continue. A smile creeps on to his face. “Then actually fight me, Michael.”
Suddenly, he’s just—
He’s just gone.
Dean exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and the grace buzzing in his body begins to calm down incrementally. His hand gripping the golden blade starts to shake, and he’s unsure if it’s from relief or a building dread. Dean figures it’s the latter when he turns to see Sam, with his eyes wide and mouth agape.
“You… I mean— what just happened?” Sam questions, running his hand through his hair. From behind him, Jack gives a loud, bloody cough. Both brothers rush to him.
“Sam, I don’t know how to heal him,” Dean explains, dropping the blade and kneeling down to help Jack sit up against the entrance’s doorframe. He grips the kid’s shoulder in reassurance while Sam uses both of his hands to put pressure on the gaping wound. Blood trickles through Sam’s fingers, and Jack lets out a groan of pain.
This child is of no importance, Michael suddenly proclaims from the back of Dean’s mind. We must go after Lucifer.
Dean looks over to his brother, watches the fearfulness creep in to his expression. He knows that Sam was always far more comfortable in the presence of the boy. Hell, Sam has viewed Jack as family for almost as long as he’s known him. Yet, Dean would be lying if he said he hasn’t grown fond of him over time—maybe more so than he’d admit to himself. So, yeah, he doesn’t need time to think before he makes his request to Michael.
Heal him, Dean envisions the words.
Excuse me?
Heal Jack, then we go after Lucifer.
It’s an odd feeling—giving up control of part of his body. He’s still conscious and at the forefront of his mind as Michael moves his hand from Jack’s shoulder to his forehead. In an instant, that peculiar manifestation of both strength and comfort is unraveled from Dean’s center, and pushed outward in order to aid Jack. A blink, and the stab wound has disappeared, healed.
“Dean, how did you—” Sam stutters, reaching out to help Jack sit up further.
“Thank you,” Jack exclaims, smiling despite the disappearance of his father. Dean moves to tightly hug the kid, and he feels it. He feels the moment it all goes wrong.
A concoction of aching pain and deadened numbness spreads through his body, and he lurches forward. Dean quickly finds it hard to breathe, as if he were being pulled underwater by a sea of black, soundless waves.
Shit—wait— is the only thought he can form as the waves crash down, each one more intense than the former.
“Dean?” he hears his brother ask, but the sound is distant. His vision is fading fast, and the realization finally dawns on him that he let the most powerful Archangel in existence possess him. He won’t last much longer, and he feels nothing but failure and despair.
“We had a deal!” Dean yells, before all sound cuts out, and the scene around him is nothing but black waves and a midnight sky.