Work Text:
November 5th, 2020
Dean sat with his hands in his hair, phone buzzing uselessly against the cold dungeon floor while his head resounded with the same three words, over and over and over.
“I love you.”
Other thoughts tried to seep through, but there wasn’t room for anything else, his mind suffocating on those eight letters. Everything was fuzzy, as if he were the one enveloped in shadow, absorbed by darkness.
The metaphorical VCR rewound and restarted.
“I love you.”
He was distantly aware that he was crying, but it was dissociative, the way a passenger looking out the window of a moving car might focus on thinking of their destination but not the wheels and metal pushing them forward through space.
Rewind.
Play.
“I love you.”
Awareness of anything other than Castiel’s confession returned to Dean slowly, and then all at once, like a drowning man kicking his way from the depths before finally breaking the surface. At first, there was only sensation.
Vision obscured, face damp, lungs heaving, throat raw.
By the time Dean could form a coherent thought that didn’t include blue eyes and a trenchcoat, Sam had long stopped calling. The phone lay motionless and silent beside Dean’s body which had curled in on itself and was shaking with each painful inhalation. Maybe Sam assumed Dean had disappeared along with all the others.
If only.
The deep ache in his chest became a pounding in his head like a reaper at the door. But there wouldn't be an easy way out for Dean Winchester. Never was.
Chuck was still out there and as long as Dean had breath in his body, he would do what he had always done. Beaten and broken, he would continue to stand up until he couldn’t stand anymore. He would keep fighting for everyone he had loved and lost, for his family both given and found.
Time and again, everything Dean thought he knew had been upended and cast into doubt. But one thing remained certain: he would defeat Chuck and bring back Castiel and all the rest, or he would die trying.
November 7th, 2020
The last 48 hours had felt like traveling at lightspeed only to hit a gridlocked interstate.
Once Dean dragged himself out of that dungeon and reunited with the only other people left on Earth, the next two days were spent in a rapid-fire succession of finding Michael, getting tricked by Lucifer, making a plan, losing Michael to Chuck, removing Chuck’s godhood, and saving the world again. (Somehow, they’d even adopted a dog via divine intervention.)
Jack had become the new god with a capital G, and Baby’s First Holy Act was to bring back all the people who’d been Thanos-snapped by Chuck. Then, he’d simply peaced out—something Dean still struggled to accept. How could Jack be hands-off when his surrogate father, the one who’d cared for him as if he were his own since before he was born, the one who offered his chance at happiness in exchange for Jack, was trapped in the Empty? Jack had told him it wasn’t possible to rescue Castiel, not right now. And to the kid’s credit, he did seem remorseful. But they’d all done the impossible a hundred times over. Castiel had been brought back from the Empty a number of times before. It was hard to believe that Jack had the power of all creation and yet couldn’t do anything. Dean tried to see him the way Castiel had seen him, and he decidedly loved the kid in his own way, but he sure as hell didn’t pretend to understand him.
This was supposed to be a win. It should have been their win. But Castiel was gone and Dean had no idea what to do next, despite his determination to rescue the angel.
Everyone’s lives had been restored just as they had been before the Rapture. People hopped on planes to see loved ones. Friends texted one another. College students crammed for upcoming exams. Businessmen made backroom deals. Children ran around playgrounds. The world went on spinning.
Even Sam had gone off to spend time with Eileen after she rematerialized. And he’d agreed to bring Miracle along, at Dean’s insistence.
Meanwhile, there was a hole in Dean’s heart the size of the Chrysler building and no amount of booze could fill it. Not that it stopped him from trying.
The first night after Castiel had been taken, Dean drank himself into a bleary-eyed stupor as he watched the security camera recording of the confession on repeat. On the second day, he’d been weary enough to pass out as soon as they got back from defeating Chuck, but he’d woken up screaming. In Dean’s nightmares, Castiel called his name from the Empty as he burned on a pyre. To prevent a rerun of that particularly shitty episode, Dean had defaulted to the oldest coping trick he knew.
The first beer was just to get his brain to slow down a few paces, to quiet the incessant thoughts filtering in around the silence of the bunker. A rare laugh scrunching into crow’s feet at the corners of blue eyes, revealing straight teeth and a wide, gummy smile.
The second beer was the one he would’ve handed his best friend if he were here. A solid hug after a near-death experience, chins resting on shoulders, the smell of sweat mingled with dirt and gore.
The third beer was to chase the warm feeling of the first two that had spread through Dean’s limbs. A look of pure serenity overtaken by the dark burial shroud of a contract fulfilled, fingers of otherworldly tar laying claim.
Dean pulled his jacket closer around himself, palm clutching at the bloody handprint, the only piece of Castiel he had left. There hadn’t even been a body to burn or a coat to keep. Just the memory of a strong grip on his shoulder as he was shoved away, a cruel parody of Dean’s salvation from Hell.
“Goodbye, Dean.”
Oh, how he wanted to hear that voice again. He didn’t care if Castiel sat and prattled on about the migratory habits of marine mammals or the threatened existence of indigenous plants or the formation of sedimentary rocks. It would mean he was where he belonged, whole, more than a smear on Dean’s sleeve. But Castiel, fearsome and brave celestial warrior, loving and loyal companion, had been reduced to a violent sanguine stain and a hunter’s heartache.
Slumped against his headboard, Dean pulled his laptop open. Fuck it. He knew watching the recording again would drive him to ditch his beer for the hard liquor, but he needed to see that care-worn face again, however brief. Needed to hear those words of encouragement, despite their inevitable conclusion.
But when he pressed play, the screen issued an error: FILE CORRUPTED.
He reloaded the file. He restarted the computer. Nothing helped.
It was gone.
“No!”
Dean yelled and threw his beer bottle across the room where it exploded and cracked his mirror, broken glass crashing into the sink. That was going to be a bitch to clean later, but he didn’t care. Everything around him broke eventually. It was his turn this time.
He didn’t need the recording to remember the speech, though. Just as the Enochian warding had once been engraved on his ribs, Castiel’s last words were seared into the grooves of his brain. They spoke for themselves.
“I know how you see yourself, Dean. You're destructive, and you're angry, and you're broken. You think that hate and anger, that's... that's what drives you, that's who you are. It's not.”
Well, at that moment, the only feelings Dean had were destructive, and angry, and broken. This certainly wasn’t the first time Castiel had been wrong.
Dean slammed the laptop closed and reached into his nightstand for the conveniently stashed whiskey. Unscrewing the cap, he downed a few gulps straight out of the bottle. As the burn seeped into his core, an idea occurred to him through the fog of alcohol.
He dug his phone from his pocket. Shaking hands unlocked the screen and he hovered a thumb over the contacts button. After another long swig, he pressed Castiel’s contact number and held his breath.
He wasn’t sure why he expected to hear silence on the other end of the line; this wasn’t a prayer, after all. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to hear the ringer go off, but for some illogical reason, although this was exactly what he was waiting for, Dean wasn’t prepared for the voice to come through his speakers after the fifth ring.
“This is my voicemail.” Castiel didn’t identify himself, but there was no mistaking the awkward earnestness of the angel. “Make your voice...a mail.”
The phone slipped through Dean’s hand and landed facedown on the mattress. A choked sob escaped him, but subsequent sniffles were stifled behind hands pressed firmly over his face. “Damnit, Cas!” he cried into his palms.
November 9th, 2020
“Make your voice...a mail.”
Dean cleared his throat. After hearing Castiel’s voice again, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to find his own. But he wasn’t crying this time, so that was a start.
“Hey, Cas,” he rasped, swallowing and clearing his throat again. “I— I know you can’t hear this any more than you could hear a prayer right now, but I just…I miss you, man. I can’t— I don’t know what to do.”
He ran a hand down his face. This was stupid. Like talking to a ghost who had already moved on. But he couldn’t stop himself. His waking moments were filled with grief and his guilt wouldn’t let him sleep, so he had to try something.
“When you said all that stuff about me, when I realized what was happening,” his throat constricted at the memory but he pressed on, “it was like I’d been caught in Jell-o or something. Everything was slower and way too fast at the same time. I couldn’t do anything but stand there and be useless while you poured your guts out to me.”
Dean lowered his voice and tried to tamp down the self-loathing chewing on his rib cage.
“And then— and then I watched you go. I didn’t even try to stop you. Why didn’t I stop you, Cas?” The tears were back. So much for not crying. “Why couldn’t I tell you that I—”
His breath caught on the inhale. He couldn’t say it. Castiel wasn’t there to hear the message and still Dean couldn’t say it. What the hell did he have left to lose at this point? Better not to ask that question, he figured.
“I’m so sorry.” Dean leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “You deserved better,” he whispered, weak and tired and ashamed.
November 12th, 2020
Dean decided to take a different approach. Instead of the touchy feely crap, he would just...lay out the facts. Give a little status update. He could handle that much. Right?
“Hey, Cas. It’s been a few days. Sam just got back from visiting Eileen and he won’t quit naggin’ me. Ever since he walked in the door it’s been, ‘Dean, you shouldn’t drink so much,’ ‘Dean, why don’t you go for a walk outside?’ ‘Dean, let’s go grab a case to get your mind off things’,’' he said, imitating Sam’s voice with a mocking inflection. Dean sighed, composing his thoughts.
Regardless of the annoyingly pedantic way his little brother showed affection, he knew Sam was dead-on—about everything—but Dean couldn’t let the kid get a big head to go with the rest of his gargantuan body.
“It doesn’t feel right, moving on like that when it’s only been a week. I get that Sammy’s frustrated, though. I do. We’ve scoured the lore harder than ever, and our sleeves are all outta aces. Even tried to contact Rowena, but she’s almost as hard to reach as Jack, these days.”
Dean realized he’d left out some crucial pieces of the story and backtracked. “Oh, speaking of, after you...left, Jack took off to do god stuff, so we haven’t seen him since we beat Chuck. Oh, wait. I guess I should’ve started with that. But, we did it, man! We took out the O.G. G-O-D and Jack absorbed all his powers. You’d be so friggin’ proud of him.”
He was all over the place with the recap at this point, and was far out of ‘just the facts’ territory. But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like Cas was actually going to hear this message. Even if they could find a way to get him back, Dean planned to cancel the cellular plan and disable the line so that his messages could stay locked away where they belonged. Sam had suggested Dean try journaling, but this was as close as he was gonna get.
“Before he bounced, he spewed some hippie crap about being in every blade of grass or whatever. Sounded a lot like you. He really is your kid, Cas.”
A painful twinge in his heart reminded Dean of something else Castiel had said.
“The one thing I want... It's something I know I can't have.”
The one thing Dean had wanted, once upon a time, was also something he now knew he couldn’t have. He’d tried with Lisa and Ben. Dean was a caregiver through and through, and he’d always been good with kids. At least, he’d thought so until Jack came along.
“I wish things had gone differently with Jack. I shoulda treated him better.”
Hell, the cask of regrets had been tapped. Why not let the cup runneth over? “I shoulda treated you better.”
From out in the hallway, Sam’s voice called, “Dean? Who are you talking to?”
Dean groaned at the interruption. How had Gigantor hidden his steps so well? “No one. I’m just on the internet watching cats do stupid things.”
The Sam voice drew closer, incredulous. “And that requires talking?” He obviously didn’t buy Dean’s bullshit.
“I’m teaching Miracle what not to do.” He glanced down at the dog curled comfortingly at his side. Miracle’s tail patted the blanket and his ears perked at the mention of his name. Quieter, Dean whispered into his phone, “I gotta go, Cas. I’ll talk to you later.”
He leaned over and draped himself over the dog who only wagged harder and wiggled around to lick Dean’s face.
December 12th, 2020
“Hey, Cas. I know it’s been a while since my last call. We’ve started hunting again in between trying to track down leads on breaking you out. They’re...few and far between. But we just got back from a case with Claire, actually.”
Dean sat on his bed with his weapons strewn across a towel. He didn’t actually need to hold the phone to leave his message, so he had it resting on the nightstand while he cleaned and inspected the tools of his trade. It helped him think clearer to have something to occupy his hands while he rambled. Dean didn’t say so, but resuming the hunts had been good for him. A goal he could distract himself with and take pride in, one that required focus. And needing to focus meant he drank less.
“Some kids over in Tallahassee started getting sick. And not like seasonal flu sick. One day they were fine and the next: comatose. They couldn’t exactly blame it on pneumonia that far south, but it sounded real close to another hunt we worked years ago, so we went to help out. And whaddya know? Shtriga.”
He slid his hand over the top of his pistol to open it and check the chamber. Satisfied that it was empty, he applied gun oil to keep the inner workings from locking up.
“The last creep was pretending to be a doctor in a hospital. This one had been dressing as a delivery guy and staking out in the suburbs. The bastard would watch and wait until some unwitting parents left home and then walk on up like he had a package to deliver that needed a signature.”
Dean takes a clean cloth and uses it to shine up the firearm, removing any remaining debris with a practiced hand.
“Funny enough, the real MVP was a kid who went full-on Macaulay Culkin. He set up this elaborate trap and, through sheer dumb luck, managed to put enough iron on the floor for the sucker to be slowed down until we could get there and cap ‘im.”
He laughed then, remembering. “Oh, man. You shoulda seen Sammy, though. He’s a hell of a fighter but trying to navigate toy cars on a staircase in the dark? He fell on his ass so hard I thought we were gonna lose the mark. Claire was faster, though. She whipped in there and by the time these old knees got me to the room, Palpatine was ganked and the kid was saved.”
Grabbing another cloth and some cleaning solution, he doused the fabric and ran it over a blade covered in crusty monster gunk from an earlier hunt.
“After all was said and done, we took Claire out to some schmancy shopping mall as a treat for a job well done. I can’t remember the last time I went to a mall, but it was depressing as all get-out. Hardly anyone shops in person anymore, and that just made the Christmas decorations seem spooky. It looked like a very clean apocalypse.”
He paused, considering what he really wanted to say. “Honestly, I just hated seeing all the angel shit everywhere. It was like a slap in the face wherever I turned.” It had felt like such a cheap imitation of the real thing and all for the sake of capitalism.
“You once told me you were a ‘wavelength of celestial intent.’ I wish I could’ve seen your true form. At least, without going all Johnny Blaze. I bet you burn brighter than all the stars combined, Cas.” Dean smiled to himself at the idea. “You did for me.”
January 24th, 2021
“Heyyy, Caaaaas. Guess what today is!” Dean slurred as he flopped onto the pea-green couch in his bedroom, one hand on the phone and the other around a half-empty bottle. “I’ll give you one hint. You don’t have one and I’ve never really celebrated mine.”
He took a deep draft from the liquor and leaned his head back against the arm rest, long bow legs kicked over the opposite end. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but he wasn’t in a state to care. It was his birthday and he’d just gotten the news that Rowena—the most powerful witch who’d ever lived and the queen of hell—wasn’t going to be able to help them get Castiel back. Or, more accurately, that she adamantly didn’t think it possible. As she’d pointed out, the Empty held sway over divine beings by right of seniority. There had been a loophole every other time someone had escaped the Empty, and now the Shadow was clued in to their shenanigans. It had closed those loops, something Jack must have known from the start. He should’ve just said so, but at least now Dean could start to forgive the disappearing act.
Dean blew a drunken raspberry of a sigh past his lips. “Well, we hit a roadblock. Looks like we might— might be S.O.L. on getting you back this time. Like, for real. I hope you’re at least— at least at rest.” He clenched the neck of the bottle so hard he wondered if it might shatter. That would be poetic, wouldn’t it? To have all the little pieces fall around him like all the little shards jumbled up inside.
“Do you dream in the Empty? Do you remember anything? Because I can’t forget. No matter what I do, I can’t get you out of my head, man.” Dean’s voice broke as he started replaying Castiel’s last words again.
“I thought it was bad when Lucifer killed you the day Jack was born. Having to— having to pick you up from the cold ground and wrap you in a goddamn curtain and carry you to the pyre and then— and then it was just ashes.” His voice burned in his throat and it wasn’t from his drink. “I didn’t know which parts of you were which so I just scooped you up and set you free in that field.”
He remembered what it had felt like then, watching Castiel’s body burn and believing that it was truly the last time he would ever see him. All while the son of his murderer was standing right beside them.
That had almost been easier.
Thanks to Castiel having come back from the Empty once before, Dean had started his current research with at least a sliver of optimism, in spite of the uncertainty. Now he sat there completely useless, his phone screen slick with fresh tears. But screw it. This was his party, and he’d cry if he wanted to.
“I know it’s too late. You’re never going to hear this and that’s— that’s my fault. I should’ve— I should’ve said this a long time ago.”
He tilted the bottle to his lips again, chugging down three shots in one go. He was so tired of thinking and remembering and feeling. He wanted to be where Castiel was, asleep in some unfathomable darkness. Of course, when Dean slept, that usually brought on the nightmares. In them, Dean waded through an endless sea of black sludge, suffocating as he shouted for his angel.
“Well, happy birthday to me, I guess. My gift to myself is from you! You were right about me, about my motiv— motivations.” The furniture in the room was starting to blur and words were getting tougher to form, but this was important, even if the message died on his lips. “I just didn’t realize it. Or I was too chickenshit. I dunno. But you knew, didn’t you? You had to know how I felt. You used to be able to read minds, for Christ’s sake. And goodness knows you could always see clear through me.”
He took one more long sip, almost emptying the container.
“I love you too, Cas. So much it hurts.”
Dean rolled onto his side, facing the backrest, and let the phone hit the floor as he slipped into what he hoped would be a dreamless oblivion.
~~~
Sam set down the book he’d been reading and signed to Eileen that Miracle was at the door. He could hear paws scrabbling at the sill. Sam’s bare feet hit the floor and in a few quick strides, he had the door open. “What’s wrong, buddy?” he asked, leaning down to scritch between the dog’s ears. Instead of staying put to receive the attention, Miracle bounded back down the hallway, so Sam followed.
Dean usually let Miracle into his room at night to snuggle on the bed, but his door was closed. Earlier, he’d said he just wanted to get some sleep for his birthday and Sam had reluctantly agreed. Dean hadn’t taken Rowena’s news well, though he’d tried to hide it. Sam could see the way his brother’s jaw had ground his molars together and how his eyes had glistened as he heard the witch queen’s regretful reply. Sam knew better than anyone what that meant.
“Dean, are you okay in there?” He felt stupid even asking. Of course Dean wasn’t okay. He hadn’t been okay in a long time, but especially not since November. Sam pounded on the door with more force. “Dean, talk to me, or I’m coming in.”
He waited a few seconds, but when he got no response, he pushed his way into the bedroom. Unsurprisingly, Dean lay conked out on the couch, hugging his booze like a child with a stuffed animal. Sam sighed. He hated seeing him like this.
Moving over to Dean’s bed, Sam pulled the comforter down and to the side, folding it into a triangle in one corner. Thankfully, Dean’s boots were already off, so there wouldn’t need to be any wrangling of feet.
“God, it smells like a brewery in here.” Removing the bottle from Dean’s grasp (a surprisingly difficult task given Dean’s current situation), Sam shook his head when he saw how little was left. He dumped the remainder into the bedroom sink. Returning to Dean’s side, he knelt so as to give his back stability, then hoisted his big brother off the couch with a grunt and some mental swearing, staggering to the bed where he could plop him onto an actual mattress.
“Jeez. You hide it well, but you need to lay off the burgers and pies, man,” Sam muttered as he caught his breath and stood up straight. Dean barely flinched at the relocation, the only indication he was even alive being the steady rise and fall of his chest.
From the kitchen, Sam retrieved two painkillers and a glass of water, setting them beside the bed. He stared down at Dean ruefully, thinking how peaceful his face seemed despite the never-easing storm inside. He tugged the covers over his brother and switched off the lamp, wishing he could do something more. “Happy birthday, Dean.”
February 2nd, 2021
“No way, Sammy,” Dean said. He’d been pacing a groove around the map table, but stopped to cross his arms and glare at Sam. They’d been arguing about Dean making an appointment with Dr. Vallens, but he didn’t want some shrink poking around in his head. Didn’t matter that she understood (and was part of) the supernatural. The only way he’d been able to get those words out at all was currently sitting in the pocket of his jeans.
Sam hummed in annoyance, but his expression soon softened into the face that always got him the last of the good cereal. “If not for me, do it for...him. You know he’d want you to get better.”
“Don’t you dare use Cas against me,” Dean threatened, looking like he wanted to drop-kick Sam even as the steam ran out of his words and he lowered his gaze to Madagascar. “I never should’ve told you.”
Sam flinched but it served him right for being manipulative. “Just think about it. Please? I’ve seen you die in too many ways. Don’t make me watch you destroy yourself, Dean.”
Suddenly exhausted, Dean pulled the nearest chair away from the table and dropped into it like a sack of flour, slumping forward in defeat. “I know. I’m sorry. It just…feels like giving up on him. Today is literally groundhog’s day, and if that isn’t the perfect metaphor... ”
Before Sam could refute or console, whichever he’d been gearing up to do, a literal thunderclap echoed through the war room, exploding all of the lamps and blasting the Winchesters away from the table. Sam flew into one of the desks and Dean toppled over in his seat, landing on the floor with a groan. Stunned, Dean pulled himself up to find the map table cracked clean down the middle. Africa, Eurasia, and Australia were now permanently separated from the Americas.
The fact that the table had exploded was one thing. But the truly bewildering part was that it was now on fire.
Rubbing a sore spot where his pelvis had collided with an unyielding writing surface, Sam started to hobble off—probably to the location of the nearest fire extinguisher—when Eileen came running into the room, wide-eyed and pistol drawn.
“Are you okay?” she signed one-handed, surveying the room for danger and assessing the damage. Evidently, the boom had been felt all the way across the bunker. “What happened?”
As Dean got to his feet, Sam assured her he was fine and that he had no idea what was going on. Stepping closer, Dean realized the burning wreckage wasn’t giving off any heat, nor was the table itself being eaten by the crackling flames. Aside from having been torn asunder, it was completely fine.
“Oops! Sorry! Still getting used to some of these powers.”
Sam jumped in his periphery but Dean merely blinked, dumbfounded. The table had just spoken. In Jack’s voice. Dean wondered if he’d hit his head. Or maybe all the drinking had finally pickled his brain.
“Jack?” Sam called, just as confused. Okay, so this was either shared hysteria or actually happening.
“No, it’s really me. Look, I can’t stay long. But Dean, don’t lose faith. Amara and I have roamed through dozens of other dimensions, and we think we’ve found one last workaround to save Castiel. One that the Empty won’t be able to stop.”
“Lay it on me,” Dean prompted, eager but just as shocked to be speaking to a talking table that was also God (and also, kind of, his kid).
“In the past, Chuck had swapped one being for another whenever he wanted to bring someone back. When I revived Cas the first time, the Shadow wasn’t expecting anyone to wake up and eventually kicked him out. The Shadow is blocking these methods now. And Nick’s attempt to resurrect Lucifer would have failed even if I hadn’t stopped him. He didn’t have the right ingredients. But with the right pieces, the right words to give them power, and the right motivations, you should be able to pull this off.”
Jack paused and, as Sam fumbled his way through translating as best he could to Eileen, Dean started to wonder if the holy wifi had dropped somehow. He raised his eyebrows. “Should? Forgive the skepticism, pal, but why do I get the feeling this’ll be harder than it sounds?”
“Well, the trial comes in that I can’t help you. You’re going to have to find the components and perform the ritual on your own, or else it won’t work. I’m sorry I can’t do anything else, but this is already more than I said I would do and any further divine interference might tip off the Shadow,” Jack said, the flames dimming as he quieted.
“Okay, so what’s the deal?” Dean asked, trying his best not to be impatient.
“The plan is to take a piece of human soul and temporarily bind it with what is left of Castiel’s grace. Once that happens, the Empty will only sense Cas as a misplaced soul and reject him, returning him to where he last was on Earth,” Jack explained.
Sam reached out a hand. “Hang on. Billie once said she would toss me and Dean into the Empty when we died. Doesn’t that mean humans can stay there just fine?”
“Billie was mistaken. Human souls are inherently incompatible with the Empty. The only reason I was able to remain hidden is because my grace shrouded my humanity.”
“So instead of smuggling a human, we’re depowering an angel,” Dean mused. “Alright. Sign me up. What do we need?”
Jack proceeded to relay the spell requirements in detail: leaves from a myrrh tree (easy enough), holy oil (also easy), some part of the angel’s earthly manifestation to draw him into their plane of existence (Dean didn’t like to think about this part, but he technically still had Castiel’s blood on his jacket), and a piece of human soul to bind him to their plane of existence. The last one was where Dean would come in. In order to extract the soul for binding, they needed to obtain a knife made of pure polished garnet and blessed in a very specific way. The blessing itself required some unique items they were going to have to track down. Jack gave them some hints, and Sam said he’d start looking into them immediately.
When all was said and done, Jack wished them luck and asked them to give Castiel his love. The fire faltered and blew out, leaving only a broken map table as evidence of the godly presence. Sam and Dean stood quietly, processing.
Finally caught up on the past ten minutes, Eileen broke the silence with, “Did he just Moses us?”
March 5th, 2021
“Hey, Cas.” Dean hissed in a pained breath as he lowered himself onto the hotel mattress. His right shoulder was heavily wrapped in medical padding and his arm was strapped to his chest to keep it as immobile as possible. But that didn’t stop it from aching every time he moved. Sam had gone out to grab dinner and make a phone call to Eileen, who was likely spoiling Miracle back at her place, so Dean had taken the opportunity to call Castiel’s voicemail again. It had become a ritual of comfort for him. A method of healing.
The days were dragging themselves out as the Winchesters continued searching for the far-flung ingredients they’d need for the summoning. Progress was slow, so Dean had insisted they keep up with saving people in the meantime. In fact, he’d been running himself ragged with it, but he needed to feel useful in the times when he wasn’t getting any closer to finding Castiel.
“Friggin’ vampire shoved me into this nasty metal spike. Coulda been real bad, but it took a chunk of my shoulder instead of somewhere vital.”
He popped the cap off a bottle of painkillers and tossed a couple into his mouth, taking them down with a gulp from a water bottle and scoffed. “I can just imagine the stink-eye you’d be given’ me right now if you were here. Probably make that annoyed squinty face you do before using your superpowers on me. But man, I’d be lyin’ if I said having an angel for a best friend didn’t have its perks.”
Dean settled into his bed a little further, wincing at some bruises that had blossomed around his ribs.
“Of course, you’re so much more than just your angel mojo. Because even when you were completely human, you were still Cas. And, sure, Jimmy mighta been a good-lookin’ guy, but you were always more than that vessel, too. You were in the crinkles around your face when you laughed. You were in that fierce glare behind those baby blues, whether shinin’ with grace or just reflecting the sunshine.” He closed his eyes, trying to remember Castiel’s. “The depth of your voice—or, I guess, your true voice filtered through human vocal cords so that you wouldn’t make my ears bleed.”
Smiling fondly then, Dean was flooded with remembrance of his angel, the good times and the bad. Everything they suffered together. Everything they overcame. Castiel would want him to focus on the happy moments. He’d tell him that the bright spots, though few, were so much brighter because of all the darkness.
“That ador—aherm, um, silly head tilt you did when you were trying to understand some little quirk of humanity. The way you hugged and almost never let go first. Your freaky little staring contests in the dark. How you hardly ever wore anything other than Jimmy’s last outfit, like it was just another part of the body. I guess it mighta felt that way to you, huh?” Dean wondered what it would be like to rocket through the cosmos on a beam of light, or however it was that angels traveled from one plane of existence to another in their true forms.
His smile didn’t wane, but Dean realized how very 10 Things I Hate About You he’d been for the past few minutes. If Sam caught him, of course he’d blame it on the delirium of his wound, but he’d meant every word of it. Saying it all out loud, it was clear that while Castiel’s love for him had been the catalyst for the angel’s fall from grace, Dean had fallen just as hard.
“Anyways, I’ve got some good news. I might not call for a while.” Wait, that sounded weird. “Well, that’s not the good news. I mean that we’ve finally caught a break on where to get the schmancy knife and a couple other things we need, but they can’t just be shipped in the mail. Customs would have a field day. So we’re gonna have to do some overseas exploring and then smuggle them in ourselves. Like, on a boat and everything.”
Dean heard the room key slide into the door and quickly ended his call. “Crap, Sam’s back. Bye, Cas. I— I love you.”
It was still so strange to hear himself say, but Dean had been practicing. If this bonkers plan of theirs worked, he wanted to be prepared to show Castiel that he really did reciprocate and that the feeling was mutual. His resume would never include face-to-face confessions as a skill. So, if he could practice into his phone where no one but Castiel’s voicemail inbox would hear, maybe he could muscle-memory his way into saying it for real.
Sam walked in carrying a large bag of something Dean was sure he wouldn’t enjoy but would make an effort to eat anyway. Part of the compromise he’d made with Sam to get him to hush up with the therapy talk was for Dean to start taking better care of himself. Every Monday and Friday, Sam got to pick the meal with no arguments. It invariably consisted of something green and downright unAmerican.
“This is for you, Cas,” he thought every time he crunched into something that tasted like it belonged in a lawn mower bag.
May 5th, 2021
Dean only had a few minutes to talk in between one self-appointed mission and the next, but given the significance of the date, he desperately needed to hear Castiel’s voice. He knew it would give him the encouragement to keep burning both ends of the proverbial candle, even as worn out as he was.
“Today is the six-month anniversary of the day you...well, you know. That probably doesn’t mean anything to someone who’s been al— around as long as you,” he’d almost said alive and bit his tongue, “but half a trip around the sun ain’t nothing to humans. We only get so many.”
He went quiet for a few moments, considering all the things humanity tended to measure in months. They weren’t exactly capable of imagining literal eons, and didn’t live that long anyway, so people tracked the monthly passage of time as a milestone after the birth of a child, an illness’s remission, or the start of a relationship.
“I wonder how it would’ve been. Us, I mean. If we had been together all this time. After twelve years of dancing around each other like idiots, you’d think six months wouldn’t be such a big deal but damn if those months don’t hit harder when you’re gone.”
Dean fiddled with the hem of his henley. They’d just gotten back from their trip across the world and, while he wasn’t a fan of the seasickness—or the land sickness that had followed, Dean knew he’d go anywhere with Castiel if given the chance.
“Cas, if this works, I wanna do all the things with you that we never got to do. We’ll go to Maui and watch the waves crash on the beach while you tell me about how the volcanoes were formed. We’re gonna go to Disney World and ride Space Mountain just so I can hear you say how lame it is compared to the real thing. We can go hug redwoods in California or pet monkeys in the Amazon or whatever it is you wanna do, too. I really don’t care as long as we go together, man. Alright? No more runnin’ off and dyin’ on each other.”
May 13th, 2021
Standing at the wall where Castiel had been taken, Dean finished painting an intricate symbol and turned away. With a pang of nervousness coiled in his gut, he moved to watch as Sam added their hard-earned ingredients to a bowl and ground them together with a pestle. They had one shot at this and there were no guarantees that the spell would work. Everything had to be perfect.
Once satisfied that they had been mixed properly, Sam set the container onto a table in the middle of a summoning sigil. He picked up the crimson knife and turned to Dean. “You sure about this?” Sam’s brows knit into that overturned U-shape they always formed when he was concerned.
He knew Sam would be expecting what he was about to say, but he gave his brother confirmation anyway. “Do it,” Dean replied, gritting his teeth and stretching his left arm out over the bowl.
Sam gripped Dean’s wrist and held him steady as he positioned the blade along Dean’s outer arm. Pressing into the flesh, he drew a neat line from bicep to elbow and chanted, “ALDON OI GAH CNILA ORSCOR,” in a booming intonation that reverberated around the small dungeon.
Knife wounds were a sting Dean knew well. Nothing a few stitches and some gauze couldn’t fix. But when Sam began to speak the angelic language, the dagger burned so hot that the blood dripping down his arm was molten. Eyes shut tight against the scalding, he couldn’t hold back a scream as the blaze traveled up his shoulder and neck, scorching into his head and chest. There was a tearing sensation from deep within, the very essence of his being collapsing in on itself like a star going supernova. When he opened his eyes, his vision had gone white.
Sam released his arm and Dean fell to his knees, clutching his head with his right arm, the left completely numb as though it had combusted and turned to ash.
“Dean?!”
“Finish it,” Dean gasped against the threat of unconsciousness, voice and breath ragged.
“ALDON OI NOCO GETA MAHORELA PIADPH,” Sam continued as purple and black smoke erupted from the bowl, spilling over the edges and snaking over to the wall where it was pulled into the design that had started to glow like embers.
Just as Dean’s sight started to return, a flash of light enveloped the room, forcing the brothers to shield their eyes.
There was a rustling sound followed by a thud and a groan. Dean blinked the stars out of his eyes and tried to focus on the distorted figure in front of him.
“Dean?” Castiel looked at him in dazed disbelief, pushing up onto one elbow. Despite swimming vision and only one good arm, Dean crawled over and wrapped him into a breathless hug. “Getting me out should’ve been impossible with the deal I made.”
Dean didn’t even pull away as he replied, fist still full of beige fabric and voice barely a whisper, “Ain’t no mountain high enough, Cas.” He found himself wanting to bury his face in the heat of Castiel’s neck, to inhale his scent and be held, clinging to the vitality of the angel’s heartbeat.
“What did you do?!” Castiel demanded in that low rumble of his, tensing within Dean’s grasp. Insecurity wormed its way into the warmth of their reunion.
Maybe Castiel didn’t feel the same now that he’d returned. What if Dean had misunderstood his meaning as romantic when it had been meant platonically, more familial? It wasn’t like he hadn’t told Dean he’d loved him in the past. At the end of the day, Castiel would always be an angel. An otherworldly being. Just because he’d made human connections and used human terms didn’t mean he interpreted them the same way. Didn’t mean he experienced love the same way.
Dean was lightheaded. He sat back anyway, giving Castiel space though it filled his chest with lead, heavier than when he’d been crushing their bodies together.
“What’s a little soul-sharing between friends?” Dean regretted his choice of words as soon as he said them, noting the way Castiel’s eyes shifted away uneasily. He cooled into seriousness and placed his working hand on the angel’s shoulder. “Did you really think we wouldn’t try to find a way?”
Castiel looked conflicted but remained speechless, eyes roaming anywhere but on Dean. In the background, Sam shifted the weight on his feet but held a respectful silence.
“Cas, buddy.” Dean’s voice shook. “Say something...please,” he implored, face pallid. There was a pounding in his ears and he suddenly couldn’t get enough air. The room swirled and tilted sideways in a nauseating whorl, vision going dark from the outside in.
“Dean!!”
The last conscious impression was a pair of strong hands catching him and keeping his head from smacking into the floor.
May 15th, 2021
When Dean came to, he was lying on his memory foam with the comforter tucked over him and a bandage wrapped snugly around his arm. He was woozy and stiff, but the worst of the vertigo had passed. He turned his head and found Castiel snoozing at an uncomfortably crooked angle in a chair beside the bed. It didn’t seem real. Had they actually done it? Or had Dean died in the dungeon and this image was just the last electrical impulses of his failing brain?
“Cas.” Dean’s voice sounded like two pieces of sandpaper scraping together.
Castiel jolted as if he’d only just dozed off. “Dean,” he said softly, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “How are you feeling?” The hard lines under his eyes appeared even more sunken than before, somehow. (Hadn’t he been asleep for the past six months?) In the dim light of the bedside lamp, Dean could make out a bloodshot canvas behind those beautiful irises, the skin around Castiel’s eyes puffy and red.
“M’fine.” Dean ignored the dryness in his throat from being dead to the world. “Have you been crying?”
Castiel huffed a bittersweet laugh and handed Dean a cup of water that had been sitting in waiting nearby. Dean gulped it down gratefully.
“Dean,” he said again, though he didn’t answer the question. “You frightened me. I thought I’d come back just to watch you die.”
A selfish part of him wanted to bask in satisfaction that Castiel had gotten a taste of his own medicine, but he kept that cruel thought to himself. Cas was back and that was all that mattered. “Yeah, well, no harm, no foul, right? How long was I out?” he asked, not even knowing what time it was.
“Almost 40 hours,” Castiel replied.
Dean shivered at the intensity of Castiel’s regard, but he was nothing if not an expert on ignoring large elephants in small rooms. “And you were actually asleep for a moment there, weren’t you? I thought the spell would’ve worn off by now. Jack said it would be temporary. Shouldn’t your mojo be back?”
Castiel shook his head. “Sam said as much when he explained what you two had done, but... the spell took more than a mere slice of your soul. It split it in two. The half it claimed from you wasn’t just borrowed. It merged with what was left of my grace and became something entirely new. Something the Empty didn’t like the taste of. I think— I think I’m human now. Or, at least as close to human as a celestial being like me can get.”
Dean sat up, tentatively swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. It was probably a good thing he hadn’t eaten in almost two days because he might have thrown up otherwise. Guilt gnawed at the pit of his stomach. “I’m so sor—”
“Don’t.” Castiel stopped him, one hand reaching out to gently grab Dean’s wrist. “Don’t apologize. I want this. It’s better this way.”
Dean squinted at Castiel as if the latter had been speaking Enochian. He wanted to be human? “Why?”
“Because the next time I die, I’ll get to spend my eternal afterlife with you.”
Castiel tugged something out of his pocket and extended his free hand. Face-up in his grip was his cellphone with the screen unlocked.
Oh, shit. His phone!
Dean’s eyes widened in panic as he glanced between the angel and the full voicemail box he’d completely forgotten to wipe before the ritual. Cas had heard it. He’d heard it all. Every curse and avowal. Every mournful cry.
Every “I love you.”
Reeling from the unintentional vulnerability, Dean swayed. Castiel’s phone dropped to the mattress as he rose from the chair and reached out his other arm, steadying Dean at the shoulder.
“Dean?”
Dean lifted his eyes and found Castiel’s etched with apprehension and adoration and something else, something like longing. Dean whispered, confirming what Castiel seemed to be asking, “You weren’t supposed to hear it that way.”
Castiel raised the hand from Dean’s wrist to cradle his cheek. “So, show me the way it was supposed to be.”
Held secure in the angel’s grasp, Dean closed his eyes and the space between them, parted lips melding into a searing kiss. He poured a dozen years’ worth of yearning and fear and love into the worship of Castiel and to being worshipped in return. Mind, body, and spirit. For a time, they both lost themselves in drinking from an overflowing font of devotion.
“You said that happiness isn’t in the having, but you can’t tell me this isn’t better,” Dean reflected when they finally parted, foreheads resting together. “You can have me, Cas. All of me.”
Castiel backed up enough to study Dean’s face in the lamplight. “I lo—”
Dean didn’t let him finish his sentence, stealing the words with another kiss. Castiel laughed around Dean’s mouth, his joy palpable.
“Nuh uh. My turn.” Dean leaned in, pressed his lips against the cusp of Castiel’s ear, and pulled him closer. He was done waiting.
“I love you, too.”