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“Lucifer, please.”
The words are heavy on his tongue and he’s not even sure they even left his lips. He doesn't remember ever begging before. In all of his existence, not one time has he begged for anything, always believing himself above something so human. He had prayed, of course, but he'd never begged. And yet, right now, he can’t stop the plea; the hope that comes with it that perhaps this time… perhaps the Devil will listen.
But his only answer is silence and it looms over him, thick and imposing and Castiel can’t do much but feel as it settles heavy on his shoulders, as he stares in disbelief as his whole existence crumbles around the man in his arms. The corpse he’s holding close to his own chest, bloody and raged.
“Please.”
He hears himself this time, even though barely, his voice is thin and choked, the ringing in his ears won’t stop and for a moment Castiel isn’t even sure of the world around him. But he can feel the Devil standing behind him, watching him intently, quiet and powerful. Using the body he so long ago claimed, using the body of a boy so lost and so alone that agreed to lose himself up to the only one who'd listen, to the only one who'd smile and take him in. A lost boy that after years of reaching out for his own brother and finding nothing, saw no other option than quitting his own will and giving himself up to no other but Devil.
It doesn’t matter now. Nothing does.
Not with Dean lying cold and stiff in his arms, his eyes glassy and empty.
Castiel had fought his way out of the warehouse, even when he knew he wasn’t meant to come out alive, after reading Dean's lies as easily as his past-self had, he knew their fearless leader had never meant for him –or anyone for that matter– to come out. He had used him as nothing but a diversion, just as always. But Castiel had shot his way free anyway, and killed every croat and demon that had crossed his way. Too focused on the task of getting out, it had seemed almost too easy. But It hadn't been, not really; he had to leave Risa and the others behind, run past them as their desperate screams and curses rumbled in his ears. But he couldn’t have cared less; he wasn’t going to die, even if Dean wanted to. He wasn’t going down like a dog, not today, not soon. Dying meant leave Dean alone, and it simply wasn’t been an option.
Dean, who sent him as bait. Dean, who was dead now.
It didn’t matter now. Nothing did.
The cold stares, the barked orders and remarks. The sarcasm, the mocking, O Fearless Leader… It all seems so distant right now. All those times Dean wouldn’t spare him a second glance and would just leave him lying in the floor, laughing bitterly at the ceiling, his body covered in sweat, his eyes unfocused and his mind too clouded and dizzy from whatever he had taken. Too high to care, too high to feel the desolation and the loss, the pain that came with mortality. All those times Castiel would laugh at himself, pretending he didn’t know what was happening a couple of cabins from his. All those times he would see Dean carry the marks of some nameless woman from the camp.
All those times they would crash into one another sinking into each other restlessly, desperate and uncaring, as the night wrapped around them. They would tear and push, barely look at each other, the frantic search of passing satisfaction, the long-lost feeling of safety. Those nights they would use each other’s bodies, and hate themselves for their weakness, because they knew. They always did know what those nights meant. They would snarl each other’s names, bite hard and rustle even harder, taking as much as they could as fast as they could, pretending in vane that, in the world gone to hell, they weren’t everything they both had left. Those nights Castiel would lay naked, sore and alone after Dean had left his bed with nothing but the marks of his nails on his back. All the aggression and frustration of what they had lost was gone in his wake, leaving him emptier than he was before.
None of that mattered any more. Not with Dean stone-cold and motionless. All the determination, the rage, the guilt, the fire, all gone.
“Lucifer, kill me… kill me please.”
His voice was strangled, catching in itself without enough breath. His eyes never leaving Dean’s face, tracing every inch of it, counting the freckles once again, finding nothing but the emptiness of his unfocused gaze. Even then he felt too numb to even cry.
This time, the Devil smiled. Cruel and nasty.
“Now, now, brother. Why would I?”
Castiel had blood in is hands, his clothes, he could even taste it in his mouth. He had a deep wound in his forehead and he could feel it dripping warm over his brow, down his nose and onto Dean’s spotless shirt. He felt every muscle of his body complain. He was kneeling on the ground, where the mud and the grass was getting stained with red too. He felt the shudder that went through his spine and his bones, piercing through him ice-cold and terrifying.
“Please.”
His breath catching, his voice barely a whisper.
But he was alone. Alone with the remains of a man he loved and he forgave.