fic: In the Blackest of Rooms
Title: In the Blackest of Rooms
Author: elfladyarwen
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Castiel, brief mention of Sam, Bobby, Crowley
Spoilers: Know who Crowley is? Then it's all good
Warnings: au,death!fic, angst, hurt/comfort
Rating: PG-13 (for language and violent descriptions)
Word Count: 1000-4999
Author’s Note: This was written contemplating the song "I'll Follow You Into the Dark", but I don't consider it a songfic. It's more 'what WOULD it be like, not to be able to go to Heaven or Hell? how scary would that be? D:" kinda exploration. This is my very first Destiel fic and it's dedicated to my shiny new beta, lefty_spit who is awesome and encouraging.
Summary: When it comes to the end and there's nothing left, all that really matters is who faces the nothingness with you.
Dean is dying.
He’s done it before, he ought to recognize the signs by now.
He’s practically shaking from the effort of fighting every muscle in his body, each one begging him to lie down and quit. He’s losing the feeling in his hands, as the rest of his nerve endings come to life in an obscene flare of pain. He’s estimating no less than five, maybe six holes are currently hard at work to soak his shirt and jacket with tacky blood. Half his vision is impaired, the swollen flesh above one eye puffed up grotesquely. He is not pleased with having his gorgeous face messed up.
Every breath is a battle and with each exhale, more blood drains past his awkwardly clamped fingers. What had happened to him? There had been a point in time where there was no way Dean Winchester could be taken out by a handful of puny demons. When had he lost his advantages, become so distracted that he couldn’t hold his own in a fight that should have been won with ridiculous ease? He wants to blame it on life, thinks that’s a pretty good excuse. He was always meant to be alone, but Dean had never been lonely before. He thinks perhaps the loneliness has taken it’s toll on him and that’s why his reflexes have at last failed him.
He’s not completely aware of where he is, only that the dark, rank alley is more friendly then where he was before and is therefore a better place to die. The solitary streetlamp flickers it’s condolences as he staggers past it, his shadow looking longer and more foreboding to him then it maybe should. There will be no rebounding from this one, the way every fiber of his being protests being moved confirms it. Shit, he vainly imagined it would take a whole hoard to bring him down.
But he’s been cruising through the motions for so long now he can’t quite remember what it felt like to be young and recklessly brave. Serves him right, thinking anything, even his fighting skills can be relied on. He hacks, spilling Rorschach puddles of bloody phlegm all over the cement. They all look like angels and demons to him. He does his best to wipe his mouth on a tattered sleeve, but the taste of metal and sour broken teeth won’t go away. He glances down again at the pools of blood and imagines a cheeky British accent rising from the one that looks particularly Crowley-like. He thinks his mind must be short-circuiting cause he’s sure he’s heard this conversation recently.
“The thing is, old son...we’ve decided to go in another direction. Your services, while impressive, are no longer as coveted as they used to be.”
“Excuse me? Did I hear you right? You’re rejecting me from Hell? As in, when I die, Hell is giving me a ‘thanks but no thanks’?”
“You’re just too much trouble, precious. And quite honestly, a bit too righteous for our tastes, despite that lovely stain you carry around on your soul. Let’s be pragmatic. I’m recovering from an interdimensional war. It’s a lot of work taking care of you Winchesters, and with my man power down a sizably large percentage from what it was, I’m beginning to think we’re overloaded with just the patriarch.”
“I don’t get it. Where the fuck does that leave me? Everyone and their mother knows I ain’t gonna be strollin’ past the pearly gates.”
“Oh, there’s another choice. Or in your case, a last resort. And you best be careful, luv. You’re a third time felon this go around.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means nobody - not me, not God, not even your pet angel- is allowed to pull your ass out of the flames this time. This time..it’s permanent. I like you, Dean, no really I do. You got spunk. But even you can’t cheat Death forever. He’ll find you one of these days. Then it’s a nice long everafter in the Void to think about all the ruckus you’ve caused.”
Last-resort Dean, that was him. Not quite good enough for the top, but not quite wrong enough for the bottom. So he would spend his eternity like he spent these last few years - utterly alone. In the Void. The space in between space and the place that wasn’t really a place. Where there was no light and no sound and no anything. Just a giant, ever-spanning nothingness. He would be lying if he said he was at all surprised. A big patch of nothing for the big sack of nobody. Fuck it. Bring it on.
“Hello Dean.”
The hunter’s only functioning lid squeezes tight, as if blocking out sight will also block out the voice he never thought he’d hear again. It’s barely audible, but somehow it’s rattling around in Dean’s head like a percussion clash. No, not now. It’s just his hysterical psyche grasping pitifully for some final comfort. Just let him have peace. Just leave him to the dark. Apparently his brain isn’t going to listen, ‘cause the hallucination only moves closer, the shuffling of unseen feathers trailing in its wake.
“Liar,” he wheezes through a bloody smirk, flicking a hot green glance over his shoulder at the figure who has just materialized from nowhere. Castiel does not return any sort of expression, only drops his lashes in acceptance of the brand. Shit, he looks so good. The years certainly ride an angel better then he’d expected. It makes Dean feel like he’s dehydrated and the only water around is the clear serene blue of Cas’ irises. Have his lashes always been that girlishly long? It’s been so long since Dean’s seen him, his memory must have drawn a slightly faulty picture. Cas is much more, well, pretty than he remembers. Maybe he’s just so hard up for anything that’s not demonic and ugly and determined to fuck him over with guilt and anguish.
“Damn, glad that’s over. I hate to say it, but I might be getting too old for this crap. I’ve gotta crash, dude, I’m about 5 minutes shy of passing out on my feet. See ya when I see ya, I guess. Sooner then later, most likely with the way our luck is.”
“You won’t see me again, Dean.” Castiel stares at a spot on the floor, anywhere but the hunter’s suspicious, stony face.
“Excuse me?”
“I won’t come again. This will be the last time you and I speak.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Like... ever?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that? What are you saying, man?”
“I’m going home. I’ve been away long enough. I...pine for it.”
“So this is it? You’re just gonna give up the rebellious teen act now that Daddy’s offered his forgiveness? Gonna screw your newly found free will for a pat on the head and a goodnight kiss? No need to dick about with the humans now that Heaven’s welcomed you back in with open arms, huh Cas? Well isn’t that swell. Thanks for bothering to tell me, buddy.” His voice is absolutely scathing and the angel seems to shrink back from him. But why shouldn’t it be? Castiel is tearing Dean’s existence to shreds in a few simple sentences. Like he’s announcing he’s going to go on a damn picnic on Thursday.
“Dean-“
“No. Just - get out. I’m real happy for you. Hey, when you’re getting tucked into bed tonight, be sure and give your Dad a big ol’ middle finger for me. Tell him thanks for nothing and it’s been a real treat having my life fucked over by all his kin. I would get him a better present, but you dropped this news on me kinda last minute and I didn’t have time to really shop.”
“It’s where I belong. I’ve fought for a long time to get back. We’ve fought a long time, together, and we somehow won. I’ve given so much more then was expected of me for you. I’ve given more then was reciprocated, you know this. The war is over, you’re not my charge anymore. I’m tired, Dean. I’m tired of it all. There’s no reason for me to stay here. Is there? Is there?” His words say one thing, but Dean knows him too well to be fooled by this weary-warrior routine. His eyes beg the hunter for a reason to stay, any reason. Dean has about four hundred reasons why Cas shouldn’t go anywhere but back home with him and stay there for as many eternities. But Dean will be damned before he gives Cas that sort of satisfaction. Dean Winchester doesn’t rely on anyone, much less a jaded fallen angel with Daddy issues.
“No, I guess there isn’t,” he lies.
It’s all too bright and Dean’s been so long without color in the world that his eyes burn from trying to keep Castiel in focus.
“You look terrible.”
“Don’t worry about it, only dying over here. No biggie. Nice to see you too, asshole,” the hunter mutters hatefully.
“I can’t save you this time, Dean. I’m sorry,” the angel says softly, the apology thick in that flat, gravelly monotone. Dean finds he’s annoyed with this characteristic show of regret. Castiel isn’t telling him anything he doesn’t already know, after all. Bad habit of Cas’, saying things that don’t make one goddamn bit of difference. He doesn’t want to hear anything the angel has to say and doubles over further into himself with a grunt. He sees no reason to put great effort into stemming the blood flow leaking from him, so he concentrates more on bracing himself higher along the wall.
“Who asked you to?”
Castiel makes to raise two fingers to the dying man’s forehead, but the hunter impatiently swats them away, which earns him a tight-lipped expression of confusion. “I could take away the pain,” he offers, clearly beginning to grow frustrated with the Hunter’s unwillingness to cooperate on such a small matter.
“Don’t waste your energy,” Dean snaps, a spoonful of blood falling from his mouth for as many words as he speaks. Something has punctured part of his guts, he can feel it. He’s thinking he’ll most likely suffocate on his own fluid if he has to guess which way he’s gonna kick it. That still leaves enough time to hobble pathetically to a more secluded part of the alley before the lights go out. Frankly, he doesn’t really care, just wants to get as far away from the concerned looking sonofabitch as he can. Castiel’s brow furrows and he watches the human stumble a ways down the alley in that annoying silent way of his. Dean’s not stupid enough to think he can actually outrun him in his current state, but he’ll damn sure try. To his chagrin, Castiel stays no more then a short pace behind him the entire way. He can’t even make four steps before his body betrays him and has him coughing up his insides beside a trash bin. He’s aware of the angel starting anxiously toward him, but throws up a blood-covered palm to ward him off.
“Why are you here, Cas? I can die just fine without your help.”
“You called me.” Continuing to stare at Dean as if the hunter’s lost more then just a gallon of blood.
“Like hell I did.” He couldn’t deny he had wanted to, hundreds, maybe even thousands of times, had needed to scream the angel’s name to the heavens if nothing more than a cathartic release. He’d initially craved Castiel like oxygen, and God forgive him, there’d been times Dean thought he was wasting away without the blunt criticisms and the childish rebuttals and the piercing heat of blue eyes. After some time, he’d forgotten how to breath though, so the elemental longing didn’t hurt anymore. He’d only contemplate calling for his angel on the darkest nights. Dean was ashamed to admit he was more scared of the dark now than he’d been as a child. But he’d known better, knew better than to waste his time with someone who couldn’t, (wouldn’t )hear him. He’d been left in this gutterhole of a post-war life, alone and colorless. Everything he’d cared about, had loved - long gone. He had stopped praying to deaf ears a long time ago.
“I always hear you,” the angel counters sadly, as if he’s privy to Dean’s thoughts. Maybe he is, such an invasion without permission wouldn’t surprise Dean in the least. Cas reaches out again, trying to support Dean’s wet slide down the bricks, but the human ducks the long fingers at the last second and continues to drag his mangled body forward.
“Believe me, your name is the last one I’d waste my precious last breaths on.”
“You don’t have to speak for me to hear you. Your soul calls to me.”
Dean snorts. “Horseshit. Don’t start with that ‘profound bond’ crap. Look, if you’re regretting never getting a piece of this and wanted to try your luck at a last minute booty call, just admit it. Think you might have missed your chance though, as you can see, I barely have enough blood left to keep me upright much less hold a boner.”
“That’s not funny, Dean. I didn’t come down here to argue. I know your soul better then you do. I’m the one who pieced it back together from where it was strewn across every corner of Hell. I’m the one who lifted it up from the Pit in my own two hands. It doesn’t matter what you do or say, I always hear it. It’s like a white noise in the back of my head, ever present whether I want it to be or not. I can ignore it most of the time, but not when it’s crying out in pain as it is now.”
Cas actually sounds like he’s hurting and Dean twists around to give him a ‘are-you-fucking-kidding-me’ face. It doesn’t quite make it across his mug though cause he’s looking at Castiel for the first time since his arrival. The angel’s gaze is a little too frantic, a little too pleading for Dean to ignore. His face is a little too agitated, and Dean’s noticing that catch in his tone now. “ I can feel you, Dean, don’t you understand? This-” he gestures rather wildly (for Cas anyway) at their surroundings and the spaces between them, “this is happening to me too.”
“When I lifted you up from perdition, a piece of my Grace was inadvertently attached to you. I know what you think, what you hate, what hurts you. I have always known. I’ve never mentioned it before because I thought you’d consider it a violation of your privacy. I remember how much you complained about me listening to your thoughts or watching over you as you slept. But this circumstance is different and your soul is dimming and it’s pain I’ve never felt before. Physical pain, Dean. Pain, I can’t help but feel, and can do nothing to stop.” He locks that bright blue gaze onto Dean’s face and stretches in one fluid motion to capture the roll of the man’s shoulder and cover the handprint that lays beneath the layers of cloth. The connection, even through leather and cotton has Dean hissing through his teeth. If he had to put a word to the sensation Castiel’s touch on his scar caused, it would be - arousing. Maybe singeing, he’s not quite sure. Either way, it’s unwanted and undeserved and too little too late and angrily he moves to loose himself from the angel’s grasp.
“Dean. Dean. Don’t be afraid. Come to me.”
“Who - who are you? What do you want?”
“I am salvation. I am life. Come to me, Dean. Let me take you far from this place. Let me take you back into the light.”
“No. Don’t. Hurts. Too bright. Leave me here to rot, I don’t deserve to be saved. Your light hurts me! I burn.”
“Good, Dean. It means you can still feel. You are chosen. I have been sent to save you because you are worthy. You are good and bright and loved. I’ll take the pain away. Come, let me heal you. You’re safe now. Hold onto me tight. Don’t let go.”
He so desperately wants to listen, to think there’s still something bonding him to Cas. Something, Jesus, anything that betrayals and time and their own stupid miscommunications haven’t been able to decimate. His heart gives a weak little flutter at the idea of being so intimately attached to something so wildly confusing and divine. So frustratingly alien and glorious. But the angel has basically just admitted he’s here of his own misfortunes, this whatever between them a hindrance that he has no idea how to control. It has little to do with Dean and acknowledging this drains most of the fight left in him.
“No fault of mine, Grabby-hands. If we share any sort of connection anymore, it’s all your doing and I shouldn’t be punished for it. Get out of here, Cas. I don’t want you here. You’re ruining my dramatic exit. Go back where you belong.” He’s always been a good liar, something he shouldn’t be so proud of.
“You know I’m not going to do that, Dean. I’m not going to let you die alone.” The finality of his smoky tone has Dean curling his lip. Just because he’s dying doesn’t mean he intends to play ‘happy family’ and let go of a grudge that’s served him faithfully for years.
“You let me live and fight alone. You left me alone, you soulless son of a bitch! You swore after Sammy died that it wouldn’t be this way. You told me it wouldn’t be for nothing, told me it was worth something. You told me I was worth something! I trusted you. And like a freakin’ idiot, I was still surprised when you betrayed me. Why the hell should this be any different?”
Castiel has no reply for that, only continues to watch Dean stagger on as his life force ebbs away. Fan-fucking-tastic. Two minutes into their grand reunion and Dean already wants to slug him. Or grab hold of him and kiss him senseless. His brain’s getting hazy and it’s getting harder to keep his thoughts straight. Cas has always had that effect on him though, and he’s realizing he’s sorta pissed about it.
Finally his knees give out and with a grunt he prepares for the unforgiving smack of his ruined body against pavement. He’s welcoming it, by this point. It takes too much damn effort to keep moving. But it never comes. One second he’s falling through open air and in the next there’s only warm solidity and a familiar touch on his waist and shoulders. It takes all his effort to swallow the groan born of the gentle contact, something he didn’t even know he’d missed until right now.
He wants it, but it’s in his nature to push it away, to push at the supportive chest in front of him.
“Get away from me!” He means exactly the opposite and blasphemes violently in his head just in case Cas is eavesdropping again. It’s gotta be the only explanation as to how the angel knows to gingerly rub at the base of his spine like that, how he knows that chapped lips along Dean’s hairline will make him momentarily feel whole. Castiel’s embrace hurts more then any of his wounds and he must be some kind of sadist cause he’s holding on so tight. Downright clinging. The angel murmurs something indistinguishable into the hunter’s hair as they sink as one slowly down to the asphalt.
“Leave me alone,” Dean groans again, meaning to shove the other man away but somehow ending up clutching tightly at the lapels of a worn, dirty trenchcoat. “Do what you do best and just leave.”
“Please, Dean.” The whisper is so fucking raw it makes Dean’s chest ache. “There’s no shame in asking me to stay. Let me comfort you if I can. Why is it so impossible for you to act in your own benefit?” This chastising rubs Dean the wrong way and he squirms a bit in Cas’ arms, almost wriggling off his lap before being gently replaced.“What makes you think I’d want to spend my last minutes in the arms of some dick who can’t give a rats ass about me except to use me as a means to his own end?”
Castiel’s face darkens. “Don’t be cruel. You’re acting like a jilted lover and there’s no cause for it. You act as if seeing you like this isn’t tearing me apart. As if it’s only your blood being spilt onto this road tonight. I can’t save you, Dean, do you have any idea what that’s doing to me? I have done nothing to deserve your hostility. I have done nothing wrong here except try to ease your pain. Why are you so angry with me?” He sounds so honestly confused and hurt that Dean is almost swayed into believing it’s real. He could almost pretend that things aren’t so far from what they used to be. Back when a look was enough to communicate paragraphs between them and the terms ‘friend’ and ‘comrade’ were both relative and loaded with layers of meaning. Back when each was possessive of the other’s touch and a touch was never simple or innocent. Dean could almost pretend - if he wasn’t so tired. If there wasn’t so much emptiness inside him.
“You left, remember?” You left me. I was already dead before you showed up here. I’ve been dead for a while.
“You didn’t ask me to stay.”
“Why am I the one who always has to make your decisions for you? What the hell happened to all that free will you found? Just a lot of bullshit talk, like the rest of you. I swear, I’ve never met an angel who talked more shit then you, Cas.” He gurgles something that could pass as a sarcastic laugh, another spatter of red darkening his chin and smearing along the angel’s collar. Castiel only shushes him gently, wiping the blood from his face and crushing him closer against his body. It’s so warm, so quiet snuggled against him that Dean feels suddenly sleepy and dizzy.
“Ask it of me now, Dean.”
“Fuck you,” he choked, the spattering noise now something between a sob and a gasp. He wants nothing more then to open his mouth and beg. He wants Castiel to alter time for them and give them a second chance, a third chance, till they get it right and their story doesn’t end with a broken and shaking Dean bleeding out in his angel’s arms.
“Ask me.”
He doesn’t. He can’t, and they both know it. There’s too many lies stretched between them for Dean to clear everything with one request. There’s too many misunderstandings and lost hours and feelings unspoken. There’s Heaven and Hell and the inevitable darkness of the Void between them and Dean can’t help but mourn for what might have been - for what was.
“What’s it like, Cas, where I’m going?” It’s not the question Castiel is looking for, and his stubbled face twists in disapproval but he doesn’t loosen his hold on Dean.
“I-I don’t know. No one knows. No one has ever ventured there and returned. Angel or demon. Not even God.”
Dean shivers at the idea that there is a vastness in the universe that even God knows nothing of. He’s automatically imagining a ghostly representation of himself simply fading away atom by atom till there’s nothing left at all except absolute and smothering dark. It will probably be a lot worse though, figuring his luck. It terrifies him on a level he’s never known, not even knowing Hell as he so intimately does. Dean has never thought of himself as a coward before, but if he takes a minute now to really think about it, this banishment beyond space and time could be the thing that breaks the tough outer shell and has him quivering like a baby.
“You will be the first I’ve known to go,” the angel admits. “A million years worth of souls and I’ve never met one who caused enough trouble to be rejected by both Heaven and Hell.”
“You know me. Always pissing off the wrong people.”
“Stupid human,” Castiel whispers, nuzzling along the line of Dean’s jaw, his breath a burn on the man’s chilling skin. Dean hears the unspoken ‘my’ there and sighs contentedly.
Dean is finally out of biting one-liners, feeling gravity press heavily on his limbs so he chooses not to reply. He just raises his head a bit to allow Cas greater access to his neck and cheek. The angel leaves no inch of the ruined flesh untouched, his lips kissing away the burn till there’s nothing left but a distant throb and the reminder that even though he’s good, not even Cas can stop the tidal wave coming for Dean. The longer he stays in his angel’s arms, the more he’s willing to accept it because the fear is blunted by Cas’ blue eyes and the hemorrhaging pangs in his stomach and lungs aren’t as strong beneath Cas’ soothing hands.
They sit like that for what seems to Dean as ages, but is in reality only a handful of stolen minutes. His lids are sliding on their own accord now and he struggles to keep them open, just a little longer. He can’t go into the dark yet. Surely there’s something left to say.
“You said you’d never come to me again. I believed it,” Dean breaks down eventually. Who knows how long they’ve been sprawled there before he says this accusation out loud, though it sounds more like a last confession to his ears. Castiel smiles, really smiles and Dean can only lay in worshipping awe of it. “I always come when you call.”
He drops his head into the place where Castiel’s neck and shoulder meet, trying to inch closer, as close as he can get. He’ll crawl up into the angel’s warmth if he can, tuck himself away and be safe at last. He sucks up as much of Cas’ unique smell as he can, scalding his already stinging windpipe on the scent of sea winds and freshly tilled earth.
“Cas, I’m afraid.”
But suddenly it’s okay because Castiel’s mouth is fitted so tightly over his own, hot and sure and screaming of regret and weariness and a hundred other things Dean can’t filter out. He doesn’t bother trying, just fists his shaking hands into the angel’s dark silky hair, drawing him closer down to him in a hard angry clash of teeth and lips and tongue. It’s better then he ever imagined and he’s desperate to soak up as much of Castiel as he can, while he can. There’s redemption in this kiss, and ash and sorrow and something so glorious Dean swears this must be what Grace tastes like. It’s not ever going to be enough and the bottom line is, he should have been doing this all along. There should be the memory of a thousand kisses to take with him, not this single panicked one. There should be a thousand passion-induced bruises to mark them as the property of the other, not the gaping bleeding holes in Dean’s body that pull them further apart.
“Then,” Castiel pulls back, but only far enough to press his forehead against the hunter’s and whisper against his mouth. “I’ll go with you.”
“Really?” Dean is overwhelmed by this simple gesture of love; one last lie to try to soothe a fear that can’t be touched, one last promise to break before the curtain finally falls on this beautiful twisted charade of theirs. Dean has never received such a precious gift and he looks up at Castiel with eyes glazed with something else besides pain. It could be relief. It could be rapture. “You’ll follow me?” He needs to hear it, true or not. He needs to hear that the angel won’t leave him like everyone else has done - not like his mother and father, not like Bobby, not like poor Sammy.
“Yes.”
It’s amazing how just one gruff syllable can flood Dean with so much relief. And if he tries really really hard, for a moment he can believe it. He can believe that he won’t be alone in the forever long dark, that this shining angel will be there to hold him and wrap him with gilded wings when it finally closes in.
“Cas.”
“Beloved.”
“I don’t hate you. Not really.”
Dean is dying.
But he’s pretty sure he could be worse.
Author: elfladyarwen
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Castiel, brief mention of Sam, Bobby, Crowley
Spoilers: Know who Crowley is? Then it's all good
Warnings: au,death!fic, angst, hurt/comfort
Rating: PG-13 (for language and violent descriptions)
Word Count: 1000-4999
Author’s Note: This was written contemplating the song "I'll Follow You Into the Dark", but I don't consider it a songfic. It's more 'what WOULD it be like, not to be able to go to Heaven or Hell? how scary would that be? D:" kinda exploration. This is my very first Destiel fic and it's dedicated to my shiny new beta, lefty_spit who is awesome and encouraging.
Summary: When it comes to the end and there's nothing left, all that really matters is who faces the nothingness with you.
Dean is dying.
He’s done it before, he ought to recognize the signs by now.
He’s practically shaking from the effort of fighting every muscle in his body, each one begging him to lie down and quit. He’s losing the feeling in his hands, as the rest of his nerve endings come to life in an obscene flare of pain. He’s estimating no less than five, maybe six holes are currently hard at work to soak his shirt and jacket with tacky blood. Half his vision is impaired, the swollen flesh above one eye puffed up grotesquely. He is not pleased with having his gorgeous face messed up.
Every breath is a battle and with each exhale, more blood drains past his awkwardly clamped fingers. What had happened to him? There had been a point in time where there was no way Dean Winchester could be taken out by a handful of puny demons. When had he lost his advantages, become so distracted that he couldn’t hold his own in a fight that should have been won with ridiculous ease? He wants to blame it on life, thinks that’s a pretty good excuse. He was always meant to be alone, but Dean had never been lonely before. He thinks perhaps the loneliness has taken it’s toll on him and that’s why his reflexes have at last failed him.
He’s not completely aware of where he is, only that the dark, rank alley is more friendly then where he was before and is therefore a better place to die. The solitary streetlamp flickers it’s condolences as he staggers past it, his shadow looking longer and more foreboding to him then it maybe should. There will be no rebounding from this one, the way every fiber of his being protests being moved confirms it. Shit, he vainly imagined it would take a whole hoard to bring him down.
But he’s been cruising through the motions for so long now he can’t quite remember what it felt like to be young and recklessly brave. Serves him right, thinking anything, even his fighting skills can be relied on. He hacks, spilling Rorschach puddles of bloody phlegm all over the cement. They all look like angels and demons to him. He does his best to wipe his mouth on a tattered sleeve, but the taste of metal and sour broken teeth won’t go away. He glances down again at the pools of blood and imagines a cheeky British accent rising from the one that looks particularly Crowley-like. He thinks his mind must be short-circuiting cause he’s sure he’s heard this conversation recently.
“The thing is, old son...we’ve decided to go in another direction. Your services, while impressive, are no longer as coveted as they used to be.”
“Excuse me? Did I hear you right? You’re rejecting me from Hell? As in, when I die, Hell is giving me a ‘thanks but no thanks’?”
“You’re just too much trouble, precious. And quite honestly, a bit too righteous for our tastes, despite that lovely stain you carry around on your soul. Let’s be pragmatic. I’m recovering from an interdimensional war. It’s a lot of work taking care of you Winchesters, and with my man power down a sizably large percentage from what it was, I’m beginning to think we’re overloaded with just the patriarch.”
“I don’t get it. Where the fuck does that leave me? Everyone and their mother knows I ain’t gonna be strollin’ past the pearly gates.”
“Oh, there’s another choice. Or in your case, a last resort. And you best be careful, luv. You’re a third time felon this go around.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means nobody - not me, not God, not even your pet angel- is allowed to pull your ass out of the flames this time. This time..it’s permanent. I like you, Dean, no really I do. You got spunk. But even you can’t cheat Death forever. He’ll find you one of these days. Then it’s a nice long everafter in the Void to think about all the ruckus you’ve caused.”
Last-resort Dean, that was him. Not quite good enough for the top, but not quite wrong enough for the bottom. So he would spend his eternity like he spent these last few years - utterly alone. In the Void. The space in between space and the place that wasn’t really a place. Where there was no light and no sound and no anything. Just a giant, ever-spanning nothingness. He would be lying if he said he was at all surprised. A big patch of nothing for the big sack of nobody. Fuck it. Bring it on.
“Hello Dean.”
The hunter’s only functioning lid squeezes tight, as if blocking out sight will also block out the voice he never thought he’d hear again. It’s barely audible, but somehow it’s rattling around in Dean’s head like a percussion clash. No, not now. It’s just his hysterical psyche grasping pitifully for some final comfort. Just let him have peace. Just leave him to the dark. Apparently his brain isn’t going to listen, ‘cause the hallucination only moves closer, the shuffling of unseen feathers trailing in its wake.
“Liar,” he wheezes through a bloody smirk, flicking a hot green glance over his shoulder at the figure who has just materialized from nowhere. Castiel does not return any sort of expression, only drops his lashes in acceptance of the brand. Shit, he looks so good. The years certainly ride an angel better then he’d expected. It makes Dean feel like he’s dehydrated and the only water around is the clear serene blue of Cas’ irises. Have his lashes always been that girlishly long? It’s been so long since Dean’s seen him, his memory must have drawn a slightly faulty picture. Cas is much more, well, pretty than he remembers. Maybe he’s just so hard up for anything that’s not demonic and ugly and determined to fuck him over with guilt and anguish.
“Damn, glad that’s over. I hate to say it, but I might be getting too old for this crap. I’ve gotta crash, dude, I’m about 5 minutes shy of passing out on my feet. See ya when I see ya, I guess. Sooner then later, most likely with the way our luck is.”
“You won’t see me again, Dean.” Castiel stares at a spot on the floor, anywhere but the hunter’s suspicious, stony face.
“Excuse me?”
“I won’t come again. This will be the last time you and I speak.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Like... ever?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that? What are you saying, man?”
“I’m going home. I’ve been away long enough. I...pine for it.”
“So this is it? You’re just gonna give up the rebellious teen act now that Daddy’s offered his forgiveness? Gonna screw your newly found free will for a pat on the head and a goodnight kiss? No need to dick about with the humans now that Heaven’s welcomed you back in with open arms, huh Cas? Well isn’t that swell. Thanks for bothering to tell me, buddy.” His voice is absolutely scathing and the angel seems to shrink back from him. But why shouldn’t it be? Castiel is tearing Dean’s existence to shreds in a few simple sentences. Like he’s announcing he’s going to go on a damn picnic on Thursday.
“Dean-“
“No. Just - get out. I’m real happy for you. Hey, when you’re getting tucked into bed tonight, be sure and give your Dad a big ol’ middle finger for me. Tell him thanks for nothing and it’s been a real treat having my life fucked over by all his kin. I would get him a better present, but you dropped this news on me kinda last minute and I didn’t have time to really shop.”
“It’s where I belong. I’ve fought for a long time to get back. We’ve fought a long time, together, and we somehow won. I’ve given so much more then was expected of me for you. I’ve given more then was reciprocated, you know this. The war is over, you’re not my charge anymore. I’m tired, Dean. I’m tired of it all. There’s no reason for me to stay here. Is there? Is there?” His words say one thing, but Dean knows him too well to be fooled by this weary-warrior routine. His eyes beg the hunter for a reason to stay, any reason. Dean has about four hundred reasons why Cas shouldn’t go anywhere but back home with him and stay there for as many eternities. But Dean will be damned before he gives Cas that sort of satisfaction. Dean Winchester doesn’t rely on anyone, much less a jaded fallen angel with Daddy issues.
“No, I guess there isn’t,” he lies.
It’s all too bright and Dean’s been so long without color in the world that his eyes burn from trying to keep Castiel in focus.
“You look terrible.”
“Don’t worry about it, only dying over here. No biggie. Nice to see you too, asshole,” the hunter mutters hatefully.
“I can’t save you this time, Dean. I’m sorry,” the angel says softly, the apology thick in that flat, gravelly monotone. Dean finds he’s annoyed with this characteristic show of regret. Castiel isn’t telling him anything he doesn’t already know, after all. Bad habit of Cas’, saying things that don’t make one goddamn bit of difference. He doesn’t want to hear anything the angel has to say and doubles over further into himself with a grunt. He sees no reason to put great effort into stemming the blood flow leaking from him, so he concentrates more on bracing himself higher along the wall.
“Who asked you to?”
Castiel makes to raise two fingers to the dying man’s forehead, but the hunter impatiently swats them away, which earns him a tight-lipped expression of confusion. “I could take away the pain,” he offers, clearly beginning to grow frustrated with the Hunter’s unwillingness to cooperate on such a small matter.
“Don’t waste your energy,” Dean snaps, a spoonful of blood falling from his mouth for as many words as he speaks. Something has punctured part of his guts, he can feel it. He’s thinking he’ll most likely suffocate on his own fluid if he has to guess which way he’s gonna kick it. That still leaves enough time to hobble pathetically to a more secluded part of the alley before the lights go out. Frankly, he doesn’t really care, just wants to get as far away from the concerned looking sonofabitch as he can. Castiel’s brow furrows and he watches the human stumble a ways down the alley in that annoying silent way of his. Dean’s not stupid enough to think he can actually outrun him in his current state, but he’ll damn sure try. To his chagrin, Castiel stays no more then a short pace behind him the entire way. He can’t even make four steps before his body betrays him and has him coughing up his insides beside a trash bin. He’s aware of the angel starting anxiously toward him, but throws up a blood-covered palm to ward him off.
“Why are you here, Cas? I can die just fine without your help.”
“You called me.” Continuing to stare at Dean as if the hunter’s lost more then just a gallon of blood.
“Like hell I did.” He couldn’t deny he had wanted to, hundreds, maybe even thousands of times, had needed to scream the angel’s name to the heavens if nothing more than a cathartic release. He’d initially craved Castiel like oxygen, and God forgive him, there’d been times Dean thought he was wasting away without the blunt criticisms and the childish rebuttals and the piercing heat of blue eyes. After some time, he’d forgotten how to breath though, so the elemental longing didn’t hurt anymore. He’d only contemplate calling for his angel on the darkest nights. Dean was ashamed to admit he was more scared of the dark now than he’d been as a child. But he’d known better, knew better than to waste his time with someone who couldn’t, (wouldn’t )hear him. He’d been left in this gutterhole of a post-war life, alone and colorless. Everything he’d cared about, had loved - long gone. He had stopped praying to deaf ears a long time ago.
“I always hear you,” the angel counters sadly, as if he’s privy to Dean’s thoughts. Maybe he is, such an invasion without permission wouldn’t surprise Dean in the least. Cas reaches out again, trying to support Dean’s wet slide down the bricks, but the human ducks the long fingers at the last second and continues to drag his mangled body forward.
“Believe me, your name is the last one I’d waste my precious last breaths on.”
“You don’t have to speak for me to hear you. Your soul calls to me.”
Dean snorts. “Horseshit. Don’t start with that ‘profound bond’ crap. Look, if you’re regretting never getting a piece of this and wanted to try your luck at a last minute booty call, just admit it. Think you might have missed your chance though, as you can see, I barely have enough blood left to keep me upright much less hold a boner.”
“That’s not funny, Dean. I didn’t come down here to argue. I know your soul better then you do. I’m the one who pieced it back together from where it was strewn across every corner of Hell. I’m the one who lifted it up from the Pit in my own two hands. It doesn’t matter what you do or say, I always hear it. It’s like a white noise in the back of my head, ever present whether I want it to be or not. I can ignore it most of the time, but not when it’s crying out in pain as it is now.”
Cas actually sounds like he’s hurting and Dean twists around to give him a ‘are-you-fucking-kidding-me’ face. It doesn’t quite make it across his mug though cause he’s looking at Castiel for the first time since his arrival. The angel’s gaze is a little too frantic, a little too pleading for Dean to ignore. His face is a little too agitated, and Dean’s noticing that catch in his tone now. “ I can feel you, Dean, don’t you understand? This-” he gestures rather wildly (for Cas anyway) at their surroundings and the spaces between them, “this is happening to me too.”
“When I lifted you up from perdition, a piece of my Grace was inadvertently attached to you. I know what you think, what you hate, what hurts you. I have always known. I’ve never mentioned it before because I thought you’d consider it a violation of your privacy. I remember how much you complained about me listening to your thoughts or watching over you as you slept. But this circumstance is different and your soul is dimming and it’s pain I’ve never felt before. Physical pain, Dean. Pain, I can’t help but feel, and can do nothing to stop.” He locks that bright blue gaze onto Dean’s face and stretches in one fluid motion to capture the roll of the man’s shoulder and cover the handprint that lays beneath the layers of cloth. The connection, even through leather and cotton has Dean hissing through his teeth. If he had to put a word to the sensation Castiel’s touch on his scar caused, it would be - arousing. Maybe singeing, he’s not quite sure. Either way, it’s unwanted and undeserved and too little too late and angrily he moves to loose himself from the angel’s grasp.
“Dean. Dean. Don’t be afraid. Come to me.”
“Who - who are you? What do you want?”
“I am salvation. I am life. Come to me, Dean. Let me take you far from this place. Let me take you back into the light.”
“No. Don’t. Hurts. Too bright. Leave me here to rot, I don’t deserve to be saved. Your light hurts me! I burn.”
“Good, Dean. It means you can still feel. You are chosen. I have been sent to save you because you are worthy. You are good and bright and loved. I’ll take the pain away. Come, let me heal you. You’re safe now. Hold onto me tight. Don’t let go.”
He so desperately wants to listen, to think there’s still something bonding him to Cas. Something, Jesus, anything that betrayals and time and their own stupid miscommunications haven’t been able to decimate. His heart gives a weak little flutter at the idea of being so intimately attached to something so wildly confusing and divine. So frustratingly alien and glorious. But the angel has basically just admitted he’s here of his own misfortunes, this whatever between them a hindrance that he has no idea how to control. It has little to do with Dean and acknowledging this drains most of the fight left in him.
“No fault of mine, Grabby-hands. If we share any sort of connection anymore, it’s all your doing and I shouldn’t be punished for it. Get out of here, Cas. I don’t want you here. You’re ruining my dramatic exit. Go back where you belong.” He’s always been a good liar, something he shouldn’t be so proud of.
“You know I’m not going to do that, Dean. I’m not going to let you die alone.” The finality of his smoky tone has Dean curling his lip. Just because he’s dying doesn’t mean he intends to play ‘happy family’ and let go of a grudge that’s served him faithfully for years.
“You let me live and fight alone. You left me alone, you soulless son of a bitch! You swore after Sammy died that it wouldn’t be this way. You told me it wouldn’t be for nothing, told me it was worth something. You told me I was worth something! I trusted you. And like a freakin’ idiot, I was still surprised when you betrayed me. Why the hell should this be any different?”
Castiel has no reply for that, only continues to watch Dean stagger on as his life force ebbs away. Fan-fucking-tastic. Two minutes into their grand reunion and Dean already wants to slug him. Or grab hold of him and kiss him senseless. His brain’s getting hazy and it’s getting harder to keep his thoughts straight. Cas has always had that effect on him though, and he’s realizing he’s sorta pissed about it.
Finally his knees give out and with a grunt he prepares for the unforgiving smack of his ruined body against pavement. He’s welcoming it, by this point. It takes too much damn effort to keep moving. But it never comes. One second he’s falling through open air and in the next there’s only warm solidity and a familiar touch on his waist and shoulders. It takes all his effort to swallow the groan born of the gentle contact, something he didn’t even know he’d missed until right now.
He wants it, but it’s in his nature to push it away, to push at the supportive chest in front of him.
“Get away from me!” He means exactly the opposite and blasphemes violently in his head just in case Cas is eavesdropping again. It’s gotta be the only explanation as to how the angel knows to gingerly rub at the base of his spine like that, how he knows that chapped lips along Dean’s hairline will make him momentarily feel whole. Castiel’s embrace hurts more then any of his wounds and he must be some kind of sadist cause he’s holding on so tight. Downright clinging. The angel murmurs something indistinguishable into the hunter’s hair as they sink as one slowly down to the asphalt.
“Leave me alone,” Dean groans again, meaning to shove the other man away but somehow ending up clutching tightly at the lapels of a worn, dirty trenchcoat. “Do what you do best and just leave.”
“Please, Dean.” The whisper is so fucking raw it makes Dean’s chest ache. “There’s no shame in asking me to stay. Let me comfort you if I can. Why is it so impossible for you to act in your own benefit?” This chastising rubs Dean the wrong way and he squirms a bit in Cas’ arms, almost wriggling off his lap before being gently replaced.“What makes you think I’d want to spend my last minutes in the arms of some dick who can’t give a rats ass about me except to use me as a means to his own end?”
Castiel’s face darkens. “Don’t be cruel. You’re acting like a jilted lover and there’s no cause for it. You act as if seeing you like this isn’t tearing me apart. As if it’s only your blood being spilt onto this road tonight. I can’t save you, Dean, do you have any idea what that’s doing to me? I have done nothing to deserve your hostility. I have done nothing wrong here except try to ease your pain. Why are you so angry with me?” He sounds so honestly confused and hurt that Dean is almost swayed into believing it’s real. He could almost pretend that things aren’t so far from what they used to be. Back when a look was enough to communicate paragraphs between them and the terms ‘friend’ and ‘comrade’ were both relative and loaded with layers of meaning. Back when each was possessive of the other’s touch and a touch was never simple or innocent. Dean could almost pretend - if he wasn’t so tired. If there wasn’t so much emptiness inside him.
“You left, remember?” You left me. I was already dead before you showed up here. I’ve been dead for a while.
“You didn’t ask me to stay.”
“Why am I the one who always has to make your decisions for you? What the hell happened to all that free will you found? Just a lot of bullshit talk, like the rest of you. I swear, I’ve never met an angel who talked more shit then you, Cas.” He gurgles something that could pass as a sarcastic laugh, another spatter of red darkening his chin and smearing along the angel’s collar. Castiel only shushes him gently, wiping the blood from his face and crushing him closer against his body. It’s so warm, so quiet snuggled against him that Dean feels suddenly sleepy and dizzy.
“Ask it of me now, Dean.”
“Fuck you,” he choked, the spattering noise now something between a sob and a gasp. He wants nothing more then to open his mouth and beg. He wants Castiel to alter time for them and give them a second chance, a third chance, till they get it right and their story doesn’t end with a broken and shaking Dean bleeding out in his angel’s arms.
“Ask me.”
He doesn’t. He can’t, and they both know it. There’s too many lies stretched between them for Dean to clear everything with one request. There’s too many misunderstandings and lost hours and feelings unspoken. There’s Heaven and Hell and the inevitable darkness of the Void between them and Dean can’t help but mourn for what might have been - for what was.
“What’s it like, Cas, where I’m going?” It’s not the question Castiel is looking for, and his stubbled face twists in disapproval but he doesn’t loosen his hold on Dean.
“I-I don’t know. No one knows. No one has ever ventured there and returned. Angel or demon. Not even God.”
Dean shivers at the idea that there is a vastness in the universe that even God knows nothing of. He’s automatically imagining a ghostly representation of himself simply fading away atom by atom till there’s nothing left at all except absolute and smothering dark. It will probably be a lot worse though, figuring his luck. It terrifies him on a level he’s never known, not even knowing Hell as he so intimately does. Dean has never thought of himself as a coward before, but if he takes a minute now to really think about it, this banishment beyond space and time could be the thing that breaks the tough outer shell and has him quivering like a baby.
“You will be the first I’ve known to go,” the angel admits. “A million years worth of souls and I’ve never met one who caused enough trouble to be rejected by both Heaven and Hell.”
“You know me. Always pissing off the wrong people.”
“Stupid human,” Castiel whispers, nuzzling along the line of Dean’s jaw, his breath a burn on the man’s chilling skin. Dean hears the unspoken ‘my’ there and sighs contentedly.
Dean is finally out of biting one-liners, feeling gravity press heavily on his limbs so he chooses not to reply. He just raises his head a bit to allow Cas greater access to his neck and cheek. The angel leaves no inch of the ruined flesh untouched, his lips kissing away the burn till there’s nothing left but a distant throb and the reminder that even though he’s good, not even Cas can stop the tidal wave coming for Dean. The longer he stays in his angel’s arms, the more he’s willing to accept it because the fear is blunted by Cas’ blue eyes and the hemorrhaging pangs in his stomach and lungs aren’t as strong beneath Cas’ soothing hands.
They sit like that for what seems to Dean as ages, but is in reality only a handful of stolen minutes. His lids are sliding on their own accord now and he struggles to keep them open, just a little longer. He can’t go into the dark yet. Surely there’s something left to say.
“You said you’d never come to me again. I believed it,” Dean breaks down eventually. Who knows how long they’ve been sprawled there before he says this accusation out loud, though it sounds more like a last confession to his ears. Castiel smiles, really smiles and Dean can only lay in worshipping awe of it. “I always come when you call.”
He drops his head into the place where Castiel’s neck and shoulder meet, trying to inch closer, as close as he can get. He’ll crawl up into the angel’s warmth if he can, tuck himself away and be safe at last. He sucks up as much of Cas’ unique smell as he can, scalding his already stinging windpipe on the scent of sea winds and freshly tilled earth.
“Cas, I’m afraid.”
But suddenly it’s okay because Castiel’s mouth is fitted so tightly over his own, hot and sure and screaming of regret and weariness and a hundred other things Dean can’t filter out. He doesn’t bother trying, just fists his shaking hands into the angel’s dark silky hair, drawing him closer down to him in a hard angry clash of teeth and lips and tongue. It’s better then he ever imagined and he’s desperate to soak up as much of Castiel as he can, while he can. There’s redemption in this kiss, and ash and sorrow and something so glorious Dean swears this must be what Grace tastes like. It’s not ever going to be enough and the bottom line is, he should have been doing this all along. There should be the memory of a thousand kisses to take with him, not this single panicked one. There should be a thousand passion-induced bruises to mark them as the property of the other, not the gaping bleeding holes in Dean’s body that pull them further apart.
“Then,” Castiel pulls back, but only far enough to press his forehead against the hunter’s and whisper against his mouth. “I’ll go with you.”
“Really?” Dean is overwhelmed by this simple gesture of love; one last lie to try to soothe a fear that can’t be touched, one last promise to break before the curtain finally falls on this beautiful twisted charade of theirs. Dean has never received such a precious gift and he looks up at Castiel with eyes glazed with something else besides pain. It could be relief. It could be rapture. “You’ll follow me?” He needs to hear it, true or not. He needs to hear that the angel won’t leave him like everyone else has done - not like his mother and father, not like Bobby, not like poor Sammy.
“Yes.”
It’s amazing how just one gruff syllable can flood Dean with so much relief. And if he tries really really hard, for a moment he can believe it. He can believe that he won’t be alone in the forever long dark, that this shining angel will be there to hold him and wrap him with gilded wings when it finally closes in.
“Cas.”
“Beloved.”
“I don’t hate you. Not really.”
Dean is dying.
But he’s pretty sure he could be worse.