Fic: Accidentally Like a Martyr
Title: Accidentally Like a Martyr
Words: 8,862
Genre: Episode tag (The End), angst, romance.
Rating: PG 13 (at least)
Characters: futureDean, futureCas, futureChuck, LuciferSam
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Spoilers: Up to The End in season 5
Warnings: Character death. (As predetermined by the episode.)
Summary: Where Cas fails at being human, fails at philosophy, and just generally misinterprets his own bullshit.
A/N: I promised myself I would never write a tag to this episode because it depresses the heck outta me...and then I heard a succession of four songs by Warren Zevon and knew I was in trouble. Ah, well.
Two of the songs are referenced directly (by the title and in the story.) They are Accidentally Like a Martyr, and My Shit's Fucked Up. (I know, right?) The other two are more like shout-outs: The Indifference of Heaven and Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead.
And so, the official disclaimer, which I haven't been including in my stories but feel I ought to: I don't own anything. I don't own the songs, or the characters and I barely own any of the plot since this is an episode tag. Hope you enjoy it anyway.
He wakes up alone and knows today is the day it ends.
He knows because he cannot feel the racing of time anymore. But behind him he feels a linear progression of events trying to push him forward. A stubborn collection of memories in single file. Clamoring. They slip in under the door of haze and apathy, fucking up his plans for forever, putting meaning into his deliberate meaninglessness.
Castiel rolls over and reaches for the pill bottle beneath his pillow.
***
There were shudders in the atmosphere so loud Castiel clapped his hands over his ears. It was a testament to how human he'd become already that he associated the discomfort with his vessel first. But the "sound" wasn't in the room or in the city or trembling in the crust of the earth. It was his brothers. It was the gust of their relief as they gave up the endless fight, denounced earth as a lost cause, and prepared to go home.
Detroit, they sighed.
Their retreat was like the drawing back of a warm blanket that left Castiel exposed to the world. He was standing in the pharmacy section of a convenient mart with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in his hand. The chill traveled through him and he knew he was alone. The lights didn't even flicker.
A hand coming down on his shoulder kept him grounded.
Dean Winchester's hand was heavy.
"That was it," Dean asked softly, "wasn't it?" Cas nodded.
"Detroit," he said.
Dean's heavy hand lifted, and the skies were open.
"I guess this is your last chance to jump ship," said Dean. When Castiel turned Dean had taken a step back, put three white tiles and a toothbrush display between them. "I wouldn't blame you," he added. It was a lie, but he was giving Castiel the chance.
"Shut up, Dean." The choice was meaningless. Castiel was tied to Dean, and he would always choose Dean even if it meant watching the whole world end and falling from grace and dying in the mud like a human. He probably wouldn't even regret it at the end. But the pain of being abandoned and the sudden silence of the battlefield made him raw on the inside. "I wish to be alone."
He left Dean to deal with Sam's mistake and his grief and went to find some introspection. His grace began to bleed out through the empty space left by Heaven's sudden absence.
There weren't many churches in outer Philadelphia, so Castiel sat on the steps of a museum. Ants crawled in and out of the cracks in the concrete. Men and women walked in and out of the building. A maple tree was planted beside a statue of a white lion and had grown strong even in the city ground. The sun glared off the rows of cars that were wedged closely together, metal and glass. They ruined the illusion of the stone-carved vines and Greek columns. They betrayed the building to its purpose, a tomb for the hubris of dead societies. Castiel put his hand against the warm rock and felt the imperfections of his new home. And for the first time in his long existence, Castiel wanted forgetfulness.
Cas wanted to believe that God would end the world with love. That, beautiful and gentle, God would lay creation to rest with a mother's arms and all the dead would sleep.
But God was missing, or dead, or had decided that humanity was a failed experiment in free will. And without him the end would be ugly. The continents would waste away under a mire of hypocrisy and bureaucracy and those meaningless pretences that Dean referred to as "bullshit".
Castiel closed his eyes to pray. He got as far as time enough to forget or time too little to remember and then let it go. His last rope to immortality swung out into the universe without him. He took a deep breath began a list of beautiful things that he'd known that were dying. Human kindness. Human song. Family. He sank into the illusion of linear time and the confusion that came with it. He tried to root his mind in something as intangible as human philosophy.
What he asked himself do humans do to find peace?
Twilight fell. A streetlamp was glowing soft iridescence into his face when he opened his eyes and Dean Winchester was standing under it. His arms were crossed in front of him. From Castiel's viewpoint it looked those arms were the only thing holding Dean up. Like without them he would just topple forward and suffocate with his face in the asphalt. There was some kind of strength, at least, in human arms.
The museum was closing. The ants had crawled into their warm tunnels. The people were climbing into their warm cars. Dean walked over and sat close beside him. They touched at the elbow and at the thigh. Dean dug into his pocket and pulled out a napkin, holding it out for Cas to take.
"I don't have any tissues," he explained. It was a poor explanation because Castiel still didn't know what he was meant to do with it. He looked down at Dean's hand and then up to Dean's face. His eyes were red and his lips were chapped. Dean barked out a harsh noise, a laugh with no smile, and shook his head.
"Right," he muttered and leaned forward to tip up Castiel's chin. "Sorry man," he said. "You looked..." a sigh, "I forgot you still don't know how to be human." The napkin was wiped gently under Castiel's eyes and across his cheeks. Castiel realized with surprise that there were tears on his face and Dean was wiping them away.
"Thank you, Dean." Dean handed him another napkin.
"Whatever. But you're going to have to figure out how to blow your nose on your own." Castiel took the napkin, consider the mechanics of the task, and did as Dean suggested. He put it in his pocket when he was done. He felt better, emptier, but less like he had a hole in him.
"C'mon," Dean stood up, "let's get the hell outta Dodge."
Cas didn't have the energy to point out that they were in Philadelphia. He followed Dean to the Impala, shuffling under the weight of the empty sky. His knees felt strangely weak. His shoes, he noticed, were over-warm and clumsy on his feet. He didn't like them. His tie was constricting and he pulled on it until he could breathe again. His face was itchy; he scratched it. Dean watched out of the corner of his eye.
The radio was tuned to a classic rock station.
Classic rock was, as Dean had explained it, the only real music in the world and it was performed mostly by people who were dying or already dead. When Dean started the car the music in the speakers was soft and melancholy. The lyrics were sung carelessly by the gruff voice of a man who sounded tired and upset. Who sang about how his shit was fucked up.
Those were the exact words. Castiel and Dean both sat motionless, not yet buckled in, staring at the radio. Castiel was still trying to identify the sensation rising quickly in his chest when Dean bent over and began laughing so loud it made Cas jump. Dean was shaking, bending at the waist until his forehead bumped against the steering wheel. Cas watched and realized there was another sound he didn't recognize, deeper, underneath Dean's voice.
It was his. It was his laugh. He'd never heard it before. It poured out of his stomach and bubbled out of his chest and made him clutch around for something to hold himself up with. He found Dean's shoulder and held on like Dean was a rock and he was a mountain climber riding out a bizarre earthquake.
Humor had always been beyond Castiel. But the song had snapped something in his chest and his throat. It was the surprise, he thought; the joy was in the coincidence. Sam Winchester had said: "Yes," and Heaven was gone and God was missing and Lucifer was free to end the world however he pleased and someone was playing this song on the radio. This song, and not another one.
Dean whacked off the radio and tipped sideways into what was nearly Cas' lap. There were tears in his eyes, he was gasping for breath, trying and failing to form a sentence. Dean held on to Castiel and Castiel held on to Dean and they laughed together until it hurt and their breath was gone. The silence fell naturally after a few moments.
"I think we just heard our theme song, man," Dean gasped. He was slumped over, his forehead on Castiel's shoulder, his breath on Castiel's neck. He was warm. Cas was gripping Dean's t-shirt and wondering when the world would stop spinning quite so fast. And because Dean was right up against him, because there was nothing but some cotton and muscles between them, Castiel felt the final split in Dean's soul when it happened.
"What is a theme song?" he asked.
Dean grinned against his shoulder and thumped him on the chest. It resonated through Cas' ribs. Dean was broken and grinning and Cas didn't feel like he was doing any better, but he grinned back. His emotions had a hold of him. It was part of being human, losing his mind to the feeling of things, to things that made no sense. Like laughing at the end of the world.
"A song that describes your life, like, perfectly," said Dean.
"Our shit is certainly fucked up," Cas agreed.
Dean laughed again. Cas didn't, he felt sobered. He just held on, feeling warm on his left and cold on his right. He closed his eyes against the chuckling sound of a beautiful thing falling apart.
***
His panic fades with the wash of the amphetamines and his fingertips go numb.
Today his world ends.
But the world's been ending everyday for five years, so he could really give less of a shit. He throws his arm across his eyes to cut out the glare of morning sun while he takes a moment to giggle and curl his toes in the sheets. He stretches his back, and it's wonderful. The hot blanket slides away with his movement, and its absence is a relief. The fabric makes a wsssshhhch noise as it slips to the floor.
Wsssshhhch; away go the whispers of the dead people he knew. Cas flicks the fingers of his left hand to wave as they go. As they trickle back to sleep.
As they slumber again under the empty sky.
It's too early to get out of bed.
***
Lucifer started in Fort Rock, Oregon. With fire. It took two weeks and then the whole state was ablaze. It burned until the rains came and flooded everything. Then, stumbling out of the wreckage and across the state border came the wordless people. Out of the mud and the burned stakes of trees came screaming men and crying women and bleeding children. They were like rabid animals. The National Guard responded and made efforts to keep them contained. The EMT's and the doctors were flown into quarantined areas to treat for trauma. They took blood samples and made guesses that were wrong. Some of the doctors were bitten before they went home.
The news cameras showed a strange pattern of vandalism spreading out from Oregon, through towns along the main highways. Croatoan. Painted onto brick walls and traffic signs, across parking lots and sidewalks. Carved into benches and doors.
Dean was sitting on the edge of the motel bed watching the tv reports. He shook his head, pulled his pistols out of his duffel bag and started to clean them. Castiel sat with his back against the headboard just watching Dean's shoulders.
"You wanna know what's stupid?" Dean asked him after a while. They were in Panton, Vermont and it was July. It was also snowing outside. The weather was fucked everywhere. Castiel didn't answer because he had learned that Dean's questions did not always require answers. Dean's hands were still moving over his gun but his eyes were on the news. Cas could tell by the tip of his head and the tension in his neck. Nothing stressed out Dean in those days like the news.
"If people would just see the shit that's right in front of them, we might have a fighting chance." He gestured at the dancing colors of the screen. "I mean, look at that. Planes. Helicopters. Tanks." The first time Castiel had looked at a tv all he'd seen was a mess of colors and lines. He could see the pattern now though, the picture behind the redundancy. "We could use that shit! Can you imagine how much easier it would be to kill a vampire with a tank?" Dean's fingers slipped on the barrel of his Beretta and it clatter to the floor. "Shit," he muttered. Scooped it back up. "But instead they're gonna lie to themselves, and everyone dies."
The gun clicked as Dean put it back together.
"The CDC has announced that there is no reason to believe this could become a pandemic. They report that incidents of the disease are isolated and it is likely an unusual strain of the West Nile Virus, which can cause swelling in the brain and severe disorientation. The origins of the outbreak have not been determined, but it was likely brought over-" Cas wanted to turn off the sound on the tv. He would have, if he thought Dean would let him get away with it. He could see Dean listening too carefully, thinking too hard.
"West Nile," Dean grumbled to himself. "I guess it's easier to believe in than zombies."
"Perhaps we should get a pizza," Cas suggested. Dean turned with a rag in one hand and the gun in the other. The pile of bullets next to this thigh rolled down to his hip with the shift in the bed. He frowned.
"You hungry?" he asked. It was a layered question. Cas was beginning to sleep. Some times he would drop off while Dean drove, or while he was sitting in chairs. His wings were gone too. Not severed, but they wilted and faded as his grace grew weak. Castiel considered the question carefully before he answered.
"Perhaps," he said. 'I would not know the sensation, but I will need to become accustomed to eating regularly before long." It was almost a lie. He was not hungry, but he was empty. However, Dean was more likely to pay attention to his own needs if he was also looking out for the needs of someone else.
Heaven had been wrong to call Dean a weapon. The Books were wrong to call Dean a warrior. Dean was a caregiver by nature. Castiel thought it was obvious.
Dean dropped the contents of his lap onto the bed and strolled over to the cheap wooden table in the corner. There was a brochure of take-out restaurants that delivered tucked under the lamp. He handed it to Cas and stood waiting.
Castiel picked the pizza that he knew was Dean's favorite because Dean would never choose to do something for himself on his own. The glance Dean gave him said he knew exactly what Cas was doing. He called the pizza place and started pulling dollars out of his wallet and onto the table. Against the dark glass of the window he looked almost normal in that casual act.
The apocalypse would soon put an end to pizzas.
"In Michigan, a flock of seagulls mobbed a group of picnickers yesterday. Four were hospitalized. This is the third case of hostile bird behavior in the North East. Marine biologists have begun a study of the birds' food supply to see if they can determine the cause of this sudden aggressiveness," said the woman with the perfect hair on the television.
***
When he can't stay still any longer he gets up and makes coffee in a soup pot over a little propane stove. While he waits for the water to boil he watches the fire. It flickers, bright and warm, and roars like the ocean at a distance. This day is the same as all the others.
The beads of his doorway rattle and Castiel smiles at the woman who patters in. She's early. He offers her comfort with the expression of his face because she is nervous, new to the camp, and she needs to find a connection somewhere but her old morals are still pulling at her thoughts. She is beautiful, probably. Or so he is going to assume; it's easier that way.
He offers her a warm cup. She declines and says she doesn't like coffee.
He makes her tea with honey instead.
***
It took five failed attempts for the Colt, a two a.m. phone call from a panicked Chuck, and Castiel getting a letter opener to the throat before Dean finally agreed to drive to Kansas to find Missouri.
"She is a powerful psychic, Dean," Cas gurgled around his wooden tongue and the blood in his mouth. "She has been connected to your destiny since your father went to her for help. She can help us find the Colt." The blade was wedged between his trachea and his windpipe and it hurt. But Dean's eyes were wide and frightened and Cas had try to take that away. Dean was not mollified by his attempt.
"Can it!" he snapped. He had a towel in one hand, wrapped around the base of Castiel's throat, and the handle of the letter opener in the other. There was blood smeared on his face. "Stop talking until I get this out, at least." He moved his hand to the back of Cas' neck to steady him.
"If I pull this out, will you heal?" Dean asked.
"Yes," Cas choked.
Dean yanked the intrusion out in one fluid motion and tossed it away. He clamped the towel down quickly on the warm flow that followed. He knelt there, keeping the pressure constant until the wound healed over. It took twenty minutes.
"I don't like how long this is taking," he said darkly.
Castiel didn't respond. He didn't like it either.
He coughed up red spit for hours afterwards and his throat was sore when he spoke.
"Tea with honey," announced Missouri when Dean and Cas showed up at her door. She was in all ways unsurprised to see them and pulled them into her kitchen before the neighbors could notice her visitors were covered in dry blood. She took one look at the bandages around Castiel's throat, clucked with her tongue and bossed him into a chair.
Chuck was already in her living room, idly making a house of cards with the Tarot deck. He waved vaguely when they entered the house, keeping his eyes down. He was wearing a denim jacket and torn jeans. There was a trail of mud from the door to where he sat. There was a half-empty bottle of whisky on the table. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. He probably hadn't.
Dean went to talk to Chuck.
Cas stayed in the kitchen while Missouri bustled about with things like cups and spoons and tea leaves. He studied the calendar on the wall beside the window. It was inaccurate, over a year old, but the pictures were beautiful. He flipped through them, learning the Latin names for ferns and herbs from the tiny letters beneath the photos.
Missouri brought him a steaming cup and set it in front of him. Then she sat down on the other side of the table, the place where it was hardest to look away from her. Her seeing eyes picked him apart and the sunlight from outside fell in her hair. She was going gray at the roots. There were crickets beginning to sing. Dean was arguing low and urgently with Chuck in the living room.
It had been a long while since Casteil could see the whole of time like a roadmap before him, with the future just another part of the north and the past a growing territory in the south, but he had learned that some things were inevitable. Even humans couldn't fail to notice them.
If Missouri came with them she would die.
"I change my mind, Dean," Chuck was saying. He had noticed too. Dean's hands were still where they were folded between his knees. He was crouched in front of Chuck.
Castiel took a sip of his tea. It was bitter. Missouri took it from him and stirred in more honey. It was perfect when she handed it back. Cas met her eyes by accident and said "I'm sorry," before he could stop himself. He tried to think of something more comforting to say but all he could think was that he would be very sad when she was lost.
"Suck it up, honey," she said, not unkindly. "We're all dying now."
"Well fuck that too!" Chuck yelled suddenly. He pushed past Dean and stormed out of the house. Dean looked over at Cas and shrugged. Missouri rolled her eyes.
Her things were already packed and she was ready to leave. Dean tossed her bags, gently, into the trunk. Chuck waited sullenly in the back seat. Before Dean could slide behind the wheel Missouri stopped him with a fist to the back of his collar, hauling him back upright.
"Don't you dare let that novelist write my eulogy, boy," she told him. "You do it yourself."
Missouri died in Jackson. There was no time for a funeral.
***
He is speaking and the women are watching him speak and nodding like they understand his words. Words he has crafted specifically to say nothing. A shadow intrudes in the early afternoon, falling across their circle.
Cas sends the women away to wash and stands slowly. If he moves without hurry maybe the day will follow his example. There is no reason to rush into oblivion, he wants it to come gradually, he wants to slip peacefully into the dark. He looks over his shoulder.
Dean Winchester is standing framed in light. Unbroken. Dean: as he was before. It puts the taste of old ash in Cas' mouth. Dean's green eyes are confused and hurt. They dismantle Castiel like a child dismantles a house of cards.
There is a hiccup in the gears of his body and time starts speeding up again.
He speaks words and struggles to find the neutral ones.
Part Two