Episode 17: Dreamcatcher (Part 2)

[redemptionmod]

Previous Part

((()))

0. Dean



He can feel it, very softly, the touches feather-light against the trembling surface of his heart. It seems that he's always been like this, trapped under the suffocating weight of air, Alastair's eyes watching him intently. He knows that he's not supposed to be here. He knows that the children weren't always there. He knows that there's someone out there, that something's changed, that something must change…

But what?

Dean moans and turns his head, fighting to get another breath of air into his lungs. It feels like he's breathing cement, like his lungs aren't working properly, or maybe his lungs have been ripped out of his body just like his heart. "Dad," he forces out with his next breath of air, and it takes much more effort than it should. "Please…"

It doesn't matter what he says or how he pleads. He can see Alastair's eyes hovering just above him, dark and black and unrelenting. Dean tries to close his eyes, but a clench of fingers around his heart warns him against it. This is where he belongs, it says. This is what he deserves.

Blue, he thinks faintly. Once there was blue…

Pain jolts through him, and Dean chokes out a half-scream, half-cry, his lungs unable to produce more than that. Alastair doesn't need to say it. Dean knows his duty; after all, hasn't he spent an eternity being trained in what's right? Disobedient son, failure of a brother, worthless scum, filthy little slut-

Alastair's touch on his shoulder is both blessing and curse. Dean presses his cheek up against Alastair's arm, desperately seeking something solid to ground him. Alastair's nails dig into his shoulder, but Dean doesn't feel it as his heart seizes with pain. He arches his back and presses harder against Alastair, unable to summon up the strength to even beg.

"Yours," he sobs. "Please, please, please-"

It won't do any good.

((()))

2. Castiel



Sam is asleep when Castiel wakes up. Sam's position on the floor looks anything but comfortable, and Castiel studies the lines around his friend's eyes for a moment. They shouldn't have to deal with this. He wonders briefly what Sam's dreams are like now, but he pushes the thought away. One Hell dream at a time. It's not as if his memory is particularly pristine, either, and for a moment he feels the shadow of Zachariah's wings over him. Castiel looks around despite himself, and he takes a deep breath once he realizes what he's done. Careful. You're not in the dream yet, and already you're going crazy…

He takes the pen and tablet from the bedside table to leave a note for Sam. He stares blankly at the paper for a moment, trying to figure what to say: gone into Dean's head, be right back. Or he could write, don't worry, we'll be fine. Or if he was going to be truthful, then, have entered Dean's memory. Chances of success limited. Be prepared for the worst. Say goodbye to Claire for me.

Depressing much, dude? Dean's voice says playfully in his head. Castiel grits his teeth and shakes his head hard. He stares down at where his pen has made a depression into the paper and finally writes two words: trying again. Sam will understand the rest. He sets down the pen and stands up before slowly moving over to the bed where Dean lies. Dreaming.

Not a day goes by that Castiel doesn't wish to remember his own nightmares. He knows that if he could remember them, understand them, then maybe so much of what has been happening to them since the souls would be revealed. Dreams. They have always been important to their lives. Even when buried down beneath the monster souls, Castiel first reached out to Dean through a dream. Dreams have meaning, Castiel once told Dean; they reveal things that are often hidden from the conscious mind. More than anything, dreams are worlds unto themselves. Worlds within worlds. Pathways.

It is taking Castiel much more effort than it really should to step forward again into the dreamworld, and for a moment he stays stubbornly corporeal, unable to dreamwalk. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. He can do this. He must do this. Dean's mind is intimately familiar to his own, and Castiel reaches out for him, seeking out the silent mind, following the traces of their connection that have brought them back to each other time and time again.

Let me in. Please. He closes his eyes and steps forward, fully prepared to bump into the bed.

There's a moment of brief disorientation as he settles onto a smooth, hard surface as opposed to carpet. Castiel opens his eyes and breathes in the suddenly cold air, his wings fanning out behind him as he does so. They're visible again, he notices, and it seems that there's nothing he can do to change that particular fact. He tucks them as close to his body as he can and takes a look around.

He stands in a large, circular room. There's an ornate four-poster bed taking up much of one side, but it looks more like a prison than any real comfort. Heavy curtains fall over all four sides, concealing whoever or whatever lies within. Castiel has no control over weapons here in the dream, and he feels incredibly vulnerable knowing that at any moment, Alastair could spring out baying for his blood. He edges around, stretching out all his senses to examine the bed.

There's a clink under his foot. Castiel tenses and looks down quickly, on the alert for some sort of trap. Something metallic glints from under his boot, and he frowns slightly at seeing the angel blade there. It's a dream version of his blade that's just as solid as the real one. And like the real one, it's made for him - here, in the depths of Dean's mind, despite whatever demons Dean has conjured up from his memory.

The thought both chills and reassures Castiel as he leans down and picks up the sword. It's a familiar weight in his hand; comforting, almost like coming home. It's a message from Dean: help me.

"Dean?" Castiel breathes quietly into the darkness. There's no answer, but then again, he never really expected there to be any. He adjusts his grip on the sword and comes close to the four-poster bed. For a moment, he debates exploring the rest of the dream first, but he arrived here for a reason. There's something hidden here.

Well, no sense in waiting, he thinks grimly, and he throws the curtain aside in one swift motion.

There's just barely enough light reflected off the ice outside that Castiel can see a figure lying on the bed. His heart leaps at the sight, and he has to force himself to take his eyes off the figure long enough to scan for other intruders. Once he's ascertained that the rest of the room is empty, his gaze returns to the figure as if drawn there by a magnetic force. He doesn't need to see the features to know that it's Dean; he knows those shadows better than his own. "Dean?" he says again, hearing the hoarseness of his own voice.

Dean doesn't respond. As Castiel edges closer, he's not sure if Dean is even breathing or not, and the preternatural stillness shakes him down to the bone. Logically, he knows that Dean can't be dead, because this dream would not exist if he were dead. At the same time, Castiel curses himself for resting earlier when Dean might have been dropping even deeper into whatever hell this is to a point where Castiel can't pull him out. "Dean," he says again, trying hard to keep himself calm and measured, to draw upon the limitless wellspring of angelic calm that he once had.

Dean's skin radiates cold. Castiel eases himself onto the bed next to him and places his free hand lightly around Dean's cheek, his heart pounding hard in his chest. Don't be dead, he pleads softly, knowing that Dean can't be dead, but at the same time, if only he hadn't stopped, if only he'd returned straight into the dream - he shoves those thoughts away. Dean's skin is smooth under his hand and feels almost unreal, more like ice than flesh. Castiel passes his hand over Dean's nose and mouth, searching for any sign of life. His fingers are too numb to feel anything, and he tells himself that that's the only reason why he feels nothing.

He places the sword on the bed, forcing his fingers to unclench from the hilt. He wraps both his arms around Dean and pulls him close, pulling the coverlet up around them both. Cold doesn't even begin to describe it. Is Dean even breathing? Castiel closes his eyes and rests his chin against Dean's hair, ignoring the chill that seeps into him. His wings fan out around them in a protective cocoon, and for a moment, he can pretend that they're not trapped in this nightmare.

A soft moan breaks the silence. Castiel tightens his arms around Dean, feeling adrenaline kick into his system at the sound. Dean is stirring, his eyelids fluttering ever so slightly. And maybe it's just wishful thinking on Castiel's part, but he doesn't look quite so wan anymore. Castiel reaches a hand out to touch him and pulls back, studying Dean intently. Is he imagining the faint color in Dean's cheeks?

"Hello," Castiel says softly.

Dean opens his eyes, and Castiel almost chokes with relief as he sees them. They're green, warmly human amid the stark ice, and Castiel has to stop and take a deep breath as a flood of - something - fills him, strong and overwhelming and painful. He knew love as an angel; the sort of distant, observing love that meant nothing at all. He has known love with Dean; human love that somehow manages to cut and soothe all at the same time. This feels like the latter, but at the same time he wants to wrap Dean up and keep him safe and - is this the way it's supposed to be? he wonders, still dazed at the sheer intensity of it.

Dean's eyes focus on him, and Castiel pulls in a shaky breath, trying to get himself under control. He can't stop the small smile pushing at the corners of his mouth, though, and he doesn't particularly want to. There are a hundred thousand important questions he wants to ask, but the most useless, instinctual one shoves its way past his lips. "Are you all right?" he asks, and then kicks himself for it. Of course Dean's not all right. There's nothing all right about this nightmare, except for the fact that now Castiel is here, and he can do his damnedest to make it right.

Dean doesn't respond, and for a moment Castiel wonders if the dream has somehow conjured a mannequin of some sort, which really wouldn't be that strange. He's already seen Alastair, and a double would hardly be the strangest thing he's ever met in a dream. He watches as Dean's eyes open and close languorously, watches his chest move up and down. He's concentrating hard enough on Dean's breathing that he jumps a little when he hears Dean's voice, weak and raspy: "I know you."

Castiel's heart leaps in his chest. "Yes," he says. "Do you know my name? Do you know who I am?"

Dean shakes his head. "You were here. Before." He shifts a little in Castiel's hold, but he makes no move to sit up on his own. "Where's Dad?"

"Dad?" Castiel repeats slowly, confused. Does Dean mean John Winchester? It seems unlikely that he would refer to Castiel's own Dad, considering that Dean has never been at peace with the idea of Castiel's father. "He died a long time ago, Dean."

"No," Dean murmurs, his eyes darting around the room. "He was here," he says, and his eyes lock onto Castiel's, dark and desperate. "He was - he's supposed to be here," he says, and the fear in his eyes is contagious. "I can't keep them safe."

"Keep who safe?" Castiel says, bewildered. "Are you talking about Sam? He's fine, Dean. He managed to burn the spirit, and he's waiting for you back in the real world."

"Sam?" Dean asks, latching onto the name.

"Your brother," Castiel says carefully. He thinks for a moment, wondering how best to push the memory across. If he's in Dean's mind, and Dean's mind controls this world…he closes his eyes for a moment, trying to form the best image that he can of Sam Winchester. Long, floppy brown hair, a large frame, a concentrated frown as he works on their latest case. Squeezing his hand around Dean's wrist, Castiel focuses on the image as hard as he can, trying to translate it into a material object. He opens his eyes to see Dean looking at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. "Dean?" Castiel says, concerned.

"Dad's going to be so angry," Dean says weakly. "Sam was the first, wasn't he?"

"The first?" Castiel asks.

"Of the children." Dean wraps his arms around himself, and Castiel draws his wings tighter around him, hating to see Dean so vulnerable. He's Dean; he's not supposed to be so - so quiet, so pale. "I don't remember. Dad doesn't like it."

"Who's Dad?" Castiel asks carefully, a suspicion beginning to crawl up his spine. "Are you talking about Alastair, Dean?" When silence answers his query, Castiel finds his hand moving to the angel knife, suspicion creeping in his veins. He looks around, but the drapes obscure most of the view. He moves to pull away the drapes, but as Dean clings onto him, Castiel stops. "Dean?"

Dean shakes his head. "He's not here," he says, his eyes darting around. "He's just-" he shakes his head. "He's always here."

"How long has he been here?" Castiel asks.

Dean doesn't answer for a moment. When he finally speaks, he sounds impossibly young, and Castiel remembers that Dean is young, so very young, when compared to the life of an angel. If, of course, you can deign to call the existence of an angel as life. "Make it stop," Dean says, soft and pleading.

"Make what stop?" Castiel asks, his heart accelerating as adrenaline fills his veins. He looks at Dean, really looks, pouring every bit of angelic strength he has left into touching Dean's soul. He knows it much better than he knows any other, having retrieved it from the pits of Hell and dragged it kicking and screaming back to the World. Castiel's touches his mark on Dean's shoulder, the physical manifestation of where his grace touched Dean's soul. As Dean looks at him in wordless despair, Castiel promises, "I will." It's rash, promising when he doesn't really know what he's going to have to give, but he's done so much more.

Dean still doesn't say anything. Castiel places the knife back on the bed and presses his hands against Dean's face, resting his forehead against Dean's. He wants badly to kiss him, but this isn't Dean or a mutual dream they're sharing. Dean's incomplete, scared out of his mind, and some part of him is trapped away by the demon nightmare. "Where are you?" Castiel breathes.

There's a fragile hush in the air. Then-"Hell," Dean whispers back. "Help me, Cas."

Castiel jolts backwards, the sound of his name running through him like an electric shock. Dean knows him! That's a good sign if he's ever heard one, a sign that perhaps his Dean is fighting his way out from whatever Alastair has done to him, bringing to life what led Dean to resist thirty years in Hell. "How?" Castiel asks urgently, determined to eke what he can out of the dreamworld before Dean fades into it again. "Tell me and I'll do it." And it's true, he always has.

Dean blinks, and for a horrible moment Castiel fears that he has lost him again. "Alastair," Dean says, and then he folds up against Castiel, shaking. Castiel wraps his arms around Dean, trying hard to warm the chilled skin up. "You're a…aren't you supposed to be good?" Dean asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

Castiel pauses, trying to work out the question. There's just enough of the old Dean in there to hint that he's fighting the hold of the dream, but at the same time, he's not sure what Dean's trying to aim at. "I'm an angel," he says cautiously. "I've tried to do the right thing…" he hesitates and then says, "I've had my doubts."

Dean huffs and presses his face against Castiel's shoulder. "Keep talking," he says. "What happened?"

Castiel pauses, trying to figure out how best to phrase the answer. "You were cursed," he says slowly. "We were hunting a ghost, and the spirit proved to be a vengeful one. Although we managed to burn the bones, it cursed you before it died. This is a nightmare dreamworld, Dean." Castiel tilts his head, wondering if he should mention that the nightmares have always been there. Perhaps not this vivid, but there.

He looks at Dean and decides not to mention it. Dean stares at him for a moment, and Castiel gets the feeling that Dean's not absorbing the words in the least. He brushes a thumb along Dean's face and tries to fight down the growing sense of dismay. "It's a nightmare," he repeats. "It's not real, Dean, none of it is."

Dean takes a deep breath and wets his lips. Castiel waits a moment for him to speak. When he finally does, his voice is barely louder than a whisper, almost as if it's being ripped from him. "I made a deal," Dean says slowly, haltingly. "That's why I'm here."

"The deal was a grossly unfair one," Cas says gently. "It was part of a scheme to start the-"

"No," Dean interrupts, and there's a sudden hard strength in his voice. "I did it because it's what I'm supposed to do. It's my job."

Castiel closes his eyes. "You sold your soul to save Sam because you love him," he says softly. "You did it out of selflessness, and the combined forces of Heaven and Hell sought to make you suffer because they saw you as a pawn. It wasn't your fault. None of it was."

"Yes it was," Dean says fiercely. His fingers clamp around Castiel's, cold and unyielding. "That's what he wanted me to do. That's what Dad always wanted."

"Alastair's a demon and a liar-"

"No!" Dean snaps, and there's a sudden anger in his voice. "He wanted me to do. You're the same, aren't you? You'd do anything for him."

Castiel winces a little at the unspoken reprimand, but he forces himself to push his own misgivings aside to regard Dean with a new eye. Part of it, he supposes, can be chalked up to the fluid nature of dreams, but Dean's changing with alarming quickness, his prior frozen demeanor shattering to give way to something much more…angry. "I followed my Father," Castiel says cautiously. "For a long time, I merely watched and observed. As an angel, I felt that was my duty to the exclusion of all else." He swallows hard and then says quietly, "He's gone and I am Fallen. One way or another, it doesn't matter anymore."

Dean hunches over, breathing hard. "But you would still be there, wouldn't you? Doing your duty," he spits out, the word turning into something harsh and ugly in his mouth. "That's what I had. That's all I had. And I'm doing it," he says, looking up at Castiel. "What else is there?"

Castiel has asked himself that question more than enough times, and while he thinks that he's found the answer, it's one that he can't easily frame into words. "There's life," he says softly, his mind racing. How exactly does one go about answering a question like that?

"It's pain in one hand and joy in the other, and each is made sharper by the other," he continues. "Your life hasn't been the easiest, Dean, you and your brother have undergone ordeals no one should have to go through." Castiel strokes his thumb across the back of Dean's hand. "But you've saved so many lives, Dean, and brought meaning to many others. It's been worthwhile; you've accomplished things."

Dean stares at him. "This isn't right," he breathes, and Castiel wants to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. "It's not supposed to happen this way."

"Happen what way?" Castiel asks carefully, feeling a tingle run up his spine. "You've done the right thing."

"Have I?" Dean chokes out. "Dad's never been happy with me. He wanted to keep me quiet. Isn't that what they want to do?"

Castiel considers the question a little ruefully. He's not had much experience with fathers, admittedly, considering that his own Father was…well. "Bobby Singer never wanted anything less than the best for you," he says.

Dean looks up at him, confusion showing through those painfully human eyes. Castiel shakes his head. "You'll remember once you wake up."

"There is no waking up," Dean whispers. "He'll always find me."

"No, he won't," Castiel says firmly, and the flare of possessiveness is a little surprising, but it feels more right than anything else has ever since he set foot into this icy world. He curls an arm around Dean, draping his wings around him both. "We'll find you."

Dean looks at him with a small frown. "What?"

It takes a moment for Castiel to work out what he's just said. When the meaning finally dawns, he pushes away from Dean a little bit, scrutinizing him carefully. Of course, he thinks. He'd noticed it earlier, but studying Dean with a new eye puts it into a special prominence. Dean's hollow in a way that piques what angelic senses Castiel has left, and it's slowly becoming easier to define as more time goes by. "You're missing," Castiel says slowly, trying to work it out. "Or part of you is."

Dean looks at him, his eyes wide. "Don't say it," he advises, his voice a bare whisper. "It's his now."

"Who?" Castiel asks, perhaps more sharply than warranted. "Alastair doesn't own you."

"I've always been owned," Dean says through clenched teeth, and there's a sudden bitterness in his voice. "I'm - I'm a good son, a, a weapon-"

"You belong to yourself-" Castiel tries.

"What would you know about it?" Dean snaps, almost snarls. "You've always followed your Father. You wanted to be just like him, didn't you? That's why you let the souls out." Dean's not looking at Castiel anymore but off into some middle distance, and Castiel's heart jumps as he realizes that Dean's eyes are icing over, the flush from his cheeks fading. He tightens his hold on Dean, trying to will back the tide, as Dean storms on. "What makes you any better than me?"

"I'm not!" Castiel protests, frustrated. "I didn't-" He inhales sharply. "I would still be an obedient soldier if I hadn't been the one who pulled you out." He closes his eyes. "But I've changed, Dean. I'm not my Father's hammer anymore, Dean, and that's because of you."

Dean goes rigid in Castiel's arms. "I'm not-" he begins weakly. "I'm not John's hammer," he says as if trying the words out, and his voice is shaking. "I'm not his weapon - I'm not-"

Castiel opens his eyes and moves his hands up to Dean's shoulders and squeezes hard, forcing Dean to face him. "You sacrificed yourself to save Sam because you love him," he says, soft but relentless. "Not out of duty. Duty is what I performed when I saved you initially from the Pit, but it's become much, much more since then. Don't you dare cheapen it by turning it into an obligation."

"Alastair made me," Dean says, his eyes darting back and forth and refusing to meet Castiel's expression.

"Alastair does not own you," Castiel says tightly. "If you belong to me, to Sam, to Bobby, to any of us, it's because you own a part of us in return." He watches Dean's face carefully, willing the ice to melt. "Even if he were your father, which he isn't, Alastair has no right to what you're not willing to give. He certainly has no say in what you will be. Walk away from him if you want to. Walk away and come back to us." Come back to me, he pleads silently, hoping that the dreamscape can capture it.

Dean's mouth is hanging slightly open. He doesn't say anything, but Castiel waits, meeting Dean's eyes with a steady, relentless gaze. Finally, Dean says in a cracked voice, "I can't."

Frustration, sharp and painful, slices through Castiel, and for a moment loathing overwhelms him: at the demons, for keeping Dean, at the angels, for letting him stay there, at himself, for failing. He clenches his teeth together to keep the rage in, but he can't stop the angry "why not?" from slipping past.

"Because he has my heart," Dean says quietly.

Castiel feels his own heart stop for a moment as he processes the statement. It's a metaphor, he thinks dismally, one of those human things that's code for something that - well, that Castiel has always thought of as a private, endearing declaration. "It's not real," Castiel says softly, trying to think of how to counter this new turn.

Dean shakes his head. "It's locked away," he says, quietly enough that Castiel has to strain to hear him. "It hurts. When he touches it."

It takes Castiel a moment to understand the words, but at the same time, they don't seem to make any sense. "What?" he says blankly. "He touches it?"

Dean nods, a tiny, hesitant movement.

His heart. Alastair touches his heart, which…while it could be another metaphor, the context doesn't seem to quite fit. Think, Cas, he berates himself, trying to fit the pieces together. Dean is fragmented, lost within this dreamworld. Alastair owns him, you said so yourself. Alastair owns his heart…

The last piece clicks into place. Impulsively, Castiel brings up his free hand to brush across Dean's cheek. It's still cold to the touch, but he imagines that he can see the barest hints of color coming back into Dean's face. "Where does Alastair keep your heart?" he asks.

Dean's eyes flash up to meet his briefly. "It's locked."

"We can unlock whatever it's hidden in," Castiel promises. It's a bit rash to promise this blindly, but when it comes to Dean, there don't seem to be many lines he can't cross. "Where is it?"

There's a moment of frozen silence around them as the dreamworld seems to hold its breath. Castiel focuses on Dean's face, his eyes, the painful absence of the familiar lines that make Dean alive, hoping against hope that what he's said is enough-

-they're in the room where he first fought Alastair. They've always been in that room.

Castiel stands up slowly, pulling Dean up with him. Dean is tense against his side, and Castiel squeezes his arm as reassuringly as he can. "It's all right," he says softly even as his eyes flick around the room. It's the same as it was before, eerily empty except for the tapestries on the walls. Their designs are hidden from view by the frost. "Where is it?"

"Where is what?" Alastair's voice says from behind him, and Castiel knows that whatever reprieve the bedroom offered him and Dean is over.

Sword, he thinks distantly.

He knows it will come to him, and it does: the blade jumps into his hand, warm and familiar. Pushing Dean behind him with his free hand, Castiel tightens his fingers around the hilt and turns around.

"Alastair," he says softly, but he pushes his words towards Dean, urging him to understand. "He's only a part of your mind, Dean."

He's said the words before, but this time, he thinks, Dean will be willing to listen.

((()))

3. Dean

The air claws at his throat, and for a moment it's all he can do to stay upright. He can't see his father's expression clearly from here, but he knows that Alastair is anything but pleased. The thought slices through him with painful clarity, and Dean has to fight the sudden urge to slam himself into the man in front of him, throw him off guard. He clenches his fists, trying to hold onto the tenuous memories of Cas, of long car rides, of Sam's floppy hair and puppy dog eyes, of being together, of loving and living.

He flinches at the sudden clash of steel on steel, the sound threatening to force the memories from his mind. Focus, he whispers to himself, trying hard to hold on. Alastair does not own you, Cas had said, but these words are a flimsy reassurance when he can see his father now, his maker, the man's face twisted into a vicious leer as he rakes his sword across Castiel's wings. For a horrible moment Alastair stares directly at him, his face promising vengeance. Dean closes his eyes at the sudden feeling of drowning that threatens to swamp him, trying to block the image out. He backs up a few hesitant steps before his limbs simply give out on him, dropping him to the floor.

"You're in control here," he can hear Castiel say, his words punctuated by gasps as he grapples with Alastair. "This is your dream, and you need to - to-" Castiel breaks off with a cry, hoarse and pained.

Dean curls in tighter, struggling to keep himself together. This isn't the first time Cas has been in pain, he knows. He's died before, more often than not for Dean himself, and he'd do more than that, he's sure. We can unlock it, he had rashly promised, but Dean knows that the chest opens only to Alastair's touch. And why would he defy Alastair? His father has never been anything less than - well - Dean's never gotten less than what he's deserved-

He opens his eyes as a thud hits the ground just in front of him. Castiel is pinned flat on the ground like some sort of grotesque sacrificial offering, his wings beating helplessly for purchase on the icy surface. Alastair looks directly at Dean, his teeth bared. "What do you think?" he says in a low, guttural voice. "Shall we make him ours?" He smiles, showing teeth. "You know you want him."

Castiel's scream lances through Dean as Alastair drives the knives through his wings, pinning him flat to the ice. Dean flinches and scrabbles back a few panicked steps, freezing as Alastair stands up, looming over him. "Dean," Castiel whispers, and Dean struggles to focus on the angel's familiar guttural voice and not on the primal terror clawing its way up his stomach. "You can stop this," Castiel says, in short, choking gasps. "You're not irredeemable-"

He breaks off into a high, thin cry as Alastair stomps heavily on his wings, wings that Dean knows are strong, beautiful, but also devastatingly easy to destroy. "He sings like a little bird, doesn't he?" Alastair says softly as he casually grinds his foot into the broken, bloody joints. "He flew away last time, but this time the little bird's wings are clipped, and he'll never leave us again. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

No, Dean wants to say. Not like this. The words are locked in his throat, though, and all that comes out of his mouth is a strained whimper. He watches as Castiel shakes his head back and forth, his eyes slowly unfocusing even as they try to hold Dean's gaze. Cas could still leave, Dean thinks, he could escape, free himself, but why won't he, why can't he?

Dean can feel Alastair's shadow on him like a physical presence, smothering and all-encompassing. Alastair's fingers touch his chin and lift it up, a burning hot presence on frozen skin. "And then when I'm done with him," Alastair breathes, "I'll start on you. You've been very bad lately, Dean." The fingers tighten, and Dean wants desperately to pull away, but his joints are locked into place. "But you can be good again for me, can't you?"

Yes. The word rises to Dean's mouth, familiar and easy. Say yes, it's the only thing you're good for. Obey your father, obey the rules, take care of your brother, suffer in Hell, serve in Hell, do what you're told, because you'll never be any better than this. The familiar litany runs through his head, words that Alastair has told him over and over, words that he has held sacred for so long. They must be true, because what else is there? He isn't worthy of anything else. He's worthless.

He stares numbly as blood pools around his hands and feet, shockingly bright and warm against his skin. Castiel's eyes struggle to focus on his, his mouth shaped as if to deliver the words that Dean can't. I won't. I'm not worthless. I'm more than what you made me. Nothing comes out, and Dean realizes with shocking clarity that dream or not, Cas is going to die.

"No," Dean whispers.

Alastair's fingers tighten hard enough to send jolts of pain through Dean's shoulder. "What did you say?"

No. He'd said no.

Dean reaches up a hand to his mouth as if he can recapture the word, feel it, taste it. He'd said no, and he meant it. "No," he whispers again, trying the word on for size. He can taste it, lying heavy on his tongue before breaking free. "This is me. This is mine."

Is it? he thinks, and hears Alastair say the same thing a bare second later. Dean closes his eyes, riding out the initial primal wave of terror at Alastair's voice. It's terrifying, yet it's also strangely liberating to hear. It's a nightmare, Cas had said, and maybe, just maybe, Dean can let himself believe that. "Get out," Dean says through clenched teeth, and the words break free in sharp, triumphant bursts. "You don't get to haunt me. Get out of my head."

Alastair's face twists. "Defiant," he says, his voice laden with scorn.

"No," Dean says sharply. "I said no!"

Alastair's eyes narrow. Between one moment and the next, the chest is in his hands; the chest has always been in his hands, and Dean's eyes leap to it instantly. "Have we been getting ideas, Dean? I'm surprised, but I suppose we'll just have to…" His hand clenches on the lid of the chest. "Burn it out of you."

Dean forces himself not to flinch, locking his muscles in place. He doesn't know if he's simply imagining it, but he can feel his heart seize in the chest, remembers the pain of Alastair's fingers searing the surface, and it takes all he can to cling onto his defiance. As Alastair swings the lid open, Dean closes his eyes, flinching as he can feel the first touch of fingers on his heart, searing, burning, drowning-

-loving.

"It's not yours," Castiel says quietly. "Not anymore."

Dean's eyes snap open at the sound of his voice. Castiel stands before him, hale and whole, wings spread around Dean's shoulders. Dean stares up at him, memory striking him hard and clear: this isn't the first time Castiel has stood between him and Alastair, is it? He remembers those wings: the shadows they made on Earth, the light they were in Hell. He shakes his head, storing away that last memory for later, and focuses on his heart. It looks deceptively small as it lies cradled between Castiel's cupped palms.

How, he wonders numbly. It takes him a moment before he remembers the answer: this is your dream. You are in control.

"You can do this," Castiel whispers.

And now, Dean thinks, he just might be able to believe it.

The hilt of the sword is warm with the memory of Castiel's hand. Dean wraps his hand around it reverently and takes a deep breath. He's not really a sword person, but it seems right for what he's about to do. He stands up slowly and faces Alastair, the last of the fear ebbing away to be replaced by the calm that comes with absolute serenity. Alastair's expression is positively livid as Dean takes a step towards him, but there's fear in those eyes, too. "You think you can survive without me?" Alastair says coldly.

I know I can, Dean says voicelessly into the fabric of the dream, and he brings the sword down.

((()))

4. Castiel

Castiel closes his eyes as Alastair dissolves, the chest crashing to the floor. He's not quite sure what to expect - triumph, perhaps, but all that comes is an overwhelming weariness, and above all, relief. He can't know for sure if this is a permanent victory, but he can speculate and above all, hope. For now, at least, Alastair is gone.

"Hey."

Castiel opens his eyes to see Dean approaching him on unsteady feet. He looks down at the heart - Dean's heart, fragile and beautiful and brilliantly alive, the skin of it pulsating strongly as it beats in his hands. "It's yours," Castiel says softly, dredging the words up through great effort. "You've won."

Dean kneels down before him, and Castiel takes the opportunity to study him. He's alive, Castiel thinks, letting relief bleed into him slowly. Dean's eyes are green, not crystal, his skin no longer deathly white, but the darkened tan of a hunter. He's safe, or as safe as they can be before life inevitably comes for them once more.



Castiel kneels down in front of Dean, and with a a deep inhale he steadies himself, gains control. He pushes his wings back until he feels them folding away, moving from this world. He turns his eyes to Dean and waits. Dean reaches out and Castiel offers the heart to him, but Dean just cups roughened palms around his, holding on tight. "Cas," Dean begins.

Castiel shakes his head slightly. Words aren't enough, not here in the heart of the dreamworld, not with Dean's heart literally cradled in his palms. Dean's eyes meet his in a moment of perfect understanding, and for the first time since this all began, the dread and panic and terror are gone.

Castiel has Dean's heart.

"The spirit really did a number on me, didn't it?" Dean says softly, and his voice is wonderfully human. Castiel fights the urge to sag to the ground as the strength threatens to leave his muscles, and it's only Dean's hands on his that keep him upright. "I guess it was kind of unavoidable."

Castiel shakes his head. "Perhaps," he allows, "but better now than never. We've neither of us been healthy about our problems."

Dean's mouth twitches in a rueful gesture. "I don't do the whole sharing and caring bit very well," he admits. "It's just." He pauses and then sighs. "It's weird."

"That's the nature of dreams," Castiel tells him. There's silence for a moment, and then Castiel says quietly, "Do you think it will last?"

Dean doesn't ask what it Castiel is referring to. Castiel studies his face, looking for uncertainty - after all, he'll admit that Dean's never been very in touch with his feelings, and asking if he's banished Alastair for good is a tricky question to answer for even the sanest man. "I don't know," Dean says at last. "I can hope so." He gives Castiel a small smile.

If it won't, Castiel thinks, I'll be here. I'll always be here. He looks up at Dean as Dean tightens his hands around Castiel's, their hearts skipping a beat in tandem.

"Come on," Dean says, not letting go. "Let's go home."



((()))
Next: DVD Extra: "The Meaning of Pie"