FIC: Pulling Out The Nails, Chapter 14: Brace [15/20]
Back to 13. Dominoes, or go to the Masterpost.
Beside him, Castiel slumped against the passenger-side door. His seventh-plane form looked worse, somehow, than Jimmy's beaten and bruised visage, though that was enough to make Dean flinch on his own. Those great, feathery wings looked badly broken; Anna had been trampling them when Dean chased her off. Chased her off. Christ. She could already be reporting to Azazel. She could be on her way back with reinforcements. They could be leading her right to camp.
But there was no question that they had to go back, and fast. They had to move, all of them. This was too close, nothing like the run-ins they'd had with spirits over the last three years-mostly accidental, and rarely damaging. This had been planned. Azazel was finally getting impatient, and Dean and his Resistance were out of time. It rankled that the magician could have done this at any point over the last three years, that they had been so vulnerable for so long. Dean's tenuous hold on their livelihood was slipping, slipping, slipping...
Castiel coughed. His essence was flaking off; Dean could see wisps of it, curling up toward the ceiling of the Jeep and vanishing. He was bleeding slower now, but still bleeding.
"You okay?" Dean asked.
Castiel shot him a look that was suspiciously venomous. "Use your eyes, Dean. How often have you seen spirits keep it together in this shape?"
"I've never seen this before," he muttered back. "Do you need that essence?"
"I'll heal," Castiel replied, less sharply now. "If I ever get back to the Other Place, I'll be able to restore it. Until then, though, I am increasingly useless to you."
"Nah," Dean said. "You're still my advisor. Don't need much essence for that."
Castiel hacked out a laugh. They drove on in silence.
When they reached the turn off for camp, Dean didn't remark on the column of black smoke rising in the distance. The Jeep rolled over dead leaves, and he tried to keep his hands on the wheel steady, even as blind rage pulled so hard in his chest that he could no longer breathe evenly. Castiel was tense and silent beside him.
He parked a few hundred yards from camp, and didn't bother dragging the cover back over the Jeep. If the choking smoke still rolling out of their nest of cabins was any indication, they would need it again soon.
"Fuck," he muttered, automatic, "we were only gone a few hours!"
The demons that had razed their camp were long gone. Some cabins, Dean's included, were still gently smoldering. There was no sign of any of his friends, his family-Sam's cabin was a pile of ash and smoking beams on the ground, and all was silent except for the bright cackle of flames. The scent of smoke threatened to choke him; he staggered, and Castiel grabbed his elbow to yank him back upright.
"Dean," he said, his voice low and strained. "We have to go. There's no one-"
Dean shook off the spirit's hand and forced himself forward, to the opposite side of camp, to the bunker carefully buried. If their security system had worked-if everyone had gotten inside in time-
He cleared off the hastily-arranged tarp and leaves, hardly daring to hope. "Dean," Castiel said, urgently now. "What are you-"
With a last, heavy grunt, Dean yanked the cellar doors open, dead leaves gently falling through the swinging opening. Belatedly, he realized he hadn't done the special knock, and if anyone was down there-
Sure enough: Sam was right under the entrance, a shotgun pointed upward, but when he caught sight of Dean, he sagged in relief. "We should clean in here more often," he said weakly, slinging his shotgun back to his shoulder. Dean reached out a hand to help him scramble up the ladder, and the rest of the camp followed. They looked largely unharmed, all of them-terrified, maybe, but otherwise untouched.
Sam hugged him, too sudden and briefly for Dean to register, and then turned to help Jess get up the ladder.
"The security system worked," he said. "We had ten minutes to get out of sight. Thank god we set that up. What the hell happened to you?"
"Dean," Jess said in alarm. Maybe she'd seen the look on his face, or maybe she'd just caught sight of his injuries; he could feel blood dripping from beneath the bandage on his forehead again, sliding down his face. "Are you okay?"
"You have to go," Dean croaked out.
Sam's look of relief quickly faded to one of fury. "You can't be serious," he snapped. "We can't run, not now!"
"Only some of you are running." He cast a quick look around at the camp huddled around him, and, making his mind up, started reeling off names. "Pam, Missouri, Ash, Ellen, Jim, Olivia, Lee and Krissy, Bela, Chuck-you're going with Sam and Jess. Head south, and don't stop running until you hit the border. After that, walk quickly. Jody, Garth, Jo, Charlie, Annie, Rufus, Bobby-congratulations. You're going to Washington."
"Fantastic," Jo said happily, shouldering her shotgun. "Charlie, Garth, Jody-my car?"
"No," Sam said, a look of numb horror on his face. "Just come with us, Dean. If we're going to run, let's run together. It's a suicide mission."
Dean shook his head. "I've got a plan. And unfinished business. Me and Cas will lead the others in, and you guys can get the hell out of dodge."
Until that moment, no one had noticed Castiel, hovering unobtrusively by Dean's shoulder and still bleeding essence. Those with the sight let out a few gasps of horror.
"That's your wingman?" Bobby said dryly. "He's going to fade any moment now."
"I have a few days left," Castiel retorted. "Not productive days, but I'll be a good distraction."
"I don't like it," Bobby said doubtfully, and Dean, pushed to the brink of his patience, snapped.
"Do I need to fucking remind you who put me in charge?" he demanded, taking a step forward. The few members of his Resistance ringed closely around him automatically sprang back; Castiel stayed exactly where he was, barely a pace from Dean. "You didn't want it, Bobby, so I stepped in. This is not your decision. It's mine. And I'm not asking. I'm telling. If you don't like it, go with Sam and Jess."
After a beat of shocked silence, Bela spoke. "Well, you don't have to tell me twice. Get in touch with Crowley if you can, Dean. If you're planning a suicide run, he'll have what you need to go out with a bang." She smirked, turned on her heel, and headed for the outskirts of camp.
"Dean," Sam said, pleading now, as the rest of the camp slowly trickled away, murmuring their goodbyes to Dean as they went. "Don't do this."
Dean tried to smile. It came out as more of a flinch; his face felt too messed up to do anything else. "Made up my mind," he said. "They can find you so easily. Someone's gotta keep them busy. Make sure you get out alive."
Jess nodded, tugging gently at Sam's elbow. "C'mon. He's right, Sam. Let it go."
"Yeah," Dean said, smirking. "Listen to your girl."
"You're a fucking idiot," Sam said, but he reached out to clap Dean's undamaged shoulder anyway. "Come find us, if you get out."
"Don't come back," Dean said bluntly. "Not unless Washington is burned to the ground, and even then...there are better places."
Sam nodded; his throat bobbed; finally, he allowed Jess to tug him away. Dean turned back to Castiel. At his pointed look, the spirit quickly rearranged his expression into something less mournful.
"One thing," Dean said, raising his voice so that his small offensive group could all hear him. He was so tired, suddenly, but it didn't matter. It would all be over soon. "If my cabin isn't totally in cinders. And then we go."
Behind him, Ellen and Jo hugged goodbye; beside them, Garth and Ash made hopeful plans to meet up south of the border if Garth made it out of the fray alive; Krissy was clinging tight to Jody, clearly struggling to contain her sobs. Members of his ragtag little Resistance said goodbye to one another, and neither side of the line really believed they would ever see one another alive again.
Dean didn't do more goodbyes than were strictly necessary. Castiel waited outside, watchful, while he ducked into his gently smoking cabin. The fires here were minimal; they'd clearly been set at other points in the camp, and only spread to Dean's cabin just before their arrival. Meg, of course, was long gone, the silver net and iron cage hacked open. He trusted that Castiel would warn them if she was about to spring out of the shadows and ducked down to his bookshelf to yank out one of the last report Henriksen had sent. Shoving multiple books aside, he pulled open the back of the shelf and yanked out a gently rattling box of the Resistance's most potent magical artifacts. They were still peanuts against powerful spirits, but against a magician off his game, they would work perfectly fine.
He wiped the blood out of his eyes, waved the soot off the papers, coughed one more time, and walked out of the cabin. Fuck the Jeep, he thought.
"Okay," he said, and everyone crowded in closer. The rain was starting to put the remaining fires out. "Here's the plan. Bela's contact is a fucking snake, but he'll get me and Cas in the door. After we get captured and hauled off to the FBI headquarters, you guys can sweep in and…confiscate…the entire contents of his little shop, which will definitely be useful for eliminating our problem."
Jo smiled, even though her cheeks were still damp; Dean knew that if the situation wasn't so dire, she would have let out an exclamation of glee. She really, really liked explosives.
"Follow us in on foot," Dean continued, and handed over the folder to Jody. "There are easier routes inside than the front door. Once you're in there, though, you're going to have to be careful. Don't paint yourself into any corners. Stealth is the name of the day until you meet back up with me, okay? And if you find me dead, you'd better burn them to the ground."
"Why bother with the capture in the first place?" Jody asked.
"Because if they've got me and Cas, they aren't going to see the rest of you coming, and we could really use the element of surprise right now," Dean answered. "Henriksen will turn us loose once we're on the inside." He held up his burner phone-one of only three that the Resistance owned-to display the last text message sent: I'm stuck in Folsom. Meet me there. It was one of the few code phrases they had between them, and Henriksen would know he was coming. "Don't go after Crowley until Cas and I are at least an hour gone."
"Got it," Jo said brightly.
"Someone else can have the Jeep," Dean added. "I'm taking the Impala." He tossed the box of artifacts to Bobby and gave a joking salute. "See you on the other side."
"Be careful," Bobby growled. Beside him, Rufus looked skyward, as though he knew how futile that demand was. Dean knew that Bobby knew it, too, but that he couldn't live with himself if he didn't say it.
"You too, old man," he said. Signaling to Castiel, he took off toward the tree line, heading for the Impala. If he was really going to go out swinging, he couldn't do it without her.
"This is the car," Castiel commented, leaning heavily against the passenger door as Dean dragged the tarp off.
"This is the car," he confirmed, and even though the world was going to shit and he was probably going to be dead by tomorrow, he couldn't help the hint of pride in his voice.
"It's nice," Castiel said, and fell in, the door thumping shut behind him. Dean rolled his eyes and dropped into the driver's seat.
"You've got the understatement thing worked out really well," he grumbled, turning the key in the ignition.
"It took centuries," Castiel said flatly. Dean thought he might be serious about that, and, shaking his head, turned toward the highway, guiding the Impala carefully around dead trees and sudden dips in the forest floor.
"Your plan," Castiel said, as the wheels touched pavement and Dean turned east toward the 33, avoiding the route that would take them back through Petersburg. They could be in Washington in a few hours if he really, really pushed. "It's not as bad as I feared it would be."
"Yeah, well," Dean muttered. "Having backup helps."
"It's still not great," Castiel informed him. Even with blood and essence trickling from his nose, he managed the kind of astute expression that made Dean feel uncomfortably abashed.
"It's not," Dean admitted. "I don't know about you, but I really hate Phase 1."
Castiel's lips thinned into a hard line. Dean resisted the impulsive, unwanted urge to laugh. "I think the capture is unnecessary," he said pointedly.
"I think it's the only way we have a shot at surprising them," Dean replied. "And that's the best chance we have for all of us to live through this."
"Not you," Castiel pointed out. "They might just kill you on sight. Or once they've dragged you up in front of the nation."
"Well, they could kill you, too," Dean shot back. "You seem okay with that."
Castiel was silent a long moment. "If there is anything worth dying for," he said at last, "this is it."
Dean nodded. "Well. There it is."
"I hope it's been a long time since they've been on watch for this car," Castiel said, closing his too-blue eyes, "because it's very ostentatious."
"Watch your mouth," Dean said sharply, and, eyes still closed, Castiel smiled. Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye, and the masked faces gazed wearily back at him, and maybe it was the adrenaline running Dean's system into the ground, but after everything that had happened in the last few weeks, having Castiel at his side reassured him. Maybe they were both going to die. Maybe they were all going to die. But they had, maybe, a snowball's chance in Hell, and that was better than expected.
And if he bought Sam and Jess enough time to get out of sight, he thought he could even die in peace.
Castiel knew Dean's plan was all they had-and better than he'd hoped, truth be told-but he didn't have to like it.
He'd grown...attached...to the eldest Winchester over the last few weeks. He knew it was ill-advised, but it wasn't as though it had been a conscious choice. By all rights, he should really not get along at all with Dean. He was abrasive, impatient, had a tendency to lash out at the slightest provocation, and yet-and yet. Castiel saw something honest and pure in him, buried down deep where no amount of grief or loss or pain-not even eight years of Alastair and losing both his parents to magicians-had been able to touch it. It was a little, flickering light in his aura that even Dean was too blind to see; he was so twisted up by all his worries that he thought himself too corrupted to still be worth something.
And now they rode into battle, and Dean, in all likelihood, would die never knowing. The thought was half-unbearable. Humans were half-unbearable. Castiel turned back toward the window, trying to get the sudden burst of emotion under control. That was always the problem with getting accidentally attached, he thought angrily. Their lifetimes were blips in the radar, compared to his. Even bleeding essence all over Dean's leather seats, he stood a decent chance of recovery in the Other Place-as long as Azazel either died or dismissed him-but Dean's shot at survival was almost nonexistent.
"I can practically hear your negative vibes, man," Dean said. They merged onto the 81, heading north. "Think a little quieter."
"They're not negative," Castiel countered. "They're realistic. Do you know how low your chances of success are, Dean? Let alone your chances of living this encounter out."
The corner of Dean's mouth twitched up in a half-hearted smile. "You can stop advising me now, Cas. My mind's made up. Got a plan and everything."
"I know what I said," Castiel said reluctantly.
"What, half an hour ago?"
"Yes," Castiel snapped. "I know what I said. But I've lived for thousands of years, and I've nearly died multiple times over the last few decades. It's easier for me to lay down my life for a cause than someone who's barely lived. Or it should be," he added, faintly accusatory.
Dean shot him a look, eyebrows arching up. "This isn't all about me," he said sagely. "I'm not the first human who rankled your survivalist instincts."
"No," Castiel said wearily, "you're not. That doesn't make it more palpable."
"If you'd rather not watch me kick it, feel free to go find Sam," Dean said dryly. "They could use the help."
"No," Castiel said again. "I gave you my word. I just wish we had a better plan."
"Eleventh hour, Cas," the man replied, smiling again. "There are no good plans in the eleventh hour." He paused a long moment, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. The radio hummed in the background, turned down low; the rumble of the engine largely blocked out the music. "I don't want to die," he said at last, a strange calm in his voice. "Jimmy probably didn't want to, either. There's a lot left to do. Always is. But at some point, you run out of time, Cas. We've only got so many years to begin with, and I drew the short straw."
"You could have run," Castiel pointed out, feeling resentful again.
"They're watching us," Dean countered. "Probably, anyway. If I was with them, we'd all be in one place-they wouldn't have to pick who to go after. But with all of us separated, and me going for the heart of their little operation, who do you think they're going to worry about? The people fleeing or the people approaching with s-foils locked in attack position?"
"You have a point," Castiel conceded, though all but the gist of Dean's last comment was lost on him. Dean smirked.
"I've made my peace, have no god, all that shit," he said. The attempt to lighten the conversation fell horribly flat, at least for Castiel. "You probably should, too. I'm going to try to get you back to the Other Place if possible, but I doubt we'll get that lucky."
"I doubt it, too," Castiel said. "Azazel is unlikely to dismiss me. Given my little rebellion, he's more likely to kill me himself."
Dean flinched. "I'm sorry-"
"Don't," Castiel cut in. "I meant what I said. If I'm going to die-and we both know it was coming, with you or without you-I'd rather die trying to make this right."
"You make a convincing human," Dean said smugly.
Castiel sighed, choosing not to dignify this with a response. Gonna start a fire, the casette half-screamed beneath the roar of the engine. Castiel vaguely remembered the song being popular in the eighties, played over boom boxes and loudspeakers everywhere he went, until it made his very essence ache. The quiet went on for another few moments before Dean spoke again, softer this time.
"Hey, Cas?"
Castiel turned back to Dean.
"What happens to spirits when you die?" he asked, eyes fixed on the road.
Castiel shrugged. "I don't know," he said honestly. "Our afterlife is as much a mystery as yours."
"That's reassuring," Dean muttered.
"I wasn't under the impression that I was ever here to be reassuring," Castiel said darkly.
Dean huffed out a tired laugh. "Nah," he said. "Guess you weren't. You could lie, though. Offer some solace for a dead man walking."
"Dean," Castiel said sharply; the pain that lanced suddenly through his essence made his voice brittle. It wasn't funny, he thought. It wasn't funny at all. Given that it was in the habit of the world to be horribly unfair, there was probably nothing waiting for Dean on the other side, just an endless oblivion where his soul would fade out and cease to exist. All his peculiar mannerisms-his habit of laughing just when Castiel thought he was about to strike, the cocky smirk that twisted up his features even when his eyes said he knew there was no chance, the gentleness of his hands when he offered comfort-would cease to be, and if the world truly stuck to its guns, Castiel would be left in the aftermath to try and recover the pieces of himself that he'd lost to the humanity he had stupidly invested himself in.
Dean, even though he didn't look sideways to see Castiel's face, seemed to know. He reached out across the car, squeezing Castiel's shoulder. "Sorry," he offered quietly.
Castiel didn't answer, but he did lean into Dean's touch; his fingers lingered, palm warm on Castiel's borrowed shoulder, and the spirit offered no further explanation. What would he have said? That the idea of Dean sacrificing himself for this Resistance made him feel more remorseful, more resentful, than he had in decades? That he liked the man-cared about him, even, a dangerous and stupid mistake-and would miss him, when he was gone?
It would amuse Dean, certainly, but Castiel doubted it would change anything, so he let it lie, focusing on his aching essence rather than his pained hearts, of which he clearly had too many.
Forward to 15. Impact.
.
Beside him, Castiel slumped against the passenger-side door. His seventh-plane form looked worse, somehow, than Jimmy's beaten and bruised visage, though that was enough to make Dean flinch on his own. Those great, feathery wings looked badly broken; Anna had been trampling them when Dean chased her off. Chased her off. Christ. She could already be reporting to Azazel. She could be on her way back with reinforcements. They could be leading her right to camp.
But there was no question that they had to go back, and fast. They had to move, all of them. This was too close, nothing like the run-ins they'd had with spirits over the last three years-mostly accidental, and rarely damaging. This had been planned. Azazel was finally getting impatient, and Dean and his Resistance were out of time. It rankled that the magician could have done this at any point over the last three years, that they had been so vulnerable for so long. Dean's tenuous hold on their livelihood was slipping, slipping, slipping...
Castiel coughed. His essence was flaking off; Dean could see wisps of it, curling up toward the ceiling of the Jeep and vanishing. He was bleeding slower now, but still bleeding.
"You okay?" Dean asked.
Castiel shot him a look that was suspiciously venomous. "Use your eyes, Dean. How often have you seen spirits keep it together in this shape?"
"I've never seen this before," he muttered back. "Do you need that essence?"
"I'll heal," Castiel replied, less sharply now. "If I ever get back to the Other Place, I'll be able to restore it. Until then, though, I am increasingly useless to you."
"Nah," Dean said. "You're still my advisor. Don't need much essence for that."
Castiel hacked out a laugh. They drove on in silence.
When they reached the turn off for camp, Dean didn't remark on the column of black smoke rising in the distance. The Jeep rolled over dead leaves, and he tried to keep his hands on the wheel steady, even as blind rage pulled so hard in his chest that he could no longer breathe evenly. Castiel was tense and silent beside him.
He parked a few hundred yards from camp, and didn't bother dragging the cover back over the Jeep. If the choking smoke still rolling out of their nest of cabins was any indication, they would need it again soon.
"Fuck," he muttered, automatic, "we were only gone a few hours!"
The demons that had razed their camp were long gone. Some cabins, Dean's included, were still gently smoldering. There was no sign of any of his friends, his family-Sam's cabin was a pile of ash and smoking beams on the ground, and all was silent except for the bright cackle of flames. The scent of smoke threatened to choke him; he staggered, and Castiel grabbed his elbow to yank him back upright.
"Dean," he said, his voice low and strained. "We have to go. There's no one-"
Dean shook off the spirit's hand and forced himself forward, to the opposite side of camp, to the bunker carefully buried. If their security system had worked-if everyone had gotten inside in time-
He cleared off the hastily-arranged tarp and leaves, hardly daring to hope. "Dean," Castiel said, urgently now. "What are you-"
With a last, heavy grunt, Dean yanked the cellar doors open, dead leaves gently falling through the swinging opening. Belatedly, he realized he hadn't done the special knock, and if anyone was down there-
Sure enough: Sam was right under the entrance, a shotgun pointed upward, but when he caught sight of Dean, he sagged in relief. "We should clean in here more often," he said weakly, slinging his shotgun back to his shoulder. Dean reached out a hand to help him scramble up the ladder, and the rest of the camp followed. They looked largely unharmed, all of them-terrified, maybe, but otherwise untouched.
Sam hugged him, too sudden and briefly for Dean to register, and then turned to help Jess get up the ladder.
"The security system worked," he said. "We had ten minutes to get out of sight. Thank god we set that up. What the hell happened to you?"
"Dean," Jess said in alarm. Maybe she'd seen the look on his face, or maybe she'd just caught sight of his injuries; he could feel blood dripping from beneath the bandage on his forehead again, sliding down his face. "Are you okay?"
"You have to go," Dean croaked out.
Sam's look of relief quickly faded to one of fury. "You can't be serious," he snapped. "We can't run, not now!"
"Only some of you are running." He cast a quick look around at the camp huddled around him, and, making his mind up, started reeling off names. "Pam, Missouri, Ash, Ellen, Jim, Olivia, Lee and Krissy, Bela, Chuck-you're going with Sam and Jess. Head south, and don't stop running until you hit the border. After that, walk quickly. Jody, Garth, Jo, Charlie, Annie, Rufus, Bobby-congratulations. You're going to Washington."
"Fantastic," Jo said happily, shouldering her shotgun. "Charlie, Garth, Jody-my car?"
"No," Sam said, a look of numb horror on his face. "Just come with us, Dean. If we're going to run, let's run together. It's a suicide mission."
Dean shook his head. "I've got a plan. And unfinished business. Me and Cas will lead the others in, and you guys can get the hell out of dodge."
Until that moment, no one had noticed Castiel, hovering unobtrusively by Dean's shoulder and still bleeding essence. Those with the sight let out a few gasps of horror.
"That's your wingman?" Bobby said dryly. "He's going to fade any moment now."
"I have a few days left," Castiel retorted. "Not productive days, but I'll be a good distraction."
"I don't like it," Bobby said doubtfully, and Dean, pushed to the brink of his patience, snapped.
"Do I need to fucking remind you who put me in charge?" he demanded, taking a step forward. The few members of his Resistance ringed closely around him automatically sprang back; Castiel stayed exactly where he was, barely a pace from Dean. "You didn't want it, Bobby, so I stepped in. This is not your decision. It's mine. And I'm not asking. I'm telling. If you don't like it, go with Sam and Jess."
After a beat of shocked silence, Bela spoke. "Well, you don't have to tell me twice. Get in touch with Crowley if you can, Dean. If you're planning a suicide run, he'll have what you need to go out with a bang." She smirked, turned on her heel, and headed for the outskirts of camp.
"Dean," Sam said, pleading now, as the rest of the camp slowly trickled away, murmuring their goodbyes to Dean as they went. "Don't do this."
Dean tried to smile. It came out as more of a flinch; his face felt too messed up to do anything else. "Made up my mind," he said. "They can find you so easily. Someone's gotta keep them busy. Make sure you get out alive."
Jess nodded, tugging gently at Sam's elbow. "C'mon. He's right, Sam. Let it go."
"Yeah," Dean said, smirking. "Listen to your girl."
"You're a fucking idiot," Sam said, but he reached out to clap Dean's undamaged shoulder anyway. "Come find us, if you get out."
"Don't come back," Dean said bluntly. "Not unless Washington is burned to the ground, and even then...there are better places."
Sam nodded; his throat bobbed; finally, he allowed Jess to tug him away. Dean turned back to Castiel. At his pointed look, the spirit quickly rearranged his expression into something less mournful.
"One thing," Dean said, raising his voice so that his small offensive group could all hear him. He was so tired, suddenly, but it didn't matter. It would all be over soon. "If my cabin isn't totally in cinders. And then we go."
Behind him, Ellen and Jo hugged goodbye; beside them, Garth and Ash made hopeful plans to meet up south of the border if Garth made it out of the fray alive; Krissy was clinging tight to Jody, clearly struggling to contain her sobs. Members of his ragtag little Resistance said goodbye to one another, and neither side of the line really believed they would ever see one another alive again.
Dean didn't do more goodbyes than were strictly necessary. Castiel waited outside, watchful, while he ducked into his gently smoking cabin. The fires here were minimal; they'd clearly been set at other points in the camp, and only spread to Dean's cabin just before their arrival. Meg, of course, was long gone, the silver net and iron cage hacked open. He trusted that Castiel would warn them if she was about to spring out of the shadows and ducked down to his bookshelf to yank out one of the last report Henriksen had sent. Shoving multiple books aside, he pulled open the back of the shelf and yanked out a gently rattling box of the Resistance's most potent magical artifacts. They were still peanuts against powerful spirits, but against a magician off his game, they would work perfectly fine.
He wiped the blood out of his eyes, waved the soot off the papers, coughed one more time, and walked out of the cabin. Fuck the Jeep, he thought.
"Okay," he said, and everyone crowded in closer. The rain was starting to put the remaining fires out. "Here's the plan. Bela's contact is a fucking snake, but he'll get me and Cas in the door. After we get captured and hauled off to the FBI headquarters, you guys can sweep in and…confiscate…the entire contents of his little shop, which will definitely be useful for eliminating our problem."
Jo smiled, even though her cheeks were still damp; Dean knew that if the situation wasn't so dire, she would have let out an exclamation of glee. She really, really liked explosives.
"Follow us in on foot," Dean continued, and handed over the folder to Jody. "There are easier routes inside than the front door. Once you're in there, though, you're going to have to be careful. Don't paint yourself into any corners. Stealth is the name of the day until you meet back up with me, okay? And if you find me dead, you'd better burn them to the ground."
"Why bother with the capture in the first place?" Jody asked.
"Because if they've got me and Cas, they aren't going to see the rest of you coming, and we could really use the element of surprise right now," Dean answered. "Henriksen will turn us loose once we're on the inside." He held up his burner phone-one of only three that the Resistance owned-to display the last text message sent: I'm stuck in Folsom. Meet me there. It was one of the few code phrases they had between them, and Henriksen would know he was coming. "Don't go after Crowley until Cas and I are at least an hour gone."
"Got it," Jo said brightly.
"Someone else can have the Jeep," Dean added. "I'm taking the Impala." He tossed the box of artifacts to Bobby and gave a joking salute. "See you on the other side."
"Be careful," Bobby growled. Beside him, Rufus looked skyward, as though he knew how futile that demand was. Dean knew that Bobby knew it, too, but that he couldn't live with himself if he didn't say it.
"You too, old man," he said. Signaling to Castiel, he took off toward the tree line, heading for the Impala. If he was really going to go out swinging, he couldn't do it without her.
"This is the car," Castiel commented, leaning heavily against the passenger door as Dean dragged the tarp off.
"This is the car," he confirmed, and even though the world was going to shit and he was probably going to be dead by tomorrow, he couldn't help the hint of pride in his voice.
"It's nice," Castiel said, and fell in, the door thumping shut behind him. Dean rolled his eyes and dropped into the driver's seat.
"You've got the understatement thing worked out really well," he grumbled, turning the key in the ignition.
"It took centuries," Castiel said flatly. Dean thought he might be serious about that, and, shaking his head, turned toward the highway, guiding the Impala carefully around dead trees and sudden dips in the forest floor.
"Your plan," Castiel said, as the wheels touched pavement and Dean turned east toward the 33, avoiding the route that would take them back through Petersburg. They could be in Washington in a few hours if he really, really pushed. "It's not as bad as I feared it would be."
"Yeah, well," Dean muttered. "Having backup helps."
"It's still not great," Castiel informed him. Even with blood and essence trickling from his nose, he managed the kind of astute expression that made Dean feel uncomfortably abashed.
"It's not," Dean admitted. "I don't know about you, but I really hate Phase 1."
Castiel's lips thinned into a hard line. Dean resisted the impulsive, unwanted urge to laugh. "I think the capture is unnecessary," he said pointedly.
"I think it's the only way we have a shot at surprising them," Dean replied. "And that's the best chance we have for all of us to live through this."
"Not you," Castiel pointed out. "They might just kill you on sight. Or once they've dragged you up in front of the nation."
"Well, they could kill you, too," Dean shot back. "You seem okay with that."
Castiel was silent a long moment. "If there is anything worth dying for," he said at last, "this is it."
Dean nodded. "Well. There it is."
"I hope it's been a long time since they've been on watch for this car," Castiel said, closing his too-blue eyes, "because it's very ostentatious."
"Watch your mouth," Dean said sharply, and, eyes still closed, Castiel smiled. Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye, and the masked faces gazed wearily back at him, and maybe it was the adrenaline running Dean's system into the ground, but after everything that had happened in the last few weeks, having Castiel at his side reassured him. Maybe they were both going to die. Maybe they were all going to die. But they had, maybe, a snowball's chance in Hell, and that was better than expected.
And if he bought Sam and Jess enough time to get out of sight, he thought he could even die in peace.
Castiel knew Dean's plan was all they had-and better than he'd hoped, truth be told-but he didn't have to like it.
He'd grown...attached...to the eldest Winchester over the last few weeks. He knew it was ill-advised, but it wasn't as though it had been a conscious choice. By all rights, he should really not get along at all with Dean. He was abrasive, impatient, had a tendency to lash out at the slightest provocation, and yet-and yet. Castiel saw something honest and pure in him, buried down deep where no amount of grief or loss or pain-not even eight years of Alastair and losing both his parents to magicians-had been able to touch it. It was a little, flickering light in his aura that even Dean was too blind to see; he was so twisted up by all his worries that he thought himself too corrupted to still be worth something.
And now they rode into battle, and Dean, in all likelihood, would die never knowing. The thought was half-unbearable. Humans were half-unbearable. Castiel turned back toward the window, trying to get the sudden burst of emotion under control. That was always the problem with getting accidentally attached, he thought angrily. Their lifetimes were blips in the radar, compared to his. Even bleeding essence all over Dean's leather seats, he stood a decent chance of recovery in the Other Place-as long as Azazel either died or dismissed him-but Dean's shot at survival was almost nonexistent.
"I can practically hear your negative vibes, man," Dean said. They merged onto the 81, heading north. "Think a little quieter."
"They're not negative," Castiel countered. "They're realistic. Do you know how low your chances of success are, Dean? Let alone your chances of living this encounter out."
The corner of Dean's mouth twitched up in a half-hearted smile. "You can stop advising me now, Cas. My mind's made up. Got a plan and everything."
"I know what I said," Castiel said reluctantly.
"What, half an hour ago?"
"Yes," Castiel snapped. "I know what I said. But I've lived for thousands of years, and I've nearly died multiple times over the last few decades. It's easier for me to lay down my life for a cause than someone who's barely lived. Or it should be," he added, faintly accusatory.
Dean shot him a look, eyebrows arching up. "This isn't all about me," he said sagely. "I'm not the first human who rankled your survivalist instincts."
"No," Castiel said wearily, "you're not. That doesn't make it more palpable."
"If you'd rather not watch me kick it, feel free to go find Sam," Dean said dryly. "They could use the help."
"No," Castiel said again. "I gave you my word. I just wish we had a better plan."
"Eleventh hour, Cas," the man replied, smiling again. "There are no good plans in the eleventh hour." He paused a long moment, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. The radio hummed in the background, turned down low; the rumble of the engine largely blocked out the music. "I don't want to die," he said at last, a strange calm in his voice. "Jimmy probably didn't want to, either. There's a lot left to do. Always is. But at some point, you run out of time, Cas. We've only got so many years to begin with, and I drew the short straw."
"You could have run," Castiel pointed out, feeling resentful again.
"They're watching us," Dean countered. "Probably, anyway. If I was with them, we'd all be in one place-they wouldn't have to pick who to go after. But with all of us separated, and me going for the heart of their little operation, who do you think they're going to worry about? The people fleeing or the people approaching with s-foils locked in attack position?"
"You have a point," Castiel conceded, though all but the gist of Dean's last comment was lost on him. Dean smirked.
"I've made my peace, have no god, all that shit," he said. The attempt to lighten the conversation fell horribly flat, at least for Castiel. "You probably should, too. I'm going to try to get you back to the Other Place if possible, but I doubt we'll get that lucky."
"I doubt it, too," Castiel said. "Azazel is unlikely to dismiss me. Given my little rebellion, he's more likely to kill me himself."
Dean flinched. "I'm sorry-"
"Don't," Castiel cut in. "I meant what I said. If I'm going to die-and we both know it was coming, with you or without you-I'd rather die trying to make this right."
"You make a convincing human," Dean said smugly.
Castiel sighed, choosing not to dignify this with a response. Gonna start a fire, the casette half-screamed beneath the roar of the engine. Castiel vaguely remembered the song being popular in the eighties, played over boom boxes and loudspeakers everywhere he went, until it made his very essence ache. The quiet went on for another few moments before Dean spoke again, softer this time.
"Hey, Cas?"
Castiel turned back to Dean.
"What happens to spirits when you die?" he asked, eyes fixed on the road.
Castiel shrugged. "I don't know," he said honestly. "Our afterlife is as much a mystery as yours."
"That's reassuring," Dean muttered.
"I wasn't under the impression that I was ever here to be reassuring," Castiel said darkly.
Dean huffed out a tired laugh. "Nah," he said. "Guess you weren't. You could lie, though. Offer some solace for a dead man walking."
"Dean," Castiel said sharply; the pain that lanced suddenly through his essence made his voice brittle. It wasn't funny, he thought. It wasn't funny at all. Given that it was in the habit of the world to be horribly unfair, there was probably nothing waiting for Dean on the other side, just an endless oblivion where his soul would fade out and cease to exist. All his peculiar mannerisms-his habit of laughing just when Castiel thought he was about to strike, the cocky smirk that twisted up his features even when his eyes said he knew there was no chance, the gentleness of his hands when he offered comfort-would cease to be, and if the world truly stuck to its guns, Castiel would be left in the aftermath to try and recover the pieces of himself that he'd lost to the humanity he had stupidly invested himself in.
Dean, even though he didn't look sideways to see Castiel's face, seemed to know. He reached out across the car, squeezing Castiel's shoulder. "Sorry," he offered quietly.
Castiel didn't answer, but he did lean into Dean's touch; his fingers lingered, palm warm on Castiel's borrowed shoulder, and the spirit offered no further explanation. What would he have said? That the idea of Dean sacrificing himself for this Resistance made him feel more remorseful, more resentful, than he had in decades? That he liked the man-cared about him, even, a dangerous and stupid mistake-and would miss him, when he was gone?
It would amuse Dean, certainly, but Castiel doubted it would change anything, so he let it lie, focusing on his aching essence rather than his pained hearts, of which he clearly had too many.
Forward to 15. Impact.
.