a fall from far below

“Ready?” Castiel asks, extending his hands to either side of Dean’s head. “You’re sure about this?”

Dean dips his chin. When Castiel yet hesitates, he curls both hands around Castiel’s wrists and tugs him gently into place. “You’re fine. Do what you need to do.”

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“Hello, Dean.”

It’s a miracle Dean doesn’t swerve off the road when he answers the phone. He clenches the wheel so tightly his knuckles strain, stealing glances towards Sam to make sure he hadn’t woken his brother. Castiel, unperturbed by Dean’s silence, continued.

“I-I know you have every reason not to trust me, but I’m really back. Been walking for a day now to find an old payphone…your number’s the only one I know by heart…”

How Dean’s still breathing at this point is a mystery. Castiel gives an address and Dean doesn’t even hesitate in accelerating five, then ten, then twenty miles over the speed limit. 

It can’t be Castiel. Dean knows this. Good things don’t happen to them and there’s no way in hell Billie would bring back Castiel, not after what Castiel did. Which means it’s a monster. And with an impressionable spawn of satan out there thinking Cas was his father, well.

At least, Dean tries to pretend this is his only motive. But deep down, he’s got a far more pressing reason for racing across the empty highway: catharsis. That thing that Mia had been trying to get them to do. It might not actually be Cas, but it sounded pretty damn convincing over the phone and if that was the case…Dean could actually say goodbye. Or, perhaps, the words he’d never said aloud before.

Either way, Dean could finally find some semblance of peace before Sam ganked it.

But as he leaves the car and sees him (it, it’s not Castiel) Dean can’t do a damn thing. The worst part is, the creature can’t even be bothered to get Cas’ trench coat right. That thing is ugly, but it’s Castiel’s and this creature can only manage a poor replica.

That is, until he see’s Castiel’s face. Hopeful, vulnerable and so painfully familiar Dean forgets to breathe. He can’t even speak. They both stand frozen, staring, until suddenly Castiel’s stumbling forwards and clumsily tugging Dean into a hug. And Dean knows he shouldn’t let this happen, this thing could be dangerous, but it feels like Castiel, feels like the goodbye he never got, so he clings to Castiel’s trench coat, burying his head in the crook of his neck as he swallows a sob.

He’s dimly aware of Sam shouting, there’s a click of a gun cocking. Time’s run out. Dean silently curses Mia, he doesn’t feel any better, all he wants now is to never let go. “Goodbye, Cas,” he whispers hoarsely.

“No, Dean,” Castiel tightens his hug, “It’s hello.”

Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, or the feel of his embrace, or Dean’s own desperation, but Dean believes him. He pulls Castiel closer and finally breathes easy.

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The Bunker’s quiet but for the sound of Dean’s and Sam’s footsteps that Cas follows. He keeps his distance, lingers behind when Dean reaches for the chair.

“We’ll get her back,” Cas assures faintly, though he should be the last one to speak. It’s all his fault, achingly, fully. It’s him who deserves to be stuck in Lucifer’s nightmare world, not Mary.

He gets no reply, not from Dean, not from Sam. What could they say? We can’t. We will. The world be damned.

Dean pours three — four fingers of whiskey into his glass. With a glance, offers one to Sam, but Sam refuses. He doesn’t comment on Dean’s choice of coping tactic, either. There’s no offer for Cas, Dean puts the bottle down and takes a sip; he knows — Cas is guilty.

Cas froze.

Cas did nothing while his mother fought Lucifer and dragged him back into his hell of a world.

Cas let the portal close behind her, let Dean drop to his knees, broken. He’s never seen Dean so broken.

It all happened so damn fast.

Sam clears his throat. “We’ll figure it out,” he promises, moving a chair out for himself.

Dean snorts, an ugly, mocking sound. “Which part?”

Sam opens his mouth to reply, hesitates. A slow draw of breath, head hung low, not daring to look at Dean. “Mom.”

“Oh.” Dean nods. “That I know.” He takes a long sip and sets the glass down with a loud clank. “We’re getting mom out, I don’t care what it takes.”

For a moment, tension in Sam’s shoulders forebodes defiance, a rightful one. One Cas has no strength for. All he can muster is a sad smile. It’s a huge mistake, a horrible and dumb one. And made out of love — the kind of mistakes the Winchesters never once shied from.

Cas couldn’t stop them if he tried. Even if every part of him rages against the very thought of letting Lucifer out, of giving him that chance once again. Like they did last night. For one bright, painful, terrifying moment he was back in this world.

And then he wasn’t.

And Dean was left kneeling in the dirt, unresponsive.

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You made me love you

The door opens with a creak, drawing Castiel’s attention from his hands. They have been mindlessly picking at a loose thread on his trench for however long he’s been sitting here. Dean enters, that same distracted, tired look on his face that’s present much too often nowadays. It takes a moment for Dean to realize he’s not alone in his room - that Castiel is sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Cas?”

“Sit down.”

Dean sighs, a quiet thing that makes his shoulders slouch as if the weight of the world was set upon them.

“Cas, it’s la–”

“You’re avoiding me.” It’s blunt, Castiel realizes. It’s the end of a long day, another hunt come and gone, and he knows Dean’s tired. But he’s come to his end with trying to get Dean to talk to him or even look at him. Something has been wrong ever since he came back. Sam seems perfectly fine; welcoming Castiel back with friendly smiles and conversation outside of working a case. Dean’s another story, though. Whenever Castiel walks into a room, Dean leaves. When they brush past each other in the kitchen, Dean flinches as if burned. There’s hardly any talking. Next to no eye contact. The times Castiel tries too hard to pull more than a few words out of Dean, it only results in a snippy remark. But Castiel can’t stand this wall that’s been built between them any longer.

When Dean doesn’t say anything, Castiel gets to his feet and approaches him.

“You and Sam are all I have. There’s no one else. So the way you’ve been brushing me off, snapping at me, just –” Castiel huffs a breath, feeling himself getting worked up. “Look, I don’t know what you’re so angry at or scared of and I can’t, for the life of me, figure it out because you’re avoiding me. But I’m scared too, Dean. I can’t deal with what happened alone and – and if you’re – if you won’t –” Castiel cuts himself off, words failing him inelegantly. “Please, Dean, I need…”

Castiel begins to reach out to put his hand on Dean’s shoulder just to be able to ground himself, but Dean’s hand flashes up to stop him from going any farther. Castiel glances at their contact, the grip on his wrist a little too tight, before he looks back into Dean’s troubled eyes.

“You died.” The words are soft. Then, as if saying them triggered something, anger builds within Dean’s expression, his voice becoming louder. “You died. You fucking died and I then I had to see you with your wings burned into the damn ground.”

Castiel’s rendered speechless, unable to do anything but stare into those heated green eyes.

“You wanna know what I’m scared of? I’m scared of everything, Cas! I’m scared to move, I’m scared to – to breathe. I’m scared to touch you,” Dean yells, a pain resonating underneath the anger. Emotion is making it hard for Castiel to take even the smallest of breaths. Then, in a gentler voice, Dean continues.

“I can’t lose you, do you understand that? I’ve already seen you – I’ve seen you die too many times, and it’s getting harder and harder to survive after that.” Dean drops Castiel’s wrist to point accusingly at him, the intensity returning to his eyes. Their faces are too close now, but Castiel doesn’t dare back away. “And that’s your fault, Castiel. You – you made me love you, you made me let you in. And then you fucking died in front of me!”

Castiel swallows thickly. Dean loves him.

He waits for Dean to continue, but it seems all the words have been drained out of him. Castiel takes a small step forward, setting his hand on the side of Dean’s face, a pang of – of something hurting him when Dean leans into the touch and closes his eyes. Castiel closes the space between them to press a soft kiss to Dean’s lips. It’s a second later that he realizes what he’s doing, and he’s about to pull back and apologize when Dean presses back, returning the kiss. Castiel feels wetness collide along the hand on Dean’s cheek. Despite Dean’s anger, the kiss is gentle and tender with only a hint of desperation taking form in the way his hands fist themselves into Castiel’s trench to pull him closer. In all the times Castiel’s imagined kissing Dean would be like, this was never one of them.

Castiel breaks the kiss after a moment, entirely overwhelmed by the past sixty seconds, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans his forehead against Dean’s as they breathe together, Dean’s a little heavier as more tears slip down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispers.

Dean breathes out a shaky breath. “I know.”

This time it’s Dean who connects their lips together in another kiss, one that tastes of tears and longing, before he’s wrapping Castiel into a tight embrace and his breath tickles the side of his neck. Castiel brings his arms to wrap around Dean’s neck, clutching tight to his shoulders. He’s not sure he’ll ever be ready to let go, but for now, this is the extent of Castiel’s world. No words need to be said anymore. This is all that matters.

DONT THINK

about dean not being able to listen to Zepplin now, no matter how much he loves it

They’re somewhere past York, Nebraska, heading south on US 81, when Sam stumbles across the classic rock station. It’s not really his thing - never really been his thing - but Dean is asleep in the passenger seat, head leaning against the window and swaying slightly with every movement of the car, and even though he should be relaxed, his forehead is still creased, mouth turned down in a slight frown. So Sam leaves it. Maybe the familiar music will filter into his brother’s dreams and help loosen the tight clench of jaw. Sam hopes so.

In my time of dying, want nobody to mourn All I want for you to do is take my body home Well, well, well, so I can die easy  Well, well, well, so I can die easy 

It’s weird that Dean agreed to let Sam drive without a fight, but it’s only one more thing on a long list of ‘weird’. Dean’s been off for weeks, ever since they burned Cas’ body on the shore next to the lake. He isn’t grieving, as far as Sam can tell, which would probably be easier to deal with. Instead, Dean is just…checked out. He eats, he sleeps, he lets Sam drag him on hunts, but any excitement or passion for…well, anything…seems to have evaporated.

Jesus, gonna make up my dyin’ bed. Meet me, Jesus, meet me.  Meet me in the middle of the air If my wings should fail me, Lord. Please meet me with another pair…

Sam’s not sure what to do for him. He’s tried getting Dean to open up and talk about it - Dean just stares at him flatly until Sam runs out of things to say and putters into an awkward silence. He’s tried keeping him busy and dragging him on hunts - Dean goes along as if it’s a chore, going through the motions.

Oh, I did somebody some good, somebody some good… Oh, did somebody some good. I must have did somebody some good… Oh, I believe I did…

“Turn it off.”

The radio is turned up, playing over the rumble of the Impala, and Sam doesn’t hear him.

Hear the angels marchin’, hear the’ marchin’, hear them marchin’, hear them marchin’, the’ marchin’ …

“I said TURN IT OFF!”

When Dean sits up and slams his hand against the radio, hard, Sam jerks the wheel and swears. The Impala jumpes over onto the shoulder of the road, vibrating hard on the rumble strips, and Sam flips on the hazard lights and pushes down on the brake. They slowly coast to a stop. The radio is silent.

He slams the car in park and swivels in his seat. “What the hell, Dean! You could’ve gotten us killed!”

Dean is glaring at him. Even in the dark, he can see it. It’s the first emotion Sam has seen in days.

“I told you to turn it off,” he snaps.

“Well, obviously I couldn’t hear you, asshole!” Sam snaps back. “What’s your problem anyways? You love Zepp.”

Dean’s face darkens like a thundercloud and he twists away, staring out the window. For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. Sam’s already accepted he’s not going to, until:

“I put that song on the tape.”

Sam doesn’t need clarification. He knows what Dean is talking about, and the anger leaks out of him like a balloon.

“…oh.”

Dean glares out at the dark highway. “I thought he’d like the references to the angels, and Jesus Christ, and the gates of Heaven, and all that shit. Probably get all literal and tell me how inaccurate it is.” His lips twitch up faintly at the thought, and Sam’s heart breaks. “I never got his opinion though, we didn’t get a chance to talk about the songs before - uh -” He stops and clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“…we’ll get him back, Dean. We’ll find a way.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s face is resigned, and Sam can tell he doesn’t believe it. “Okay.”

“Dean -”

But apparently Dean is done talking about it, because he unbuckles his seat belt in one smooth motion and pops open the passenger door. “Scoot, Sammy. I’m wide awake now, I’ll drive. You can catch some shut-eye.” He’s out the door without waiting for an answer. 

Sam sighs but doesn’t argue, reluctantly unbuckling his own belt. 

It’s a long drive back to the Bunker, but the radio stays quiet.

for cas

Dean buys the house, obviously.

The bunker’s a fucking mess anyway after all that shit went down with Ketch, so he’d rather not be there anyway. He needs a fresh break from that shit, or it’ll just drive him crazy. Besides, he’d already kind of bowed out from hunting when he let Sam lead the attack on the Men of Letters. Seems like a good time to retire.

Dean puts off a funeral. That seems so damn final. Cas always come back, and it’d be a lot harder to do it without a body waiting for him, right? He’ll need his body when—

It takes him a while, but Sam convinces him. They set up a pyre, invite Jody and Donna and Garth and Claire. No one says much. Or maybe they do. Dean’s not really listening to anything but the constant Please don’t be dead please don’t be dead please let this be a fucking nightmare that keeps playing on a loop in his head.

Dean spreads the ashes over the lake, over the yard, in the surrounding woods. A few weeks later, everything’s growing like crazy. So many flowers, the trees’ dying branches have come back to life, and the wildlife in the pond is flourishing.

But the burned grass outlining Cas’ wings is still brown and dead.

Dean busies himself with fixing up the house. It’s not in disrepair, exactly, but there are plenty of little projects. A door that won’t close all the way. A leaky faucet. Uneven tiles in the kitchen. This was the last place Cas ever lived, and Dean’s going to make sure it lasts.

The truck. He takes care of that, too. Spends so much time on it that the Impala’s feeling the neglect. Dean just gives Sam the Impala. She deserves to be driven, deserves more attention than he can give her. Instead he drives the old truck and listens to the mixtape he made for Cas on repeat.

Sometimes he prays. It’s obviously useless, evidenced by Cas being completely and totally gone. But it’s comforting. When he lies down between Cas’ wings and stares up at blue skies that remind him of Cas’ eyes, it helps him feel connected to Cas. In those moments when he prays to his lost angel, Dean can almost imagine he’s there with him.

Maybe he is. In the breeze or the plants the remains of his grace gave life to or in every beat Dean’s heart takes.

Dean likes that, thinking that Cas is still alive as long as Dean is. He make it his mission to make sure he lives a long long time. For both of them.

“Why don’t you move?” Sam asks a few years later. He doesn’t bother trying to get Dean back into hunting. If he couldn’t get Dean to help him try and get their mom back, there’s no way he’ll come back now just for kicks. Besides, there’s not much left to hunt these days. Jack was everything Cas seemed to think he’d be and more.

Good.

Dean would’ve been pissed if Cas had died protecting a dud.

“Move where?”

“I don’t know… anywhere? Anywhere that’s not… That’s not…”

Full of Castiel. A constant reminder of him at every turn.

“I can’t,” Dean says simply as he drinks his tea. He can really taste the honey, and it makes him smile.

“Dean…” There’s a warning in Sam’s tone, but he doesn’t say more.

“Look, Sammy, I… I can’t leave him. This place, he’s everywhere here. I don’t have it in me to leave him behind. I owe him so much…”

For all the things he did to Cas. For all the things he said and didn’t say. For all the lost possibilities that died with Cas that day.

He knows Cas wouldn’t hold it against him if he left, but Dean would hate himself for it.

“I can’t,” he repeats more firmly.

Sam sighs in defeat. “Okay.”

Dean might not hunt anymore, but he doesn’t give up on the supernatural altogether. He helps hunters who are passing through. He collects books and helps with research. Maybe does a little research on his own, trying to figure out where angels go when they die.

Maybe some day he’ll find the answer.

And as soon as he does, Dean’ll be busting in and breaking Cas out or die trying.

Until then, though, he’ll stay at this lakeside house and take care of the flowers.

For Cas.

just one more fix

Dean’s a fucking mess. 

He goes through the motions of being okay, but he’s empty inside. It’s a familiar feeling, one he’s already experienced back when Cas disappeared into that fucking lake, only it’s ten times worse this time. Last time he thought he loved Cas. This time he knows it. He knows he’s in love with his best friend and never did a fucking thing about it.

So yeah, it’s worse. 

Alcohol doesn’t work. He knows it’s a bad idea so he doesn’t try it, knows he’ll just drink and drink and not stop this time, so he avoids it altogether. The idea of sex makes him want to cry, so that’s out.

The only coping mechanism he has left is hunting.

He’s not in a place to do research or “big picture” stuff like helping with Jack or trying to get Mary back. Sam points him in a direction and says “kill this werewolf” or “clear out this vamp nest” and Dean does it. It’s brutal and messy and physically exhausting and the best he can get right now. It’s the only way he can sleep these days; his body overworked and aching all over, he falls onto a motel bed and is out before his head hits the pillow.

One of these hunts happens to be a djinn. No big deal, really. He knocks the thing out and is about to kill it when he gets an idea. A really fucking stupid idea, but an idea.

Cas at that little cottage by the lake. Their cottage by the lake. He’s making lunch - ham and cheese sandwiches with a side of potato salad - and humming some Led Zeppelin under his breath. Dean stands in the doorway, breathless. He knows, of course he knows, but Cas is right in front of him, alive, and he’ll take it. Fuck yes he’ll take it-

Dean gasps as he jolts awake, the djinn’s venom wearing off. It’d been such a small amount, it’d barely lasted an hour. 

He drains that djinn try, kills it, then hunts down every djinn he can find to get more. Visits occult shops and hunter stores and buys all the djinn venom he can get his hands on. Every night, he injects just enough to last ‘til morning. Every night, he dreams of blue eyes and dark hair and lips he finally gets to kiss…

“I love you,” Dean whispers between kisses. “Holy fuck do I love you.”

“I know, Dean. I love you too.”

“Never got to tell you… Fuck, you died and you never even knew-”

“Shhhh. It’s okay, Dean. I’m here. I know.”

Waking up hurts (god does it hurt, it’s like losing Cas all over again), but it makes the rest of his life almost tolerable. It gives Dean a purpose, a goal that he mets with deadly precision, and the momentary peace of getting to be with Cas again. 

“Dean?”

“Cas?” Dean groggily looks around the dark room. Cas’ side of the bed is empty, so he holds open the covers for him. “C’mere.”

Cas hestitates but approaches the bed. “Dean…”

He doesn’t wait to hear more, just pulls Cas into the bed and wraps himself around him. “Shh, baby. Go to sleep.”

“Dean- I- This can’t wait-”

“Yeah it can.” Dean yawns and rests his head on Cas’ chest. The idiot didn’t even take his clothes off. “I’m tired. Good night, babe. Love you.”

“… I love you too, Dean.”

When Dean wakes up and sees two blue eyes staring at him, he freezes. Shit shit shit shit how much venom did he take last night? Should’ve worn off by now. How’s he going to wake up? He hasn’t even told Sam where he is, no one’s going to come for him-

“Just breathe, Dean.”

He stiffens as Cas puts a hand on his shoulder, but then melts into the touch. He can’t fucking help it. “Cas,” he croaks. “I fucked up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I took too much djinn venom and now I can’t wake up. I was so fucking careful-”

“Is that what you think this is? A djinn dream?”

“Well either that or I died and went to Heaven, but I’m not sure those dicks have left a spot open for me.”

“… I’m in your djinn dream?”

“That’s a joke, right? You are my djinn dream. What the fuck is even the point if I can’t see you? This is all that’s left-”

Cas surges forward and kisses him, cradling Dean’s jaw like he’s precious. Dream Cas never does that. With dream Cas it’s the other way around. And this kiss is too sweet, too desperate, too real-

“Cas?” Dean doesn’t dare hope. This is a dream after all, isn’t it?

“Chuck brought me back. I came looking for you as soon as I could. You weren’t at the bunker. Took me a while to pinpoint your… your longing.”

Dean rested his forehead on Cas’ shoulders and squeezed his eyes shut. Tears threatened to spill and if they started, Dean suspected it’d be a while before they stopped. “This isn’t the djinn dream, is it? Because I can’t afford to start believing this is real and have it taken away. If that happened…”

Strong arms closed around him. “It’s real, Dean. I’m here.”

Despite his best efforts, Dean started crying. Cas didn’t mind.

12.18 coda

Sam tells him in the diner that satyrs lure people away with a promise of pleasure just so they can eat them raw.

Dean thinks that well-meaning waitresses might work the same way.

She gives him a smile, a sweet one that’s everything right with a world so far from his own, and he’s able to let go of his stress after days of stewing in desperate silence. She grabs his hand and leads him out back after the dinner rush slows, and Dean knows he won’t be going back to the motel with Sam tonight. He’ll be wandering, bare foot and chasing a half-real high.

And it works. His body takes over as soon as that door shuts and it tells him he’s happy. But he can feel her teeth digging into him just the wrong side of too hard when they kiss. Her nails gouge deep into his shoulders, leave marks, remind him again that he’s hurting. Her pours his passion into her and he leaves himself cold and empty in the process. 

She devours him and she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.

He lies there in bed with her long after she’s curled up and gone to sleep but invited him to stay, facing away from him in a strip of exposed moonlight. Dean runs one hand softly along the swell of his chest, the closed cavity of his heart, just to make sure that he’s still all there. He stays.

Taptaptaps his fingers. Just can’t seem to help himself. Still longing. Still worrying.

He rolls onto her again in the morning after a bad dream wakes him up and they fuck against her bedroom door before they leave. Dean keeps his tie askew even when he drops her off at the restaurant. He arches desperately closer into her in the doorway, seeking warmth, and he forgets to care if anyone is watching him.

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Knitting in the Bunker

“Are you knitting?” Dean asks when he finally realizes what Cas is doing.

He’s just walked into the war room, where Cas sits with Dean’s computer open and a frown on his face. His hands are full of blue knitting needles, three different skeins of yarn, and something small Dean can’t fully see.

“Yes,” Cas answers absently. He squints at the screen, then back at the thing in his hand.

“You knit?”

“Yes.”

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