Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean woke slowly, forced to crawl through a layer of ache and warmth before finally finding the strength to pry his eyes open.

His head was pounding now that the pain medicine had worn off, a belch of nausea circling his gut, but all Dean could focus on was the heat in his arms, the steady beat of a heart pressed right up against his palm. He blinked through murky darkness and stared straight ahead, feeling without seeing.

Sightless and vulnerable, Dean let the drowsiness of the morning keep the impending panic away. He ignored the doubt creeping in at the back of his skull and pressed his nose into the curled hairs at Castiel’s nape, breathing slow, touching softly. It took a few seconds of Dean letting his hand wander for him to realize that Cas didn’t have a shirt on. That somehow, in the whirlwind of last night, he’d missed this crucial detail, and now they were chest to back, Dean’s fingers playing over bare skin.

Everything in him seized all at once. His hand stilled.

“Why did you stop?” Castiel asked, his voice a spike in the dark that had Dean jumping out of his skin, shame burning in his cheeks as he withdrew.

“Sorry,” Dean said. “I didn’t, uh— yeah. Sorry.”

The sudden space between them felt insurmountable, Dean practically hanging off the bed in his need to keep a distance now. It was different with Cas being awake. Too real, too capable of leading somewhere Dean wasn’t sure he could take. He curled a fist into the bedding, searching for his side of the blanket back. He already felt colder without Cas, and the desire to have him back was a physical pain that only worsened when Cas turned over to face him fully.

Dean watched him settle in, heart racing with the way Cas nuzzled his cheek into the pillow, his hair pressed down over his forehead. He wiped the sleep from his face with a heavy palm, grunting at the back of his throat, and finally looked up at Dean.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, unmistakably fond.

“I should be asking you that.”

“You first,” Cas smiled, softening Dean up all the more.

“My head’s killing me and I'm on the verge of blowing chunks,” Dean answered honestly, smiling at the deepened laugh he got in return. “You?”

Castiel studied him carefully, affection traced into every feature as he said, “Better. Much better.”

And there was just enough tenderness in his voice for Dean to think, not for the first time, that he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t take being this close to Cas when he knew how things were going to end. But there’s always been a fight in Dean, justified or not, and the only thing Dean wanted more than to give up, was to give in.

He wanted to sink into Cas’s voice and pick apart the emotions buried there, to stay in bed and just look at Cas even if that meant lingering on his lips and aching for his hands, wanting him close and whole and forever. He wanted to simply be with Cas, exist in his realm, orbit his planet, because who knew how much longer he’d have this. Who knew if this would be the last time.

Dean was too enamored to notice right away that the bedroom door had opened. It took Sam awkwardly clearing his throat from the doorway for Dean to spring up with about a million excuses on the frontline of his tongue.

“I’m just gonna, uh,” Sam pointed towards the hallway behind him, giving Dean a knowing look. “Yeah, I’ll be out here.”

The door closed again, and Dean was on his feet in an instant, surprised by the lack of fear he felt. His ears were burning something awful, sure, and his stomach was in knots, but he wasn’t scared about what this looked like. Not as much as he would’ve been just over a year ago. Dean wasn’t sure what that meant about him, but he couldn’t help but think it was a good thing.

It sure did feel like a good thing.

“Wait,” Castiel stretched across the bed to stop Dean from leaving, something desperate flashing in his eyes. Dean looked down at him just as Cas’s hand met his wrist, and he was blown breathless by the sight of the sheets falling from Castiel’s shoulders, his torso unveiling itself for Dean’s frantic eyes. “Dean—”

“I’m coming right back,” Dean said, staring straight down at the bedding, a pulse in his throat. He wished it weren’t like this. All he wanted was for these things to feel normal. For Cas’s touch and Cas’s skin to stop feeling like happy accidents every time he got a taste. “I’ll be right back, I promise. I just gotta explain some things to Sam.”

Explain what?

Dean could see the question in Castiel’s gaze, heavy and overbearing, almost angry. But apparently, it wasn’t important enough to voice; he nodded once and pulled away, withdrawing back into the sheets. Dean did his best not to think too hard about the way Cas hastily covered himself back up, pulling the blankets up to his chin.

Sam was typing frantically on his phone when Dean stepped out into the hallway. Dean tried raising his eyebrows at him, wanting to know what was up, but Sam quickly slipped the phone back into his pocket, giving Dean a guilty smile.

“Look, just, for future reference? Put a sock on the door or something,” Sam started, grimacing. “I feel like a dick for interrupting your— wait,” His eyes snapped back to the door, a shit-eating grin spreading up and over his face. “Were you and Cas fucking cuddling?”

Dean shook his head. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Cas’s shirt was off.”

“And my clothes were on. Your observation skills are unmatched, Sam.”

The look Sam gave him was more amused than bitchy, a rare occurrence, and Dean couldn’t quite decipher the meaning behind it before Sam was saying, “Whatever. The girls and I figured we’d leave you two alone last night to… cuddle,” Dean rolled his eyes. “But when you didn’t get up to see them out I came to make sure you were still breathing.”

Dean frowned. “They already left? This early?”

“It’s one in the afternoon, Dean,” Sam said, looking at Dean clearly for the first time. His eyes lingered on the patchy bruise at Dean’s temple, before moving back to the door. “Is everything okay? Cas seems—”

“No, everything’s not okay,” Dean hadn’t come up with a plan for this yet. He knew telling Sam was all he could do now, all he could hope for, but the fear that came with it didn’t register until it was already out of his mouth. “Cas is dying, Sam.”

…...

If there was any sure sign that Cas was fully human now, it was that he slept and ate like nobody’s business.

“You got enough cereal there, Tony the Tiger?” Dean asked, walking into the kitchen to find Cas already settled at the table with two cereal boxes and an empty carton of milk.

Even with a spoon in his mouth, Cas managed to scowl tiredly at Dean, shoulders slouched forward.

“I’m not eating Frosted Flakes. Your joke is irrelevant,” He said flatly, shoveling in another spoonful without pause. Slowly, Dean came to a stop in the middle of the kitchen, slippers and all.

“No jokes before noon then,” Dean mumbled. “Got it.”

Dean turned his back before he could see the shift in Cas’s demeanor, autopilot sending him straight towards the coffee machine. The sound of Cas dropping his spoon and shifting in his seat was loud. It pressed for Dean’s attention like a tap on the shoulder, a persistent itch at the base of his skull.

When Dean kept his focus on the coffee brewing in front of him, Castiel said, “I’m sorry.”

And it was more than regret that came pouring out of his voice. Attached was the kind of soul-rooted exhaustion that had always had a hold on Dean one way or another, and he felt it soften him greatly, forcing that pinch of hurt away.

“It’s fine, Cas. Really, I just… I don’t know,” Dean couldn’t quite look at Cas once he’d gotten his coffee and slid into the seat across from him. There was a pressure building behind his ribs, and he felt as if he was bursting when he finally said, “I’m worried about you.”

They had been going at this for almost a week now. Sam knew, and Dean could only assume that Eileen did too, as often as she was around. Neither of them had questioned why Dean and Cas were bunking together now. Dean was grateful for the privacy; he probably would have gone catatonic by now if any more attention was being drawn to it, any more reminders of how fast everything seemed to be moving and building and falling apart.

It was too bizarre to look at head-on. So close to what he’d always wanted that Dean often woke up in a panic, reality splitting apart the second he’d roll over to find Cas snoring beside him. He’d think I love this, and I love you, and for those first few seconds, he could pretend. He could watch Cas sleep and imagine that this was all there was; warmth and safety and the soft brush of Castiel’s breath against his ear, rocking him gently. But then the morning would vanish, Cas’s fate still lurked, and even though they never dared to part from each other longer than a few minutes, Dean didn’t think Cas had ever felt this far away.

“I’m fine,” Castiel said.

Dean hummed behind a sip of black coffee. “You’re a liar is what you are.”

Cas glared at him, though the heat of it simmered down almost instantly. It turned into a gradual pout, forehead wrinkling, bottom lip jutting outwards. Dean nearly smiled.

“As if you don’t give the same response when people are worried about you.”

“Yeah, and I’m the blueprint for mental stability,” Dean laughed, raising his coffee in a sarcastic toast. Cas didn’t do anything but frown, his eyes moving slowly over Dean’s face in that agonizing way they always did when he had something to say. Dean made sure not to give him the chance. “What would have happened if I hadn’t found you the other night?” He asked, and just like that, Castiel’s eyes flickered away from him, dropping back down to his cereal. “You would’ve just kept quiet about it? You would’ve died in your sleep and had me find you in the morning— is that it?”

“I’m handling it.”

“You’re not handling shit, sweetheart,” Dean retorted, and it took a few seconds for his body to fully react to the word, everything inside of him pulling taunt. He tried not to remember how the last time he’d let it slip was in pitch-black darkness. Dean flicked a finger at one of the Krunch Cookie Crunch cereal boxes, pulling Cas’s attention back to him. “Does this look like handling it to you? What’s with the cereal?”

“I’m missing someone,” Cas murmured, fumbling with his spoon. “I can't remember them, but I miss them, and this helps. I don’t know why.”

Dean didn’t say anything. But just the mention of Jack had him spiraling through enough emotions to make him drop the conversation altogether, back straightening.

It wasn’t that he never thought of Jack anymore. Not at all. It was that he never stopped thinking about him, never stopped praying to empty rooms and pushing through random bursts of anger that came and left without reason, all the hate and love and fear clashing right in the center of his chest.

Dean didn’t know what he’d do if he ever saw Jack again. He didn’t know what emotion would win over the others.

“You can’t keep this up, Cas,” Dean said, stretching his fingers across the mug to warm them, needing that small comfort. “This strong and noble bullshit, acting like it’s all already decided and you’re as good as dead. It’s gotta stop. All you’re doing is killing yourself.”

“Killing myself would just be redundant,” Castiel sighed, and Dean felt his heart puncture.

“Let me make something clear here,” Cas lifted his head to look at Dean, eyes shining. “I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

With those words, everything changed. The aching guilt in Castiel’s face morphed as if slapped away, making room for a wave of senseless anger that seemed to erupt from nowhere.

“What are you planning?” He asked, unabashed judgment passing through his eyes as he watched Dean struggle for an answer.

“Nothing, Cas, just—”

“Because if you so much as suggest some idiotic plan that gets you killed instead of me, I will throw this fucking bowl in your face,” He growled, pinching the damned thing between two fingers and slamming it down onto the table. Cas didn’t even react to the milk that spilled out over his wrist. His eyes never left Dean’s. “No suicide missions, no demon deals. We find a safe solution, or there is no solution. That is why I didn’t want to tell Sam that something was wrong. He’d do anything to help you, including risking his own life to fix me and that’s— I can’t—” Cas’s face contorted miserably, and everything inside of him seemed to be crumbling as he said, “Nothing is worth losing either one of you.”

“You know about demon deals?”

It’s all Dean could manage, all he could voice through the roar in his ears.

“Vaguely, yes.”

Dean gaped at him. “So…”

“I remember the deal you made to save your brother,” Cas answered, effectively stealing the words from Dean’s mouth and turning his shock into panic. Cas gave him a pleading look, head shaking. “Don’t look at me like that. Please don’t look scared.”

“I am scared,” Dean retorted. “You said it yourself, Cas. You think the more you remember, the worse you get, and we hadn’t even met when I made that deal. What happens when you start remembering everything else?”

When you remember that you love me, what happens then? Will it be the same as last time? Will it consume you and kill you and take you away from me?

“I don’t understand,” Castiel frowned. “The demon deal. I wasn’t with you for that?” The silence that followed was better than any answer Dean could ever give, and the confusion that swarmed Cas was almost heartbreaking. His brow furrowed, voice dropping low as he whispered, “Then why does it feel so important?”

Because it led me to you. A year down the line, it brought me to you.

Dean blinked through the oncoming wave, forcing back tears. He couldn’t do this right now. He couldn’t start thinking about the beginning, because with a beginning came an end, and Dean had come here to fix that, to stop it— Cas had been right. He and Sam had come up with a plan, and for Dean’s sanity, Cas needed to fucking cooperate.

“Cas, there’s someone on their way to see you,” Dean said, and the look Cas gave him was close to terrifying. “Sammy called her. She’s… she’s the plan.”

Castiel shook his head frantically, voice hard, “Dean.”

“And she’s a good plan, the only one we’ve got,” Dean continued, ignoring him.

“What happened to sticking together?” Cas asked, hurt flashing so prominently in his eyes that for a moment Dean was at a standstill, flushed with uncertainty. “Doing what we can to stave this off? You said… I thought you wanted—”

“Hey,” Dean was shocked by how quickly Cas fell silent, blue eyes flocking to him for answers. Dean tried swallowing through the intimacy of it, but nothing seemed to help. It didn’t make him want to kiss Cas any less. “I’m not letting you out of my sight, you hear?”

Castiel visibly melted, relief turning him limbless. The way he looked at Dean was similar to the way Dean would imagine he’d look at a thunderstorm; terrified and enthralled all at once.

“She’s a psychic,” Dean started to explain, slowly untangling himself from the table. He ignored the pop in his knees, straining as he moved. “She lives with Jody and Claire, and she's driving a long way to come take a look at you, so behave.”

“I’ll behave so long as you keep your promise,” Cas said defiantly. He stood up and followed Dean to the kitchen sink, his voice rising over running water, “If things don’t turn out the way you’ve planned, then that’s the end of it.”

With a pulse of annoyance rising in his chest, Dean dropped his coffee mug, and the sound of it clattering into the sink forced both of their heads to snap up. Their eyes met, Cas standing much closer than Dean had originally thought, and they stared and stared, long and meaningful, the world hanging in the balance.

“The end of you, you mean,” Dean said bitterly.

Castiel’s eyes wavered, but he didn’t break. Firmly, he said, “Exactly.”

“Cas—”

“I want to be buried somewhere nice,” He interjected, shocking Dean into silence. Then, with a touch so gentle it almost went unfelt, Cas curled his fingers into the bottom of Dean’s shirt. “Somewhere with flowers. Maybe near a body of water if you’ll let me be picky.”

He didn’t pull them closer, or drag his hand up. All he did was hold onto Dean, but with the way he looked at him— captivated and endeared by the very sight of him, the most minute details of his existence, the way he had always looked at Dean— he might as well have been saying I love you with tears shredding his voice and death knocking at their door.

Dean’s voice was nothing but a diluted rasp as he asked, “Anything else?”

Dean would never be sure whether he imagined it or not. His heart was beating too fast for coherent thought and his vision was swimming, but at the edge of his mind, barely, he could have sworn he felt Cas’s hand tighten, his fingers curling in a desperate attempt to make sure Dean stayed.

“No,” Castiel whispered. “Nothing else.”

……

“You mentioned it briefly over the phone, but,” Patience rolled the sleeves of her sweater up, features shaping with nerves. “What exactly is wrong with him?”

Instinctively, Dean looked over towards Sam for help, but Sam was already staring back at him with the same rattled eyes, his lips pressed thin. Even Eileen seemed to be at a loss, her eyes moving over Castiel with apprehension.

“If it helps any, Dean compares me to an animated fish named Dory,” Cas spoke up.

Dean glared down at him, his heart leaping ever so slightly when Castiel raised his eyes. He was laying down on one of the infirmary beds in a ratty flannel and faded blue jeans, his hands folded neatly over his stomach, and the smile he gave Dean was something playful and all-knowing, nothing like Dean imagined it to be in this situation.

Cas was just too damn brave sometimes.

“You heard the man,” Dean said, squeezing Cas on the shoulder with a forced smile. “He’s been Doried.”

“He’s lost all of his memories, and has only recently started getting them back,” Sam amended quickly, frowning. “What we don’t understand is why his memory is so selective. He can walk and talk and function like normal, he remembers that much. We’re hoping you can tell us why everything else is just... gone?”

Dean startled at Sam’s bluntness, the impact of it forcing his head down and his gaze elsewhere. He could feel Castiel’s eyes on him, steady and discerning, watching the way Dean discreetly picked at his nail bed down by his thigh. Dean could tell he wanted to reach out. Dean wanted the same.

“Look, I’ve been practicing how to enter the subconscious for a while now, but I can’t make any promises that this’ll work,” Patience said. She turned to Cas again, expression unreadable. “Especially with him being an—”

“That won’t be an issue,” Dean interrupted, voice hard. He couldn’t explain any further than that, not with Cas there, but Patience seemed to understand well enough. She gave Dean a small nod, even managing a smile when he said, “You can do this, kid. You’re ready. And, hey, if it doesn’t work out? We’ll still take you out for ice cream or somethin’, no hard feelings.”

“I’m almost twenty-one, you know.”

Dean shrugged. “Alright, a beer then.”

They shared matching smiles, and Dean finally found the heart to move away from Cas’s side, approaching her instead. He gripped her by the shoulder, wanting nothing more than to appear comforting.

“You ready?” He asked.

Patience breathed in, the rise of her shoulders moving with Dean’s hand. “Ready,” She smiled. Then, a little unsure, she took a seat at the edge of Cas’s bed and said, “You might want to step out for this.”

Dean froze. “What?”

“I’ll watch him,” Eileen said, and Dean felt the soothing hand at his elbow before he even saw her appear beside him. Dean turned to her with wide eyes, fear creeping in fast.

Something wasn’t right.

He swiveled his head over to Sam, wanting an explanation, but his brother’s eyes were loud in their unease, and Dean had no time to prepare himself before Patience was pressing two fingers to either side of Castiel’s head. Between Patience’s eyes closing and Cas’s flying open like worn shutters, a second passed, vibrations spilling into the air.

There was a ring, a distant hum, and then every lightbulb in the room was sent bursting into a shower of sparks.

Distantly, Dean could feel his body moving. Hunter instinct sent him ducking out of the way and throwing his arms up over his head, shielding himself from broken glass. But all he could hear was Cas’s breathing; pulsated and fast as if every gulp of air was being punched out of him, forced from his lungs. There was electricity prickling somewhere above his head, glass cracking beneath his heel, but through a haze of light and shadows— all Dean could see was Cas.

“What the hell’s happening?!” Dean screamed, and when he moved, he might as well have been wading through water. He could barely put one foot in front of the other, the weight of him teetering left and right as he stumbled towards Cas’s bedside.

A force stopped him before he could get there. A steady hand fell across his chest, holding Dean back. “Wait, just— wait a second, Dean.”

And maybe Dean would have listened to Sam if it wasn’t for Cas. He would have had a chance at basic function if it wasn’t for the way Cas was writhing and heaving through gritted teeth, thrashing in pain. But Dean couldn’t breathe through what he saw or think past what he knew, and what he knew was that if he had to watch Cas die in front of him again, this time, it wouldn’t be long before he followed.

“You’re fucking killing him!” He cried, voice breaking.

Just as Dean ripped himself from Sam’s hold and reached Castiel’s side, the wave of energy surrounding them softened. The whirring in the air lowered to a bearable undercurrent of static, and Dean could finally breathe again.

Patience opened her eyes slowly, breathing hard, and all the tension in Castiel’s limbs was released back into the bedding. His eyes slipped closed.

“I tried to warn you,” Patience sighed, brushing a thumb over Cas’s forehead.

“Warn us?” Dean snapped. “You never said it was gonna be like that.”

“It varies depending on the person. Castiel’s been avoiding his memories for almost two months at this point. He was resisting me, but I managed to slip into his subconscious. It won’t be as painful for him now.”

Dean nearly doubled back from the force of his shock. “You mean you’re not done probing the guy?”

“Dean,” Sam frowned. “She’s here to—”

“Help, yeah, I got it,” Dean said sharply, and he moved before the flame in his gut could get any worse, stalking out of the infirmary.

Dean couldn’t say he was surprised by the presence that followed, but he still whipped around to glare at Sam when he heard footsteps enter the hallway. Sam didn’t let it faze him; he simply gave Dean that soft mannered look, eyes big and comforting, and asked, “You alright?”

“Oh I’m fucking terrific,” Dean smiled, averting his eyes.

Sam raised his eyebrows wordlessly, unconvinced. “Clearly,” At Dean’s wrathful expression, Sam rolled his eyes and said, “Look, I know you don’t want to talk about it—”

“But let me guess, you do,” Dean pointed a harsh finger at him. “You think sitting down, shootin’ the shit and hugging it out is gonna turn things around, but it won’t,” He nearly left it at that. It would’ve been easy. But even with the rattle at the back of Dean’s throat, he managed to gather himself just enough to say, ever so quietly, “Crying about it won’t fix Cas. Believe me.”

Dean suffered through the silence that followed. Sam sighed.

“I know it hasn’t been easy for you, Dean. We’ve done our best to make things feel normal, for as long as we can. But seeing Cas like this, it’s...”

“Yeah,” Dean rasped thinly, heart in his throat.

“It’s impossible, you know? And I get that you think there’s no other side to this. That Cas is gone and you— you might not think there’s much of a point to anything anymore. I’ve been there too, okay? Believe me, I understand—”

“What?”

It was almost funny how fast everything lurched to a stand still, Dean staring at Sam as if he’d just been slapped. Sam was too shocked to do anything but stare back, mouth cracked open, but there was a timorous edge that seemed to crash over him like a freezing wave, slithering in to send his expression melting.

“Sam, how could you even begin to—” Dean swallowed. Then, softer, infusing more pain than Dean could have ever imagined, he looked at Sam and said, “You got Eileen back, didn’t you?”

And there’s no time to unravel the full weight of it. There’s no time for Dean to realize he practically served his feelings on a silver platter and batted it straight home. The look Sam gave him was downright miserable, breaking something in Dean that made him feel seconds away from collapsing, and he finally picked at the wound he’d been holding towards his chest since the moment Cas died.

“God goes dark side, shit hits the fan, but none of that matters because Jack brought Eileen back. Jack brought everyone back, good as new— so why is Cas the fucking exception, huh? Why do I feel like getting him back this time was just a worse way of losing him?”

It had been a while since Dean had balanced so close to honesty. It was dreadful and refreshing all in the same breath, and Dean didn’t know how to manage.

“We will figure things out with Cas,” Sam said. “We won’t stop until we find a way to help him. You know that, Dean.”

“What if there’s not a way this time?” When Dean dared to lift his head, he found Sam’s eyes blurry and red rimmed, just at the edge of something that made Dean’s heart ache. “What if we’ve finally reached our luck, Sam? You know ever since we found out Chuck’s been the one pulling the strings, I just can’t help but think maybe we weren’t even meant to make it this far.”

“You don’t believe that,” Sam demanded, breathing hard. “You’re sad and hopeless out of your mind right now, I get that— but you’re wrong. You can’t tell me that you believe there’s nothing more for us now. After everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve lost.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, man. It’s not,” Dean said dejectedly, feeling all the weight tip to his shoulders. “I just… I’m not sure I know what ‘more’ is supposed to look like.”

The lie tasted vile on Dean’s tongue. It surfaced as a pounding in his head and a stone in his ribcage, a pressure that refused to let Dean forget about the quiet corner he’d learned to drift towards when the going got too tough, or the alcohol worked too well. The place in Dean’s mind where retirement was inevitable and the guilt of leaving the life wasn’t enough to stop him. The place where Dean got to sleep in and kick back and kiss Cas and exist without death being as common as a winter cold.

That was the dream. That was the only ‘more’ Dean had ever been able to imagine, and by now he knew it well. He just wasn’t sure it was something he could have with his family ripped apart.

“I don’t know,” Dean muttered. “Fuck, I don’t know. I’m— I don’t know what I’m saying. You, uh, you should get back to Eileen.”

“And you should get back to Cas.”

Dean winced. “Cas doesn’t need me.”

Not now. Not when I’m like this— I’m no good to anyone like this.

Sam visibly deflated in the silence, and when he spoke next, his voice came out trembling, “I didn’t mean to make it seem like what’s going on with Cas isn’t—”

“I know you didn’t,” Dean told him quickly, desperate to wipe that look off Sam’s face. “Truth is, ever since Eileen came back I’ve been different around her. I mean I’ve cleared the air, but I’ve been different around you too, and you don’t deserve that. You two just... you’ve got it good, don’t you?” He breathed, wistful, and he forced out a laugh that ripped through the yearning.

“I mean with the world the way it is, you could get out of the life if you really wanted to. Haul ass to California, or wherever the hell it is you wanna go now. Start a family, have a few flannel wearing rugrats with your stupid hair,” Dean shrugged, mustering up a smile. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing you ever did.”

There was a moment, brief and concealed, where Sam seemed to consider Dean’s words. A quiet sort of awe passed through his eyes, the barest hint of a smile making the apples of his cheeks rise. All of it was gone far too soon.

Softly, he said, “That’s not the life I want, Dean. At least not right now.”

“What?” Dean laughed, because it was instinct and the dip his stomach gave wasn’t a good one. He squinted at Sam, and his voice came out incredulous, “Since when haven’t you been game for becoming Mr. Rogers?”

“Since Jessica, man. Since forever. I’ve tried, sure, but it was always me just trying to move on. It was never something I actually wanted,” He reasoned. Dean almost had the nerve to argue with him, but Sam smiled before he could get the chance, stopping Dean in an instant. “My freedom from Chuck is still helping people, helping other hunters. I’m not ready to give that up.”

It was pride that swarmed Dean first. That same painless rise in his chest that had always been there, blazing away, glowing brighter in the moments where Dean was reminded that he’d raised the kid in front of him. It used to happen a lot when they were younger, Dean practically bursting with happiness every time Sam would stagger into their shared motel room for the night to show Dean the grade he’d made on a test that day.

It was the easiest thing in the world, being proud of Sam. And as a kid, it was one of Dean’s luxuries. Dean couldn’t try out for the baseball team, or take his mother to lunch, or look his father in the eye without feeling one step away from getting a jab to the ribs, but at least he could be proud of his baby brother.

So it’s familiar, the feeling that washed over Dean. He imagined the look he gave Sam was familiar too, the smile on his face nearing painful. But it’s the realization that followed that made Dean clamp up unexpectedly. The understanding that, if Sam stayed, if Sam chose the life, then Dean would have no choice but to follow.

Dean breathed in. His chest felt tight.

“Well you know I’m in,” He said eventually, smiling.

“Dean,” Just the sound of his own name shattered him, the intent in it ringing like a silent plea. “It’s okay to want different things. To want things for yourself,” Sam shrugged, all the sadness in his smile pulling his face straight down. “You don’t want to be here.”

“What are you talking about? Of course I want to be here,” Dean retorted.

“No, no you don’t. You said it yourself, you’ve been different. Not just on this last hunt, not with what’s been going on with Cas, but this entire year.”

“Oh, you mean the year that we were fighting God? That year?” Dean scoffed, anger rushing in fast and hot. “Gee, sorry Sam. Guess that kinda thing just changes a guy.”

“No, that’s not it,” Sam argued, frustrated enough to finally start glaring. “I’m talking about hunting. Ever since we found out Chuck’s been running the show you’ve been different. Angrier. Not just because we were being controlled, but because you knew that if we didn’t defeat Chuck, you would never get a chance at what you’ve always wanted.”

“And what’s that?” Dean pressed.

“A life of your own.”

In theory, it should be easy. Dean should be able to just take the hit and keep pushing. Keep fighting back, keep up the smiles and the cutbacks and the sarcasm. He’s had plenty of practice, hasn’t he? But Dean couldn’t shoulder it any longer, not all at once, and his mask slipped like wet paint, trailing down his face miserably.

Denying it felt useless. Dean had spent half his life denying it; ignoring just how much he craved normalcy and a good night's rest without feeling the dig of a gun buried under his pillow. But he couldn’t just say yes either. With yes came a mountain of other shit Dean didn’t think he could say aloud. It meant saying I’m unhappy, and I’m tired, and I’m sorry.

It meant Dean finally admitting that he needed more than just Sam to be content now, and there had never been (or ever would be) anything more terrifying.

“I’m not leaving you,” Is what inevitably came out, the only truth he’d ever known, the only good thing Dean had ever been taught, because without that there was nothing. Dean was nothing.

Leaving Sam meant failing him, failing everything, and Dean couldn’t. In every sense of the word, Dean couldn’t.

“You wouldn’t be leaving me, Dean,” Sam tried to reason, eyes shining. “That’s just it. I’m not your responsibility anymore. I never should’ve been, and the world won’t end if you put yourself before me for once.”

Dean could barely speak through the fire in his throat, “Sammy…”

“I know,” Sam stared down at him, looking more grown and puppy eyed than Dean had ever seen him. “Believe me, I know. It goes against your whole code, right?”

“Every fucking instinct,” Dean muttered.

Sam shook his head. “What happened to going to the beach? Toes in the sand retirement, hanging it up for good. Don’t you still want that?”

“Yes,” Dean grounded out, feeling surrounded, feeling free. “I want that, I’ve always— but I thought—” He faltered, unable to voice it, but Sam knew. Sam had always known. “Sammy, I don’t want it if you’re not there with me.”

And somehow, of all the times to be thinking about the past and the present and the narrowing gap between them, it’s then that Dean thought of Stanford. Thought about finding a letter stashed at the bottom of Sam’s duffle and sitting in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven until his hands stopped shaking. Thought about the jealousy and the anger and the roiling shit storm of it all once Dad got back to find Dean screaming through severed lungs; Dean’s bloodied knuckles imprinted with perfect clarity in the wall just shy of the motel bathroom where Sam was crumpled over the sink, his face wet with tears.

It had worked out, in the end. Four years and a missing dad later and Dean was with his brother again. But while Sam had been puking into solo cups and falling in love, those years had found Dean wasting away in back alleys and drive bars and truck stops, hunger pushing his ribs out while his face caved inwards. Scarce food and even scarcer money making the idea of dropping to his knees for some nameless john in a public restroom seem necessary rather than vile.

And yet none of that compared to the ache of loneliness that had lived in Dean during those four years without his brother.

He didn’t know if he could do this without Sam. He’d never even tried to. All Dean knew was that it felt like Sam was trying to leave him all over again, and someone should be screaming, Dean thought. Someone should be breaking shit or throwing punches, but maybe things really had changed, because what inevitably came was an embrace that Dean didn’t think either of them had been ready for.

Dean wasn’t sure who leaned in first, but it was Sam who led them. It was Sam who threw his arms around Dean’s shoulders before Dean could try and do the same, and he pulled Dean down as if Dean was the little brother this time, seeking something he could never voice.

“I’ll be there,” Sam said, and god if that wasn’t the most sincere promise Dean had ever heard. “I’ll always be there. But it needs to be different now. It is different. It’s not just you and me anymore.”

Good, Dean thought immediately, because never in his life did he expect to be loved by anyone but Sam, and sometimes just knowing he was still rendered him breathless.

“I can’t think about that now,” Dean squeezed Sam’s shoulder as he pulled away, eyes flitting down the hall. He coughed, forcing the emotion out of his throat. “Not with Cas being—”

“I know,” Sam smiled. “But I want you to promise me,” Dean somehow found a way to meet Sam’s earnest gaze, ignoring the number it did to his working lungs. “That when this is all over, good or bad, you’ll make a choice for yourself. Promise me.”

Dean smiled. He could promise Sam all he wanted. He could make it sound grand and genuine, threading in a little truth just to pat down the lies. He could tell Sam about the job applications hidden under his skin mags, or the mass of paperwork he’d been trying to stifle through just to even try to look at owning anything under a legal name. Dean could admit that he was ready— past ready to start a life that wasn’t brimming with hellfire. But none of it would matter.

If Cas wasn’t going to be around for it, if they didn’t figure this mess out— none of it would matter.

“I’m not promising anything until that girl of yours in there has a ring on her finger,” Dean quipped instead, smiling through the initial sting, and it worked at least. This time, Sam didn’t find any deeper meaning to the pull of Dean’s mouth.

Flustered, with a voice wrung tight with chipped composure, Sam groaned out, “Dean, come on—”

“Nope, that’s my line. It’s time for you to man up.”

Sam balked. “Man up— we haven’t even been together for six months yet!”

“Details, Sam.”

Sam shrank back, a sweet sort of skittishness flashing across his face. He gave Dean one of those smiles of his, something about the shape of it worn soft and smoothed over, budding with quiet acceptance.

“I have been thinking…” Sam started haltingly. He paused, hesitant, and spoke quickly through a rattling laugh, “I’ve been thinking about asking her if she’d like to move in.” His eyes widened after a few seconds of Dean staring at him in silence, mouth open. “If that’s alright with you, obviously. I haven’t exactly run it by Cas either but—”

“I’ll be damned,” Dean breathed, swelling with warmth. “That’s great, Sammy. Great for you, I mean. Eileen not so much, but—”

“Fuck off,” Sam laughed, smiling hard enough to let his head fall, and when he blinked up through wild hair to push at Dean’s shoulder, the two of them drifting in the hallway like lost boys reluctant to race home, Dean knew that the twenty-year-old kid with a freckled nose and the forest green eyes of a mother passed no longer had to worry about his greatest fear coming true.

Even in distance, Sam would always be there.

…...

Patience stood up from Cas’s bedside the moment Sam and Dean returned to the infirmary. Sam flocked to Eileen’s side instantly, needing her close, but Patience had a shakiness to her features that qued Dean in, setting alarms blaring through his skull before he could even think to bolt towards Cas.

“His grace,” Patience said. She pressed her lips thin. “It’s gone.”

“Yeah, well we figured that much out on our own. Dude uses way too much toilet paper to be an angel,” Dean quipped weakly, voice drained of real humor.

Patience shook her head, forehead pinching as she clarified, “No, I— I mean it’s gone. It was cut out.”

“Cut out?” Sam asked, and Dean could imagine he’d sound just as incredulous if he was able to get his breath back fast enough to speak. Sam turned to Dean. “What, like Anna?”

“He cut out what he needed to survive,” Patience added mournfully.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Dean,” Sam muttered, trying to be mindful, but Dean was staring through a field of sweltering heat, his heart vibrating in the shell of his ears.

“You seriously expect me to believe that Cas chose this? Willingly? No fucking way,” Dean knew how he was looking at Sam, desperate and imploring, needing Sam to just fucking get behind him on this, but Dean didn’t care. He didn’t care how unethical, how impossible of a wish— Dean couldn’t accept that Cas had given up something else for him; something even bigger than his life.

“Look, Dean, I don’t know much about angels, but I do feel energies, and when I looked inside of him—” Patience leveled Castiel with a heavy look, eyes tracking over his sleeping figure. “His insides are charred. His soul is shredded,” Her face softened. “I’m sorry.”

“It adds up, Dean,” Sam almost looked scared of Dean at that moment, staggering around him with an outstretched hand as if that would somehow soften the incoming blow. “The buried memories, the demon at the hospital. Cas could still see his true face, just like Anna,” Sam swallowed. “Cas chose to fall, to become human. He knew the consequences—”

“And he chose to forget everything just for a shot at being human? Bullshit! That’s not Cas.”

Or at least Dean couldn’t allow himself to think so. He wasn’t sure there was a way out if he went down that path, the spindling thought of Cas and humanity and the choice to abandon it all— abandon everything he’d been just to look at Dean from level ground, just to breathe the same air and drag through time with his feet firmly planted. Dean didn’t want to think about it; what he’d almost been able to have.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Dean,” Patience withered, looking sympathetic. “You said he was in a place called the Empty?” Dean could barely find the strength to nod, and her next words ran a course down his spine. “Maybe this, forgetting... was better than any alternative.”

Dean let those words wash over him, vague and distant, muffled with painstaking refusal. He allowed it, but only for a second, and then he was looking at Sam frantically, searching his gaze.

“What if something else cut it out? The Empty is swarming with dick angels, any one of them could have taken a shot at Cas,” Dean tried to insist, but he softened when he saw the look on Sam’s face.

“Cas would have come out the other side coughing his lungs out, Dean. Angels ripping each other’s graces out used to be a form of treason, it’s different than angels doing it themselves— different from choosing to fall. Cas wouldn’t have survived if it had been anything other than his own choice.”

“Then why haven’t we come across his grace, huh? Anna’s grace was like a beacon on Earth.”

“It’s different,” Sam sighed, straining just to comprehend it all. He was gripping Eileen’s hand desperately now, fingers blooming with color. “When Anna fell from Heaven, her grace fell with her. But when Cas became human, the Empty couldn’t have a hold on him anymore. It did what it was meant to do; it let humanity free, and kept the rest locked away.”

“What are you saying?” Dean felt hollowed out, bled dry. He was being flooded and torched in flames all at once, and his voice rose above a sudden surge of power that blew in from behind him and traced a flush up the back of his neck. “Are you trying to tell me that Cas’s grace is still stuck there? In the Empty?”

“I’m too late.”

His words came out shrill and meaningless, stammered out without purpose or direction or any means of an apology, and Dean’s stomach curdled with rage so hot he nearly tripped on his way to turn and face him. He was still wearing the same clothes he’d left them in; he still looked so painfully like a child.

Sam exhaled shakily, “Jack?”

“This is Jack?” Patience asked.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dean countered, stalking forward.

“Dean—” Sam rushed towards him in a panic, throwing an arm out to catch Dean by the shoulder, but the effort didn’t matter. Once he was standing in front of Jack with his jaw set and his eyes alight, Dean stopped all on his own.

“Is this you actually answering a prayer? Or is this just a check-in before you jump ship for another two months?” He couldn’t even remember the last time he spoke so bitterly; the last time he’d felt so close to losing himself to his rage that stayed dormant and alive, waiting in a constant simmer for the inevitable snap. “Do you have any idea how much we’ve needed you? You’ve been gone for months— and I never stopped praying.”

It’s the kind of admission that Dean would have rather died than speak aloud just a handful of years ago. It was truthful and harsh in its honesty, its desperation, acknowledging the kind of sleepless nights that Dean had always done his best to keep out of Sam’s reach, but it was all on the table now.

It was there to be picked at with eager eyes, and Jack was taking his time; he was looking at Dean as if he was watered down with an unthinkable weight, softened with guilt, and Dean knew he was the most powerful being in the world, capable of uprooting all of existence and hurdling it towards the sun, but at that moment he looked seconds away from falling to his knees.

“I know,” Jack said, and the silence turned deafening.

“You know,” Dean repeated, disbelief forcing a sharpened smile to pull at the side of his face. “Well, news flash, kid. The phone works both ways! While you were out of commission doing fuck all, we were here. Cas was here, dying, and you fucking—”

“Dean, stop!” Sam finally shouted, using the full width of his voice, and Dean straightened back to find Sam glaring at him, his features laced with pain.

“I never meant for you to find out like this,” Jack shook his head frantically. There was a rampant shake let loose in his hands, vibrating in his pulse. “I was trying to fix it. By myself, I was trying to fix it, but my power over the Empty is limited and I didn’t— I couldn’t disappoint you. Not again,” He inhaled slow and heavily. “I’m sorry, Dean. For everything. For so many things, but I couldn’t come back here until I had good news.”

Dean forced the heat in his lungs to settle, eyes lowering. He could barely look at the kid. “What news?”

“You’re right about Castiel’s grace. It’s stuck in the Empty, but I know a way to get in contact with it without having to enter there.”

“What,” Dean laughed. “You can’t spare a little God juice to just go in and take it?”

“Let me make something clear,” Jack started, surprisingly intent with the way in which he withheld them, his eyes perfectly distinct. “I’m not Chuck. I’ve absorbed his powers, his essence, yes but— there is no replacement for God. There are some things I’ll never be able to replicate, and his power over the Empty is one of them.”

“Perfect. That’s— perfect,” Dean breathed out, scraping a hand over his face.

“What’s the plan, Jack?”

Dean spun at the sound of Sam’s voice, eyes widening. “Seriously? You’re buying this?”

“If you would just stow your crap for five fucking minutes Dean, maybe you’d realize that this is a good thing,” Sam finally gritted. “Jack’s here now, with a plan. Everything else can wait until after we fix Cas.”

It’s the way Sam said it, with his voice scraped raw and his jaw locked tight that made the knot in Dean’s chest slowly begin to unravel, splintering outwards and shriveling up. Reality settled high on his shoulders, washing the anger away, and Dean’s eyes drifted to the motionless body across the room.

He could see Castiel’s chest moving from this distance, a gradual rise and fall, but only barely. His hair was disheveled, sticking out every which way, and just the sight of it kick-started something in Dean that had long since been absent, an irrevocable ache for the past and a need for the future that had him looking at Jack helplessly.

“Let’s hear it then,” He said, and Jack released a heavy breath, the height of his shoulders melting into something much more fragile.

“Just like with any angel who chooses to fall, Cas should still have a connection with his grace. A piece of it left behind,” Jack explained. The sleeves of his white-denim jacket were folded over the curve of his hands, just a little too big for him, and his fingers flocked to them for comfort, pulling and twisting every which way. “If I can tap into that source, I might be able to pull Cas’s grace out of the Empty and transfer it right back into him.”

“So Cas’s grace is the prize and you’re what? The claw machine?” Dean demanded roughly.

“Well, I…” Jack tilted his head, glancing towards Sam with uncertainty. Immediately, Sam gave him an encouraging nod, lips curling fondly, and Jack lit up from the inside out. “Yes,” He smiled, baring his teeth like a child. “I’m the claw machine.”

“Great, cause those things aren’t rigged as all hell,” Dean mumbled, more to himself than anything, because Jack was already making his way to Cas’s bedside and Sam was following without pause, without reason, leaving Dean behind to watch Cas’s bedside get swarmed.

Patience, who until now had been shocked into a nearby silence, came to Dean’s side as if compelled, her hands buried deep into the pockets of her jacket.

“I know I’ve never met him, but when you said Jack took God’s powers I guess I just expected him to look… older.”

Dean didn’t even have to study the disappointed edge of her features to understand exactly what she meant. It was unsettling, to say the least. Trying to see Chuck in every pull of skin and stretch of teeth, half expecting his voice to come out instead of Jack’s, his essence boiling beneath borrowed skin.

Dean didn’t understand who Jack was supposed to be now. He was their kid, the son of Satan turned good and Castiel’s most precious gift— but Jack’s memory said otherwise. His knowledge held the weight of their creator, their puppeteer, the very thing that had damned them all since the beginning, and that wasn’t something Dean could just ignore.

“It’s kind of like a kid playing dress up ain’t it?” Dean asked, watching through vacant eyes as Eileen rushed to Cas as well, her hand finding its way to Sam’s lower back.

Patience was quiet for a moment. Not once did her eyes leave Jack.

“Or a kid that’s been given too much responsibility,” She countered, and Dean hadn’t noticed it before, but when he turned to finally look at her, it was sadness that registered first, glaring off of her in shimmering waves.

Without another word, Patience joined the others. But it wasn’t until Jack’s eyes turned a crimson gold that Dean himself drew any closer, his heart nothing but a ceaseless drum as Jack pressed a hand to Castiel’s chest and drew in a labored breath, power pooling in the coat of his eyes.

“Jack? You doing okay?” Sam asked tensely, looking ready to dive forward and rip the two apart if needed.

“I’m fine, but, Cas—” Jack shuttered against a sudden wave, eyes closing. Light poured from the breath of his fingertips, surging outwards across the plain of Cas’s chest. “I won’t be able to hold this connection for long. He’s weak.”

Dean could barely muster his own voice, “How weak?”

“I found it!” Jack exclaimed. Just the elation in his voice and the tilt of his smile was enough to make Dean’s heart lurch, his feet stuttering forward to get a better look. “I see his grace, I see…”

The fall was fast; Jack’s smile turning pained as his eyes sparked, the tremor in his hand returning, but Dean’s heart fell faster. He felt the Earth roar the moment it shattered by his feet.

“Jack? No, no, no— Jack! Hey!” Sam’s voice was a distant boom blown deaf to Dean’s ears. He watched through frantic static as Sam grabbed Jack by the shoulder, pulling him back into his arms. “You’re okay. You’re alright.”

The light vanished, soaking back into his skin, and Jack leaned into Sam gratefully, the pain on his face never wavering. Castiel didn’t move; Dean had to ask anyway.

“Did it work?”

“His grace is more damaged than I thought,” Jack breathed, looking ready to collapse with grief.

“Damaged? Why the hell is it damaged?”

“They’ve been torturing it,” He said, heavy as anything, and Dean nearly couldn’t bare it; his world veered sideways, and he threw out his hands to grip the edge of the infirmary bed. “The angels and demons, all of them. That’s why Cas is dying. He’s being ripped apart piece by piece. There’s no way to know what would happen if I used my powers to pull it out. It could explode, it— it could rupture. The power of unobtained grace is unfathomable.”

“Then just go in and yank it out,” Dean yelled, his heart in his throat. “Forget the cat napping, and fight your way through!”

“I can’t,” Jack spun around to face Dean, serving him this crushing look that had Dean struggling to breathe. “Chuck was never meant to be able to enter the Empty. That’s what was written, that was the truth. But he rewrote the rules, he— he changed the story to win. Just like he always did. But I’m not God.”

“Then what are you, Jack?” Dean took a daring step forward. “Because the last time I checked, you sure left us like God.”

Jack’s gaze never wavered. He was a kid with the world dancing in his fingertips, peeling in his palms, and he should have cracked under Dean’s harshness. But there was something simmering in his features, an inexplicable sense of calm that threw Dean completely.

“I’m a Winchester,” Jack answered, smiling through the truth, and Dean couldn’t help it; his heart burned hot in the center of his chest. “Besides, even if I could sneak in, the Empty would sense me immediately. I’d be swarmed, thrown out,” He raised his eyebrows, the lilt of his mouth turning giddy. “But just like any Winchester, I have a plan.”

……

The plan was that there was no plan. At least not one that Cas knew about.

By the time Castiel woke up, his throat torn raw and his body aching all over, Jack was gone, and Dean was forced to do what he always did: lie.

“Patience struck out,” Dean told him, flashing an easy smile. “We didn’t figure out much but, how are you feelin’? You took one hell of a nap.”

“I feel…” Cas swallowed, sitting up with great effort. Dean moved to help him, a hand cupping his shoulder, and Cas turned to look at him sharply, his eyes pulled wide with alarm.

Dean raised his eyebrows, freezing where he stood. “What?”

“I feel different.”

“A good different, or a bad different?”

“Just… different,” Cas frowned down at the bedding, his voice nothing but a low rumble. His hair was dripping over his forehead now, flared out over the shell of his ears, and Dean fought against the glaring urge to fix it.

“Well we’ve been having a lot of that lately,” Dean muttered.

“Dean,” Castiel peered up at him, his eyebrows pulled down with worry. “You’re sure nothing—”

“Nothing happened, man. I’m sorry to say we rolled snake eyes on this one, but we’ve still got time. I don’t want you worrying about it, alright?” It’s sad just how easy it really is. The words run smooth and Cas’s eyes soften instantly, his concern ebbing away at the certainty in Dean’s voice.

“Alright.”

“Good, now,” Dean moved to help him off the bed. “How about you let Eileen take a quick look at you. Make sure you’re not gonna keel over.”

And Dean didn’t know how it happened. He didn’t know how he let it happen, but his hand slid to the curve of Cas’s lower back as he guided him towards Eileen, and Cas turned to Dean as if he’d just discovered something precious, his eyes moving slow over the sudden shock in Dean’s features.

Color rose in Castiel’s face, deep and honey-warm, and when Dean finally found the sense to drop his hand, it felt as though every knuckle weighed a thousand pounds. Dean curled his hand by his side, fingers creaking.

“Did he believe you?” Sam appeared to his right, bringing with him the kind of wordless comfort that had Dean breathing again, however shallow.

Dean smiled darkly. “He always does.”

And so the lying began, and Dean didn’t even manage to last an hour before he was itching to get away.

They were all spinning this lie together, telling Cas everything he wanted to hear, but the details were vague and the guilt was palpable, and Dean knew it was only a matter of time before Cas caught on. Before he realized that Eileen’s smiling was turning pained and Patience had decided on silence entirely, afraid of saying the wrong thing. Sam was trying to make conversation, pulling topics from seemingly random blimps of space, but to Dean it was obvious; none of them knew what to do.

Dean snatched up the Impala's keys before he could come up with much of a plan. He waved them in front of the group, smiling like he meant it, and soon they were all piling into the car with Dean leading the way. Dean knew heading to the nearest bar wasn’t much of an idea, but he was eager for a drink and lying was always easier without the drone of silence.

There were people already pouring in the doors by the time they arrived at the bar, heavy groups of drunk friends and nervous teenagers lingering in the smoke-hazed gravel lot. The sun hadn’t gone down quite yet, but the sky had already started to break apart, streaks of orange light fading into the surrounding trees. Dean had been to this place plenty of times before, and never had he seen it quite like this.

“Drinks must be half off or something,” Sam shrugged, leaning forward to stare out at the crowd.

Castiel shifted in his seat, eyes growing more and more worried as they rolled through the parking lot. “Is this really a wise decision given your concussion, Dean?”

Jack had already taken care of Dean’s concussion just before vanishing, relieving the throbbing ache at the base of Dean’s skull with a sweep of his hand, but Cas couldn’t know that. Which meant Dean was going to have to lie and keep lying. Dean parked the car away from anyone else, not looking to risk some drunk bastard getting so much as a fingerprint on her, and turned at the waist to look at Cas.

“I’ve been feeling better, man, don’t worry. Besides, the booze will help,” He said, slapping the leather seat with a grin.

Cas didn’t look happy about it, but with all four of them insisting, eventually he felt convinced enough to follow them out into the open air, where the slick heat of summer was just beginning to make its appearance.

Dean took his jacket off the moment he was inside, a sudden swell of excitement making heat crawl down his arms. This was good, things were fine now, and getting drunk would only make it better. Dean would be floating soon, too immobile and loose-limbed to remember the guilt wading in his stomach, and that was all Dean wanted. He wanted to forget he was walking on landmines, waiting for the moment it all came loose— the wrapping and the font and the falseness of it all— and Cas would realize the plan before it could even take place.

Dean wanted to remember none of it. But when they found their seats, all five of them packing themselves into this whiskey-damp booth with fork indentions buried into the leather, Dean somehow found himself with one beer and one beer only.

He was too focused on his ice cream sundae to care all that much.

“Man, I can’t even remember the last time I had ice cream that wasn’t drowning in liquor. This is fucking awesome,” Dean groaned through a mouthful, face twisting as his teeth froze over. He hissed out a breath, smiling through the buzz of it. “Hey, killjoy,” Sam lifted his head, and through a gurgling mess of ice cream, Dean said, “I’m sure if you asked the waitress she could freeze you up some carrot juice.”

Sam made a disapproving face, purposely ignoring Eileen’s infectious giggling.

“No thanks. Ice cream doesn’t exactly complement beer.”

Dean shrugged. “You don’t see me complaining,” His voice faded as he tipped his drink back, draining it with a dramatic gasp. Dean came back smiling from it, the heat outside making his skin shine red, and he slid the empty glass to the far side of the table.

He heard more than he saw it clink gently with Cas’s own drink. Dean raised his eyes to him, somehow already knowing, feeling it like a grip to the throat— but his breath still faltered when he found Cas staring at him, watching Dean move and smile and live like it was all he’d been built for, and Dean’s heart still knew nothing of reason.

It still beat restlessly for something so far out of reach.

“I wanted to apologize for earlier,” Patience started suddenly, ripping Dean’s pulse from his ears. She stirred her ice cream idly, shoulders lifting, “Again. I know this didn’t turn out the way you wanted, and as far as last chances go I definitely dropped the ball—”

“You did everything you could. Why shouldn’t we be grateful to you?” Cas asked incredulously, his tone strained with hurt.

They all turned to look at him, their lips sealed but their eyes burdened, and Dean rushed to move past it.

“You did fine, kiddo. Really,” He said. “There’s nothing to apologize for. Now finish your ice cream before it melts.”

Patience smiled, her eyes turning sharp. “I could’ve sworn beer was promised.”

“Sure, Miss Underage. Right after you finish your dessert that I paid for.”

“With your stolen credit card?” She scoffed.

“Notice how you said it was mine?” Dean grinned proudly, knowing damn well that he’d won once Patience started pushing around her ice cream again, her mouth pinched but her eyes warm.

Seconds later, Sam got up without a word, his hip bumping the table on his way to stand.

Dean barely spared him a glance, mouth quirking upwards as he mouthed, “Gas?”

“I just need some air.” Was all Sam said, no quick retort, no flustered laugh, and it only took an instant for Dean to feel his gut twist with apprehension.

Dean raised his head with softened eyes, instinct having him poised and worried even before Eileen could get her words out.

“If you want, I could—”

“I’ll be right back,” Sam insisted hastily, and just like that he was staggering away, making a direct beeline across the bar. He disappeared out the back door, the shadow of him swinging with the hinges.

…...

Sam waded through a sea of dark smoke and drunken limbs before bursting out of the bar’s alleyway. A woman reached out to him, a pair of blood-red nails brushing sensually over the bulk of his shoulder, and he jerked away on instinct, cowering as he moved past.

There was chatter all over the street now that the sun had fallen, and Sam had to walk a decent amount just to find a lonely corner where the rest of the world fell quiet. There was a moonlit park just at the far reach of his vision, and an empty bookstore at his back. He didn’t know the area very well; going out without reason had always interested Dean more than it did Sam, but Sam reveled in the stillness anyway, and in it, he searched for any semblance of the faith he’d once had.

“Look, I don’t even know if you’re still here, but if you are,” Sam took a deep breath, suddenly remembering years worth of rushed prayers in the backseat of the Impala, so much weight carried in the hidden bible he’d stolen from some paint-chipped library in Arkansas when he was thirteen. He was scratching for that same feeling now, aching desperately for it, but his faith had been tested and his soul had been shot and he looked up at the sky with something akin to rage, teeth gritting as he bit out, “Can I get more than five fucking minutes please?”

It didn’t take but a second. Jack hadn’t gone far.

“I’m here, Sam,” He said in greeting, and Sam whipped around to find the kid smiling at him, his hand held up in a subdued little wave. “I never left. I told you, I’ll be watching over you all until Cas heals from the connection. That way, the plan won't... 'screw us in the ass' as Dean put it.”

It hurt just to look at him, even now. Alive and present but terse and doubtful, his essence oozing power while his body drowned in clothing. Jack had become something unfathomable, a child whose blood could send the Earth quaking, whose mind and body and soul didn’t align, and Sam didn’t know how to talk to him. How to look at him without instantly wanting to break apart.

“Is that how it’s been this whole time? All these months you’ve just… sat and watched?” Sam asked.

“I couldn’t help but check in,” Jack said, frowning like he couldn’t compute the look on Sam’s face, nothing in the world making sense. “I wanted to make sure you were all alright. That you… were capable of moving on.”

“Moving on? What part of the last few months has looked like moving on to you?” Sam demanded, voice cracking with disbelief. “We couldn’t move on, Jack. Not even a little. Not with Cas gone and— and then changed and you—” He drawled himself back, shaking from the effort to stay standing. “Not without you. That’s not how this works.”

Jack’s head tilted. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re family,” Sam heaved. And he always had been, through the lies and hurt and countless misunderstandings— Jack had never stopped being family, but Jack didn’t know that. Sam wasn’t sure he’d ever really known. “I mean we missed you. I missed you, and you finally came back only to take off again the second we turned our backs because you don’t know how to look us in the eyes anymore.”

“I can’t show myself to Castiel, Sam. It’s too much of a risk.”

“No, it’s because you feel guilty,” Sam corrected, fixing Jack with a look that had him bristling as if caught, his eyes flickering.

Slowly, Jack curled his fingers into the sleeves of his jacket. His leg bounced nervously, and he looked down at his sole-worn shoes.

“You’re upset with me,” He muttered.

“I’m worried about you,” Sam said instead, and Jack raised his head with shining eyes. His chin was quivering, the miserable kind of sorrow residing just behind his features, waiting to burst free, and Sam latched on desperately. “I don't know what you want. I don’t know where you wanna be.”

Jack’s smile was pained, twisted with surprise. “You don’t?”

And the confusion didn’t startle Sam this time. It wasn’t fueled from ignorance or disbelief, but rather from loving bewilderment, an incredulous how could you not already know? that had hope brewing in even the lowest places, Sam’s heart pounding against the swell in his throat— because this was Jack. It was easy to forget that now. But this was still the same child Sam had fought for without any clue or reason, the same being whose heart overcame its fate.

Sam knew what he feared, even when he saw what he wanted, and he needed to be sure. He needed to know— to ask, because this could go one of two ways, and Sam hadn’t had the privilege of seeing both. He’d picked his path, made his choice, and that had gotten him hitchhiking to California with nothing more than the clothes on his back and ten dollars worth of change.

He didn’t want that for Jack. Sam wanted anything but that.

“You’ve got the whole universe in your lap, Jack. All of it. And after this is all over, after we get Cas back and— and Dean along with him, it’s up to you to decide where you want to go,” Jack’s face shifted, confusion sweeping in again, and Sam rippled with quiet laughter, his eyes no longer dry. “I know what it’s like to feel stuck somewhere, alright? Forced to stay when all you wanna do is leave, and I always thought to myself that… that if I had a kid I—” His voice stopped, and his soul split, the past grappling him by the throat. But it had been a while since anything had felt this important, and by the time Sam found his breath again, he was smiling brilliantly. “No matter how I felt, I wouldn’t make them stay. Not if they didn’t want to. Not if they wanted a life of their own, and that’s what I’m doing. I’m giving you what I never had; a choice.”

And wasn’t that all he’d ever wanted?

Between college and the life and the demon blood— all Sam had ever wanted was a choice, the ability to decide who he was and what he wanted beyond the evil that burned between his nerves. It had taken him over thirty years to get where he was. Thirty years of searching and leaving and finding all over again to finally accept that this was where he belonged, and he wasn’t planning on giving that up.

Sam just wasn’t going to force anyone to follow a path he’d found through tragedy.

“But I’ve already chosen,” Jack said, easy as a summer’s breeze, lacking all the same misery Sam could still feel like an old sore. Jack smiled then, soft and well-mannered, sporting the kind of certainty Sam didn’t think he’d felt until his mid-twenties, and asked, “Why would I want to be anywhere else but home?”

It was Sam who moved first, throwing away months' worth of bitterness and heartache to pull Jack in by the neck, embracing him under the warm mist and haloed circle of a streetlamp waning in the dark. Sam had done this plenty of times before, seeking touch to tether himself to reality, needing to know he was seeing the truth, but never had he felt someone hold him back with the same intensity.

Jack’s body was shaking, arms wound tight, and yet he was smiling. Even through the covered sniffling and the hastily wiped tears, Jack stayed smiling, all crooked teeth and kind eyes, the glow in him remaining until the very last second when Sam watched him fade away with a gust of wind.

And even then, Jack’s smile was the last to go.

……

Dean gently closed the door behind them, and just like every night, his chest tightened the moment they were alone.

There was a certain rhythm to the way they did this now; habits had been made, a ritual established, but Dean’s heart still pounded all the same when Cas started kicking off his shoes, his steps familiar, the sound of him breathing all too comforting.

It always started with the shoes and ended with the shirt, both of them undressing in the kind of silence Dean thought should be uncomfortable. The rustling of clothes and the clink of a sliding belt should be awkward, but mostly Dean just felt warm, his skin buzzing all over, his senses blown to life.

It was the barest taste of normal in a sea of drowning red, and Dean took all he could.

Dean had just managed to get his jeans off and tossed across the room when he heard Cas grunt from the opposite side of the bed, his arms dropping heavy and useless by his sides.

“You alright?” Dean asked, struggling not to just turn around and look without feeling invasive.

Cas sighed. “I think you know the answer to that.”

Dean was silent for a moment, and then, with his voice lilted, “Was it the ice cream?”

Dean could feel the eyes as they turned to him. The spell had been broken now, the peace obliterated, and Cas sighed heavily, the irritability in it finally getting Dean’s head to swivel. It took all of two seconds for Dean to recognize the look on Cas’s face, everything inside of him pinched tight, locked in, and suddenly all reservation was tossed to the side, and Dean was crossing the room without a second thought.

“Is it your shoulders?” He asked.

Castiel took a weakened step and winced, shoulders flinching. “That’s a factor, yes.”

“I didn’t think your shoulders were that much of a problem anymore. Not since you first got here.”

“They’ve never stopped being a problem,” Cas scowled defeatedly, staring down at the floor, and Dean made a decision.

“Turn around,” He made a twirling motion with his finger, ignoring the gradual rise of panic building behind his rib cage.

Cas blanched. “What?”

“Come on, man, let me see. Shirt off,” Dean said, trying to sound encouraging, but his own ears heard nothing but blatant excitement, and Dean dropped his gaze against a rush of crimson red, his face burning with it.

“I, um,” Cas swallowed thickly, feet staggering back and forth. He didn’t know where to look, eyes darting between Dean and the opposite wall. “My shirt isn’t cooperating, as it seems.”

When Castiel finally turned to face Dean fully, his hands were already on a spiral, fumbling frantically with the buttons of his flannel. His brow was drawn down with concentration, bottom lip trapped between his teeth, but all of it was pointless with Cas’s hands shaking the way they were; Dean all but ripped himself out of a standstill.

He stepped in closer, gesturing towards Cas’s hands. “Do you want me to…?”

It was almost alarming just how quickly Castiel let his arms drop. Wide eyes searched for Dean's own, trying to catch his gaze, but Dean couldn’t look at him. Dean couldn’t acknowledge anything beyond the sweat on his skin and the heat in his gut, countless years of wishing and wondering all coming to a grating halt as his thumb brushed over the top button.

Castiel's throat bobbed.

Dean tried to come up with the words he wanted to say. Something comforting maybe, a stupid joke— anything to keep reality at a distance, but his heart was aching far too painfully to speak, and with every button came a greater weight. With every stretch of skin came a punch of desire, a wave of breathless need, but by the time Dean had reached the bottom of his shirt and Cas was turning for him against a lamplight glow, all of it was gone.

At first glance, it was hard for Dean to tell where the bruises ended and the skin began. Castiel’s back was nothing but two jagged lines of darkened rot, the color that had once been warm faded to a mesh of black and blue right where the memory of wings used to reside. These bruises were fresh, the first evidence of pain that had been there all along, and Dean didn’t know what to think.

They were supposed to be waiting for Cas to get better, for the after-effects of the connection to fade and for Dean’s presence to heal what had broken, but Castiel was right. Something was different. Something was wrong.

Immediately, the words I did this spun a treacherous loop in the depths of Dean’s mind, and fear was what burned the brightest.

“Dean?” Cas tensed in the sudden silence. He turned to try and look at Dean, hoping to catch his expression. “Dean, you’re beginning to worry me. What’s—”

And then there were arms wrapping around Castiel, a body melting against his own, and Cas’s voice stopped as if clipped at the root, completely insignificant. There was a silence that followed, heavy but adoring, genuine but dazed, and Dean did his best to breathe through it, the shake at his core forcing his limbs to move faster than his thoughts. He couldn’t think about what this meant yet; only that he needed it, and Cas was allowing him to need it.

Slowly, Dean circled his arms around Castiel’s waist, pressing his forehead to the back of his hair, and he felt Cas shutter around him. There was a heartbeat pounding away against Dean’s palm, right at the center of Cas’s abdomen, and when Cas reached down to cover Dean’s hand with his own, sliding their fingers together, it was Dean’s turn to flush and burst apart, emotion rendering him useless.

“Dean,” He said, choked, and Dean just held him tighter, coaxing the pain away, wishing to meld broken skin.

“You’re fine,” Dean eventually whispered, and neither of them mentioned the gravel in his throat. Neither of them brought up how clear of a lie it really was. “Everything’s fine, it’s— it’s not even that bad, really. It’s not even that bad. Nothing a little ice won’t fix.”

“Can we go to bed now?” Cas asked quietly, his grip on Dean weakening. Castiel pulled away before Dean could even answer.

Dean knew better than to question when Cas slowly started putting his shirt back on, arms shaking through the effort. Cas hadn’t worn a shirt to sleep during any of the nights they’d spent together, and when Dean finally slid into bed next to him, his body aching all over, the difference was jarring.

Their shoulders brushed as they both settled, cloth to cloth, the heat extinguished, and Dean knew what he wanted— he just didn’t know how to ask for it. His moment of need had already passed, and it shouldn’t matter if Dean couldn’t feel Cas’s skin against his anymore. It shouldn’t matter that Cas wasn’t any closer than he was, and his warmth wasn’t a settled weight pressed to Dean’s back and strewn over his waist.

It shouldn’t bother Dean, but there was a certain expectation now. A fake reality that had been bestowed upon him; a belief that once that door closed, once the dust settled and the lights dimmed, things between them could be as simple as holding each other in the dark.

And Dean just didn’t know if he could live without that again.

Cas fell asleep without much trouble, his body collapsing in on itself, but Dean couldn’t follow. His eyes found solace in their study over the ceiling above him, and his pulse seemed to be stuck on a steady rise and fall that made sleeping sound nauseating, just the thought of it making Dean’s eyes water.

Dean didn’t know how long he was stuck there, waiting for something to happen, dreading the moment it would. But it seemed like a lifetime later when he felt the bed stir beneath him.

“You look sad.”

His voice, weathered like a flag at sea, tore through the darkness and held Dean in its clutches, suspending him in the air. Dean couldn’t answer at first; couldn’t hardly breathe through the echoing pain, but for the first time in hours he could move, and he used every scrap of will inside of him to turn his head.

Dean stared for a long moment.

“M’ not sad, Cas,” He said, softly.

Castiel blinked at him, slow and imploring, wanting to catch even the smallest shift.

“I am,” Cas said, abrupt enough to make Dean's heart drop. Cas gave a mangled little smile, and told him, “You make me sad.”

The tears had made it to Dean’s voice by then, coating his throat like wet tar, “Why?”

“Because you really think you won’t be able to move on from this. From what’s going to happen to me. You don’t realize how strong you are.”

Dean barked out a sharpened laugh, memories of clipped curtains and hand-made bonfires turning his stomach inside out.

“Strength’s got nothing to do with it,” He muttered.

“You’re capable of more than you know,” Castiel insisted, and he was closer now, his warmth no longer a muted graze but a distant hum.

It made Dean want to ask Cas to hold him again. To grab his hand, lace their fingers as one and hold Dean the same way he did when they were asleep and could blame anyone but themselves.

“I’ve never been capable of that,” Dean shook his head, adamant. “If you weren’t such a blank slate you’d know that I can’t do this without you.”

Castiel exhaled, the force of it spilling out through his nose. His mouth took a worrying dip, and his gaze fell to the comforter between them.

“It’s not so blank anymore.”

Dean stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I—” Cas faltered, frustration brimming in his eyes. “I get memories, Dean. But they’re more feelings than memories really, recollections without context. Flashes of before that— that come and go, sometimes so fast I don’t even realize it. But it’s all so hard to comprehend and I don’t understand it.”

“What?” Dean prodded, a fire building in his lungs. “You don’t understand what, Cas?”

“Anything. Everything. It— it's overwhelming. What I feel, what I’ve been through, what we’ve—” Castiel gave him a pleading look. “I don’t know what’s real or made up, none of it makes any—”

“Tell me what you remember,” Dean interrupted, searching his eyes desperately, wanting to hear how close he was to losing it all.

Cas’s eyes turned painfully soft, sorrow melting him to the bone. “I don’t know if that’s—”

“Please.”

Not even this Cas could deny Dean anything. His resolve sprang away, honesty winning over, and Cas looked at Dean as if that was his only way of steering clear, his mind flickering back and forth between dusted polaroids of time.

“I… I remember my car,” Castiel breathed, starting slow, barely taking up air. “I remember the weight of my coat, my trench coat— where— where is it?” He startled back, suddenly horrified. “Where did I put it?”

Dean had to be careful. There was a line here somewhere, hidden in the sand. Cross it and the walls of Cas’s mind go crashing down around him, his life like a woven string attached. But watching Cas wade through his wars and stare past a blinding sun just to get a taste of what lied beyond was hollowing, a creature begging for the past.

Cas had been fighting this for months now. Standing in the quiet, squinting through the hazy, and now there were pieces. There wasn’t a map, or a picture to copy, but there were fragments of before splayed out in front of him, waiting to be picked.

The trench coat was one of those pieces. And it hurt Dean more than anything to have to tell him the truth.

“It’s gone.”

Cas didn’t seem to understand why his heart sunk the way it did. Dean could see it on his face, the crushing ache of a broken piece, unmendable, and Dean wished he could explain it to him.

“So it was real,” Cas whispered, distant.

Dean swallowed. “Is that it?”

Cas immediately raised his head, rippled by another thought that seemed to surge right out of him, “I remember flying.”

Instantly, terror struck Dean cold. “Cas—”

“I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I do,” He rambled on. “I remember flying everywhere— always flying to something, or someone.”

Dean’s breath trembled through his next inhale, and Cas stopped to look at him, his expression painfully honest. In that moment, Dean could see everything; the grief and the guilt and the confusion of feeling everything but knowing nothing, and the love was there too. Blinding as anything, pouring from his skin and bounding from his eyes, and Dean didn’t know what was more terrifying; the thought of this ending, or the promise of it finally beginning.

“There’s more. There’s so much more, but— everything else is distorted. Blackened around the edges like my mind doesn’t want itself to see,” Castiel said.

“You should listen to it.”

Cas’s eyes narrowed, lips thinning. There was a weight in his mouth he couldn’t quite swallow, words on the verge of spilling out, but all he asked was, “Is that really what you want?”

There was only one answer.

“What I want is you safe,” Dean said, and he didn’t know any other way to explain it. Dean would give all of this up— the plan and the mission and the past, every second— if it meant knowing Cas would be safe.

“But you want my memories back too. I can see it. Every time you look at me I can see it— like you expect more from me,” Cas heaved, on the verge of something desperate, something buried deep and clawing free, and all Dean could do was stare back and watch the pieces scatter.

“I want to remember, Dean. You have no idea how badly— because it’s important, I know it’s important— I can feel it. I keep seeing these moments, brief glimpses. One minute I feel like I’m standing alone on the side of a road in the middle of nowhere, and the next I’m sitting on a park bench. Or in an empty bar, or the backseat of the— your car.”

At first, it registered slowly; like molten rock spilling into his ears, warming his core from the inside.

But then the burn never stopped, the heat just kept churning, and it hit Dean like a pitch to the throat that these weren’t just Cas’s memories he was remembering in random spiels, it was their memories. Dean and Cas, Cas and Dean. The quiet sittings and the heavy talking and the smiles they hid by dropping their heads in the darkness, averting their eyes before the smoke between them could spark a flame.

It was Cas remembering a sunlit park at the back end of summer where he’d shown Dean for the first time that doubt, emotion— it was something he could feel to a devastating degree. That Dean was someone who could make him smile, soft and thoughtless like it didn’t pull at his seams and wreck his very mechanics.

It was Cas remembering standing all night under a lonely street lamp and gazing at Dean in a pink hued bar on what they both thought to be his last night on Earth, but the memories were fractured where it mattered and in Cas’s mind Dean wasn’t a part of any of it.

Cas had rewritten everything, jumbled all the pieces, and in the process left Dean behind with nothing.

“That’s enough, Cas,” Dean said, the vastness of his memory sparking that fear in Dean again. “We don’t want to—”

“But there’s one memory that stays,” Castiel smiled gently, voice pitched and flooded with awe. “That’s always been there, and it’s always stayed. It won’t ever leave me, and that memory is you.”

It didn’t seem to fully hit Cas until he spoke the words aloud, and then he was looking at Dean with a newfound light, a fervor that hadn’t been there before. Happiness rose in his face like beacons of color, his scar stretching to accommodate, and Dean felt his eyes fill with tears.

“I thought—”

“I didn’t understand it back at the hospital. God, I barely understood it yesterday— but I recognize you. I know you,” Cas laughed, drunk off the wonderment of it, the bliss of certainty, all of it rushing in too fast to monitor. “You’re the man with the green eyes. The one I keep seeing, the one I dream about, it’s you—” His smile flattened, gaze dripping, “and you won’t stop crying.”

Dean watched a shadow reach for him, and felt careful hands frame his jaw. Cas smiled at him, a flash of shocking white in the brittle dark, but with it came a silent tremor. A saddened curl to the shape of his bottom lip, and his eyes, which still crinkled no matter how he smiled, were just as mournful as they were fond.

“Why are you crying?” Cas asked, his voice losing strength, his coherence losing stability. His thumbs brushed over the lines of exhaustion just below Dean’s eyes, and though his skin came back dry, Castiel whispered, “Please stop crying.”

And Dean managed to get nothing of a reply out before Cas was leaning forward and kissing him soundlessly.

It was all sensation then; Dean’s mind went glassy, his vision swimming in the dark, but Cas’s lips were trembling and Dean’s heart was racing, and Dean held onto the nervous press of fingertips at the bolt of his jaw, claiming them to memory just in time for it to all fall away.

The kiss ended before Dean could even reciprocate. The universe seemed to have a habit of that, and Dean fell straight back to Earth, his pulse still roaring through his blood.

“Cas,” He gasped out, choking on nothing, and the silence finally fell around him. Dean opened his eyes, fear freezing in his lungs. “Cas?”

Cas’s smile was gone now, and his eyes were closed, everything in him softened and powered down. The air around him was still, and the truth pierced like a sword. Dean reached out and touched him, cupping his face for what felt to be the last time. Dean's fingers met scar tissue.

Cas didn’t wake up.

……

“Sam! Sammy!” Dean let out a weakened shout, teeth gritting. He could barely see through the halls he was passing, tears and adrenaline making for a mesh of color and rigid shapes. “Please, god— don’t do this, Cas. Don’t do this to me again, you bastard—”

Dean’s throat ripped open with a sob, and exhaustion sent him collapsing onto the floor of the war room, Cas’s body falling with him.

Within seconds of hearing the screams, Sam ran in from the opposite doorway, his gun already drawn. “Dean! What the hell happened?”

He loved me and it killed him, he loved me and it killed him, he loved—

Dean lifted his eyes, and Sam’s expression instantly shattered. He set his gun down on the map table and hurried to Dean’s side, his eyes pulled wide with worry.

“He stopped breathing, Sammy,” Dean rambled, shaking his head frantically as Sam drew a hand over Cas’s mouth. “He’s not— he’s not fucking breathing.”

“He is, Dean. Look at me—” He grabbed Dean by the shoulder, forcing Dean to finally tear his eyes away from Cas, “he is breathing, okay? But his breaths are shallow and his pulse is low. I can’t tell what’s wrong with him.”

Dean wondered what would happen if he told Sam the truth. Whether it would lessen his guilt or pile on more, take some of the pain or multiply it tenfold. He knew Sam would try and convince Dean it wasn’t his fault, but his words wouldn’t even begin to make a dent; Dean had never felt so much like poison.

Above them, the bunker lights flickered, the air spilling with static, and all it took was Dean blinking against a breach of wind for Jack to appear beside them.

“Move,” Jack said, emotion shooting fire-like gold through the rim of his eyes, and with him came a surge of energy so strong it sent Sam’s gun flying off the table.

Jack fell to his knees beside Cas, hands flocking to his face, and Dean fought through an aching chest to ask, “Can you fix him?”

Jack looked like anything but God at that moment. There was power in the way in which he breathed, deep and raged, sorrow filling in the cracks, but everything else was strikingly human. The shake in his hands was back, and the shine in his eyes was unmistakable.

He just looked like a broken son.

“Me connecting with his grace fueled his memories. It opened the door. He’s progressing too quickly, this— this wasn’t supposed to happen,” Jack said weakly, guilt buried through the length of his voice.

“What does that mean, Jack?” Sam demanded.

“It means there’s a reason why no angel has ever attempted what Cas did,” Jack stood up abruptly, his tone reshaping. He looked between the both of them. “It means we do the plan. Now. You two need to go into the Empty and find Castiel’s grace before it’s too late.”

Tearing away from Cas and standing up hurt like a physical blow, but Dean’s panic was all-encompassing, whipping through him at a speed that was almost jarring.

“No, no no no— you said Cas wasn’t strong enough yet! We gotta wait until he wakes up, until we know the grace won’t tear right through him.”

“If we don’t do this now, Cas won’t wake up,” Jack told them, his body coming alive as the stakes grew clearer, and Dean swallowed the fresh lurch of fear he felt creep in from all sides.

This wasn’t even a choice. Dean knew that; but the pressure was on and he felt sick to his stomach as he left to get dressed, just the sight of his own bedroom again making his head blare. He took the gun he kept under his pillow, and continued on, checking the rounds as he made his way back to the war room.

Dean tried not to focus on how unsettling it felt to hold a gun again.

By the time Dean got back, Sam had reappeared with fresh clothes and two angel blades, his mouth set in a hard line. He barely even looked as he passed one of them over, clearly just as thrilled as Dean for what lied ahead, and Dean gripped it tightly.

He spun the metal blade once, a nervous flutter, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Okay,” Dean said. “Fuck, okay— let’s go.”

“Sam?”

From the opposite doorway, Eileen appeared. She stepped into the tension-heavy room, her hair thrown up and her feet still bare from sleep. She took one look at them, her eyes burdened as she landed on Castiel, and said, “You’re going there now?”

“There’s been a change of plans,” Sam frowned, voice low like he was expecting to be scolded, but Eileen barely reacted.

She gave a short nod, her eyes softening, and crossed the distance between them with quickened steps. Sam’s arms were already open for her when she arrived, and she fell into him gratefully, rising up on her toes to kiss him warmly.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Sam,” She said when she pulled away, more stern than anything, and Dean couldn’t help the quiet smile that bloomed across his face.

Eileen turned to him, eyebrows raising. “And that means double for you,” She snapped, forcing Dean to straighten, his voice dropping with certainty.

“We’ll be back in a jiffy, don’t you worry,” He assured, even if the words felt all sorts of wrong, because at least Eileen seemed to believe them; she breathed in deeply, and her features had settled by the time she moved to stand beside Jack.

“His grace glows in a sea of black, and screams in utter silence,” Jack gave Sam and Dean careful looks. “It shouldn’t be hard to find. Once you have it, all you need to do is pray to me, and I’ll pull you out.”

“Right. Sounds easy enough,” Dean grumbled, adjusting his feet for the flight.

“The grace won’t be left unattended, Dean,” Jack warned lightly. He already had this look of regret on his face, his forehead pulled down in a way that made him look alarmingly like Cas. “You both might have to fight your way through.”

“That’s the only way we’re used to,” Sam shrugged, holding up his angel blade, and there was just enough of a confident rise in his shoulders for Dean to look at him and soften, his heart settling for a blissful few seconds.

Jack stepped up to them, apprehension clear in his eyes as he raised two fingers to each of their foreheads.

“Try and be quick. Humans aren’t meant to reside in the Empty, it’ll be difficult to keep you there. Oh, and also,” His lips pursed, a painful burst of words drawing back behind the tide, but Dean knew. Sam and Dean both did, and when they smiled at Jack, tight-lipped and brewing with unspoken emotion, Jack finally bit out, “Be careful.”

And the tide crashed around them.

“Beam me up, Scotty,” Dean said, closing his eyes, and with a cold press of skin and a jolt of time and space, the world shifted, and the foundation beneath him became a plain of glistening black.