Archive of Our Own ^beta

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"I could go with you."

The words tumbled out of his mouth almost before he had a moment to savor the reality behind them. All he knew was that Dean -- who only moments ago was solid and warm in his arms, all pretense of personal space long gone -- was about to turn himself into a crater in order to save the world. And Castiel needed to be by his side when it happened. He needed to burn with Dean. Nothing else mattered.

And Dean knew. He had to know. Otherwise, why couldn't he look Castiel in the eye? But, as always, there was Sam. Even on the brink of his own personal destruction, Dean was thinking only of Sam, keeping Sam safe.

"No, no.... I gotta do this alone."

There were more words, of course. But Castiel didn't hear them. He kept his focus trained like a laser on Dean, trying to memorize every detail: how he moved, how he breathed, how he quirked a small smile even in the middle of all of this. His traitorous memory couldn't help but dig up visions of Dean's soul in Hell, and in his mind's eye, Castiel saw his hand reaching out and grasping, holding, pulling Dean out of the roiling, churning chaos and into the light. He wished he could do that now.

He wished for a lot of things.

But in the end, Dean had simply vanished with a flick of a wrist, leaving a yawning, howling emptiness inside Castiel, worse even than when he believed his own Father had disappeared.

"Look out for him…." Dean’s final words drifted in his mind.

A part of Castiel wanted to hate Sam, or at least be angry with him, resentful. A part of Castiel -- likely whatever remnants of his humanity still remained -- wanted to believe that he could have gone with Dean, that Dean would have allowed him to be with him in those final moments, had there not been Sam to think about. He looked over at Sam, his eyes cast downward, keys to Dean’s beloved Impala jingling in his trembling hands, and knew he could never bear any ill will toward the man. Not only because Dean’s last wish had been for him to stay with Sam. Not only because Sam was Castiel’s last tangible link to Dean. But because in many ways, Castiel felt a kinship with Sam that was different from the bonds he had with his own brothers and sisters in Heaven.

"You’re our brother, Cas. I want you to know that."

And so, as Sam took his agonizingly slow walk to the Impala, ran his hand over her gleaming black finish, and dragged himself behind the wheel, Castiel found himself slipping silently into the car beside him. Sam still couldn’t meet Castiel’s eyes when he whispered, "I’m glad you’re here, Cas."

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They sat in the deserted bar, the motley crew of them, following the impending destruction on television like one of those late-night apocalyptic flicks Castiel watched sometimes when he was binging on Netflix. Only this time, Castiel wasn’t sure what outcome to root for. Obviously, they all hoped that Amara could be stopped, but what if she couldn’t be? Dean, of course, was lost either way. But Castiel found he could take some small solace in the idea of being destroyed along with Dean. He wondered if he could ever reconcile himself to an existence in a world where he lived, but Dean -- the righteous man -- did not.

At one point, he considered striking up a conversation with Chuck. His Father. It was still unbelievable, this revelation. But there it was, all the same. He could recall sitting across from the man, clamoring to be accepted again, loved again, while the Winchesters practically cowered in the corner as if they actually feared His divine wrath would strike them right there in the bunker. Of course, Castiel -- the real Castiel -- was cowering in a corner of his own mind, his thoughts and words and gestures all controlled by Lucifer. He had been little more than an observer in the conversation he had wanted, had needed to have for so many years.

"I wasn’t supposed to have favorites. But you… You were mine."

There was a time when Castiel would have given anything just to be in the presence of his Father again. He had even allowed Lucifer to roam the earth inside his skin, a last-ditch attempt to validate his own existence in spite of all his mistakes. But now that they were just a few feet from each other, Castiel felt lonelier than ever. Unanswered questions hung heavy in the air, mingling with the suffocating sense of loss. Either they had lost Dean, or they had lost everything. It was just a matter of time before they learned which hand would play itself out. It was all Castiel could do to even look at Chuck now, and when Sam got up from his seat to tend to Him, Castiel did not follow.

It was only when Chuck vanished, and the sun’s brightness returned, that Castiel allowed himself to truly feel the depths of his emptiness, and begin to grieve.

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It felt as though the earth itself had flung itself at Castiel, and for a moment, he knew he deserved it. This was his punishment -- for the mistakes he had made, for not being able to save those he cared about, for all of it.

The dirt and pebbles rained down on his face, and brought his focus sharply back to the present. Events of the past few hours slammed back into his consciousness full-force: the drive home, the woman in the bunker, Sam….

Sam.

Castiel crawled his way out of the crater of his own making and found himself face to face with a wide-eyed man he didn’t recognize. A modest pickup truck rumbled nearby. The angel drew himself up to as near his full height as he could manage, ignoring the protesting of his bones and muscles.

“Where am I?”

The guy’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of his head. “Uh,” he stammered, “...earth?”

Castiel didn’t have time for this. “No, how far am I from Lebanon, Kansas?”

“Uh, th-three hours, maybe?”

Closer than he’d expected, then. Good. It perhaps meant that the mysterious woman in the bunker wasn’t as powerful as he thought. Castiel turned to leave, but the man seemed intent on stopping him. “Wait, wait! What are you, man?” he gaped.

It was all the angel could do not to roll his eyes in exasperation. Like Dean used to do, his mind finished, and Castiel’s heart lurched in his chest. With the touch of two fingers, the bothersome stranger slipped unconscious to the ground, and Castiel hesitated for just a moment before wrenching open the door of the idling truck and climbing inside.

Three hours. His mind churned on that fact as the truck’s headlights slashed through the night. Three hours. Who was that woman, and what did she want with Sam? Three hours. It could have been worse. He could have landed in Gaza. Again.

There were aspects of humanity which Castiel retained even after he had reclaimed his grace. Some, like emotional responses, were unwelcome now. He needed to focus on the task ahead of him. He needed to focus on Sam. But his mind was clouded with thoughts of Dean. He realized somewhere in the back of his mind that this would likely be the point where an actual human would shed tears. He knew they found that to be a release of sorts. But for Castiel, the tears did not come.

Cas!

He felt the prayer full force, strong enough to make him swerve as if he were avoiding an obstacle in the road ahead of him. Sam, he presumed. He tried to pinpoint the source of the prayer, but he could not.

CAS!

Stronger this time. And also, not Sam. The voice he heard in his mind was unmistakably Dean’s.

Castiel shuddered behind the wheel. It wasn’t possible. Dean was...gone. So either Dean was actually calling out to him from wherever he had landed after the bombing, or his mind was playing tricks on him. Either way, there was nothing he could do. It reminded Castiel of Purgatory, only worse--in Purgatory, he had chosen to stay away. And Dean had come for him anyway.

“I’m not leaving here without you.”

Now, with the echoes of Dean’s voice clamoring in his head, Castiel believed that perhaps he had finally received the perfect penance for all his mistakes.

And, he realized with a shock, the tears were able to come after all.

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The hours spent on the road eventually strengthened the angel’s resolve, and by the time he arrived at the bunker Castiel found himself eager for a fight. It was tempting to break down the door, go in “guns blazing” as Dean would have put it, but Castiel tempered his anger, channeling it instead into watchfulness and stealth.

He opened the door, and stepped inside.

The bunker was quiet. Castiel heard no voices, saw no further signs of struggle. He strode down the steps leading to the library, just about to call out for Sam when--

“Hands in the air, get on your knees!”

He was greeted by a woman with a gun. Not the same woman as before, Castiel noted. Her looks and her voice were different, and yet familiar somehow.

Anger creased Castiel’s features. His eyes narrowed into slits. “Who are you?” he demanded. “And where is Sam?”

The woman cocked the hammer back and resumed her aim. “Hands. Now.”

“Whoa whoa whoa whoa WHOA!” A familiar voice burst into the room.

Just as the voice implored everyone to slow down, time itself seemed to stretch and pull. A man raced up to the woman, gently easing her arms down, pointing the gun toward the floor.

“He’s a friend.”

And then he turned to face Castiel, and it wasn’t possible, couldn’t be possible, not even with the proof itself before his very eyes.

“Hey, Cas.”

Dean.

Time stopped entirely, everything and everyone else forgotten. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. But Castiel had to know. He had to touch. He all but launched himself at the man standing in front of him. He felt the same in the angel’s arms as he had before, and a slight chuckle tickled Castiel's ear as the man lifted his arms to reciprocate the embrace.

“Dean.”