Hello, friends! Well, this fic didn't turn out exactly how I wanted it to, but I just really needed to write, so here it is! Let me know what you think, and thanks for reading! You guys are the best!
Warnings: Language, major character death
I own nothing Supernatural!
It all happened so fast.
"Cas! Fuck!" Dean's hands were raw from banging on the wooden door. He probably had about five splinters now, and his ears were starting to ring from the hollow sound it made every time his fist made contact with it. Over the ringing, though, he could hear the tortured screams of his angel. No, not angel. He could never quite get used to that. His—his friend. Human. Cas. Whatever he was. That voice, usually so calm and collected—"We need to talk, Dean"—was now shrill and wracked with sobs and shuddering screams. Dean had heard a lot of people being tortured in his life, but never like this. Maybe it was because he knew Cas—maybe because he knew how much pain he must be in. Maybe because he knew that Cas had never felt pain like this. Just last week Cas had stubbed his toe for the first time and spent forty-five minutes on the floor bitching about it. Dean was rolling on the floor laughing. But now at the memory, Dean shuddered. What was he feeling now? What was happening to him? Whatever it was, those screams were the worst Dean had ever heard.
He didn't know that would happen.
"Dean!" Dean ducked out of the way in time for two shots to be fired at the lock of the door. Without turning around—he knew it was Sam—Dean flew into the room, following the sound of Castiel's shrieks. Sam was close behind him. He barely realized that there was blood streaming down from his knuckles and tears in his eyes. The room was empty except for one chair, with one angel sitting in it, and one demon hovering over the angel with a knife—the knife—in his hand. Dean's stomach twisted. He felt like he was going to throw up.
Fuck, he wanted to take it back.
Cas sat with his hands tied to the back of the chair and heavy straps holding him down by his chest. Blood was smeared all over his face—Dean couldn't tell where it even came from. Both eyes were black and blue, and when Cas blinked at Dean, blood streamed down from the corners of his eyes. Beside the chair lay his trench coat—what, a holy tax accountant?—sopping wet with blood. His suit jacket lay close to that, torn and ripped and wet. Dean didn't often think of Jimmy Novak, but at this moment he wondered if Jimmy Novak ever envisioned that his jacket would look like this one day. Soaked with blood on a grimy floor.
"Dean," Cas tried to speak, but it came out as a raspy whisper, and he spat a mouthful of blood with the word. Hello, Dean. Dean let out the breath he didn't know he was holding in, and forced himself to step forward, out of his paralyzed state. With one hand, the demon threw Dean against the grimy stone wall of the warehouse, and Dean's eyes still never left Cas.
"I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry…"
Jesus Christ, it was a simple case. A simple demon, nothing more. A quick exorcism and it would have been taken care of. And this fucking demon got a hold of Cas, stole him right under Dean's watch, took him away, took him to this place…
Two more gunshots rang out, and Sam had the demon's attention. When the demon, in the body of a bald, ragged man with tattoos marking his arms, launched itself at Sam, Dean rushed towards Cas. The whole time he cursed himself under his breath. It was a simple job. A simple demon. And yet, somehow, he found himself pulling at the ropes holding his bruised and bloodied friend to a chair. Dean could feel Cas watching him as he desperately pulled out his knife and began cutting at the rope.
"Dean…" More blood seeped out of Castiel's mouth, and he shut his eyes halfway. "Dean…I need to tell you…"
"Shh, it's okay, buddy," Dean shook his head, keeping his eyes trained on his trembling hands as he freed Cas. The ropes fell to the floor, and Dean knelt at Castiel's feet to work on untying his hands. Cas tilted his head, watching Dean, eyes unfocused and cloudy.
"I want to tell you…"
"You're gonna be fine," Dean grunted as he freed one of the angel's hands with a rough pull of his knife. "You're gonna be just fine…stay with me, Cas, stay with me…" When the other hand was free, Dean stood in front of Cas again and took his face in his hands. Cas leaned into—or fell into, as the weight was suddenly heavy and pressing—Dean's hand, blue eyes watching green eyes closely.
"I feel…"
He should have known something had happened.
"DEAN!" Sam's voice brought both Dean and Castiel back to reality. Dean's hands slipped from the angel's face just as Castiel brought up his own hands to hold onto Dean.
"Dean…" Cas begged, holding onto the front of Dean's leather jacket, grasping as tight as he could. I'll watch over you. Dean gently pushed him away, his thoughts elsewhere now, his mind racing.
"I'm gonna get the knife, we'll take care of him, and then you," Dean rushed, and turned away from those pleading, wide blue eyes looking at him.
He shouldn't have turned away.
"Looking for this?" The demon hissed, dangling the knife in front of him. Sam lay on the ground, clutching at his chest, trying to catch his breath.
"All right, we're gonna end this right now, you son of a bitch," Dean snarled, and lunged for the demon.
It was all wrestling, and hits and blows to the head, but when Sam came to and came at the demon from behind, Dean found himself holding the knife, breathing heavily, and angrier than he'd been when he first walked into the place. The demon smiled, without missing a beat, and leapt behind Castiel, who was now kneeling on the wet, blood-spattered floor. His hands closed around Castiel's head.
"One more step, and I snap his neck."
"What do you want?" Dean's voice didn't even sound like him. He never begged like this, not with one fucking demon. "Fuck, what do you want? What do you WANT?"
"We all know about your angel," The demon hissed. "We all know how they fell. How this one started it. And really, we couldn't be more thankful for that," the demon's mouth turned into a toothy grin as he ran a slender finger along Cas' bloodied and bruised face. Cas kept his eyes trained on Dean, only shutting them when the demon wiped a tear of blood from his eye.
"But we also know that angels…they haven't made it easy for us. And they have to pay."
He should have known the demon was manipulating him.
"So we're gonna start with this one. The one who started it all."
Dean's chest was tight, his hands shaking. He clutched the knife so hard his knuckles turned white, his bruises strained. He felt Sam beside him, breathing heavily.
"Dean, take it easy," Sam breathed, never taking his eyes off the demon. "Don't let him get to you."
"Don't let me get to him?" the demon grinned ear to ear. "No, no, I'm not the one who's gotten to him. This pretty angel—this pathetic human—got to him. Not me."
"Dean, please—" Cas tried, but his voice caught and seconds later he was spitting up blood. He looked up at Dean with dark bags underneath his bruised eyes, struggling to stop his head from shaking under the clutch of the demon's fingers.
"Let him go," Dean growled. At this, the demon's eyes gleamed.
"No, no, I'm not going to let him go. He's going to die. He's going to die, just like all my brothers and sisters died because of him. Because of you. Because of angels, hunters, any of you!" The demon let go of Cas' head and stepped in front of the human, who sunk back on his knees, shoulders caved in, hands shaking in his lap.
"He is going to die because he DESERVES it!" The demon screamed. "He doesn't DESERVE to live! He DESERVES to burn!"
And then it happened.
Dean's arm moved as though independent from his body. His hand which clutched the knife closed tightly around it for just one split second before he threw it with a roar, with every bit of strength he had. He barely heard Sam next to him—"DEAN!"—and the knife flew from his hand, barreling toward the demon with those terrible black eyes, and Sam was screaming next to him, and Cas was bleeding out on the floor, and Dean's chest was about to explode, and—
And the demon vaporized. Disappeared. Vanished into thin air. Christ, it wasn't just a demon.
But the knife still found a victim. The knife found a body to sink into, a body to destroy. It was not the demon, oh no. It was the simple body of a human. The shirt it pierced was not the black tank top the demon's vessel donned, but a ripped, stained dress shirt. The cry of pain was not the deep voice of a gruff older vessel, but that of a young, scared, empty man.
The knife found Cas, and Dean found heart-stopping terror.
And everything became silent. Sam's screaming ceased, Cas' whimpers stopped abruptly. Dean was only aware of the shaky breath he let out, sounding out in that dark, silent room, and the spreading blood on the front of his angel's—his friend's, his—his human's—shirt.
It happened so fast.
"Cas," Dean whispered, and dropped to his knees, catching Cas just before he crumpled to the ground. The hunter gathered the man in his arms, settling his chest against Cas' back, and tucking Cas in between his legs. He was vaguely aware that Sam was still standing, and now he was shaking, too, and his eyes were wide and it was like he was paralyzed. Dean was swearing under his breath, tears forming in his eyes, hands trembling so bad he couldn't undo the buttons of the dress shirt, fumbling his way toward the wound. Cas was breathing shallowly in his arms, and let his head drop onto Dean's shoulder. His dark hair touched Dean's nose, and Dean—subconsciously, perhaps—buried his face in that messy hair.
"Jesus Christ, Cas—let's—we're gonna get you back to the bunker, and—oh, shit, Cas," Dean's hand closed around the knife, but he couldn't bring himself to pull it out. "We have to—to leave this in, and we'll take it out when we have the right supplies—we'll—we'll get back to the bunker, and—" Cas let out a cry of pain. Dean's shaking hands accidentally moved the knife, causing a deeper cut.
"Oh, my God," Dean whispered into the man's hair, "It's okay, it's okay, baby, we'll fix this." The word "baby" slipped out so easily, so naturally. "We're gonna get you home."
"Dean," Cas croaked, blood leaking out of his mouth. Dean wiped it off quickly with the sleeve of his jacket. "Dean, I have to tell you—"
"Nuh-uh," Dean shook his head wildly. "Don't you dare do that, you're gonna be fine."
"Dean." Sam's voice shook Dean to the very core. It had been so long since his brother used that calm, soft, serious voice. The sympathetic voice that held all the pain in the world, like he knew what was about to happen, and he was so, so sorry. Dean, refusing to look at his brother, continued to shake his head frantically.
"Cas—Cas," Dean tried, but his voice broke, and turned into a sob. Cas shook his head gently.
"It's okay, Dean."
"No—no, I did this to you—I—"
"It was a mistake, Dean. People make mistakes."
"Not like this, not like this…"
"Dean, please, just let me say…" More coughing, more blood.
"Cas, no, please, God, please!"
"I don't regret…any of it…" Cas was getting weaker by the second. Dean pulled him in tighter to his chest, crying into the top of Cas' head.
"I don't regret…any of it…because it brought me…to you…" Dean's sobs grew louder. He was barely aware that Sam sunk to his knees now, and watched the two men closely, tears filling his own eyes. Cas looked at Sam and smiled softly.
"You two…are the best things…that ever happened to me…" Cas turned away from Sam and closed his eyes, leaning against Dean's neck. He took a deep breath—as deep a breath as he could—and sank even further into Dean, who wrapped his arms around Cas' chest, shoulders shaking violently.
"I couldn't think…of a better way…to die…" Cas breathed, and he brought his hands up to hold Dean's. He smiled slightly when their fingers intertwined, that smile that the brothers saw more and more frequently over the years. Dean sniffed and wiped his face on the top of Cas' head, burying his face in the soft hair he found there. He opened and closed his mouth before he could finally croak out the words he was trying to say.
"I love you," Dean choked, and his face crumpled. Cas sighed softly—so calm, so content—and opened his eyes. He stared into space for a few moments, while the brothers held their breaths. Cas stared at something nonexistent, not on this world, and smiled—
"Hello, Dean."
And then the former angel took his last breath.
It would be a full year before Sam got the sound of his brother's howls to stop ringing in his ears. In all his life, Sam never heard anything more terrible.
It would be a full year before Dean agreed to go on a hunt again. Sam went hunting on his own during that time, and never pushed Dean. Maybe he should have—but he could never find it in his heart to do it.
It would be two full years before Dean hugged Sam again—perhaps because with every touch, he was reminded of the angel's body against his own. Sam never knew for sure. But after a close call that ended with Sam barely escaping a bullet, Dean wrapped his arms around his little brother, and Sam truly believed that a piece of his heart mended.
It would be two and a half full years before Dean stubbed his toe one day. Sam, at first, thought nothing of it—until he saw the look of pain on Dean's face as he walked out of the kitchen. He drank until he passed out that night.
It would be three full years before Dean stopped having nightmares each night and woke up sweating, with tears rolling down his face. Sam woke up a lot of the nights, and heard Dean silently crying in the bathroom. He never said anything, though. He knew better.
It would be seven full years before Dean smiled again—really, truly smiled. Once again, this smile had to do with Sam. It was stupid, really—Sam was making breakfast, and he went to flip the omelet he was making, and it hit the ceiling. Dean laughed and laughed.
And honestly, Sam stopped counting years after that. Dean laughed, and Sam stopped counting. Of course, Sam couldn't help but hear muffled sobs in the bathroom late at night. Sam made the mistake once of appearing in the mirror behind him—Cas, we talked about this. Personal space?—and Dean threw a punch. Sam wasn't mad, though. Sam stopped counting, and Dean got just a little better each day.
In year twenty-six, a car crash took Dean. Nothing more. A simple crash. Dean died on impact, felt no pain. It was so…normal. Dean would have laughed if he knew that's the way he'd go. And in year twenty-six, Dean smiled again, and his heart was full again. Dean found heart-stopping joy, all with two words.
"Hello, Dean."