He was doing it again, the asshole. It was always the revolution first, Patria first, and Grantaire should've known that. Enjolras told him when they first started having feelings for each other that nothing, absolutely nothing, would come between him and true equality in France. Grantaire knew that. And he didn't have a problem with it. That passion was what Grantaire loved most about Enjolras. The way his blonde, greek god curls would bounce when he was agitated. The way his eyes would blaze when talking about the cause. The fire in Enjolras' heart made him so beautiful and kept Grantaire warm at night while Enjolras was still up planning, campaigning, praying that Grantaire wouldn't drink so much, or whatever it was that was keeping him away this time.

But this was different. He knew from the beginning that Enjolras would sooner die than stop fighting for what he believed in, but dammit if he didn't think Enjolras would actually be willing to die. Grantaire climbed the stairs and saw Enjolras, the man he'd been in love with for far too long, that cold, unfeeling, passionate, amorous lover, standing in front of the window with guns pointed at him. His best fucking friend was holding a gun on him. No such thing as brotherhood when honor and duty is on the line. Grantaire shoved his way through the officers, uncaring that they might shoot him, that they might shoot Enjolras.

Like he'd told Enjolras countless times before they built the damn barricade, if the worst should happen, he wouldn't be alone. And damned if he was going to let Enjolras die alone now. He didn't need to say anything to his Apollo. Enjolras knew everything. Nothing more needed to be said. But it did. Grantaire needed just a couple of words to remind him exactly why he was there. Exactly why he'd always be there. Words to tell Enjolras, fearless leader, that Grantaire would follow him into the dark, the unknown, and beyond if only he asked.

"Permets-tu?"

But it didn't stop there.

He was doing it again, the prick. Driven by a sense to protect and do his duty as was in his power, Sherlock stood at the edge of the hospital rooftop. That greek god, silhouetted against the cloudy London sky, was about to give up his life. Again. Bastard. John watched helplessly from the ground. Every fiber of his being wanted to join Sherlock. He'd follow him anywhere, even into death if it was necessary.

But Sherlock wouldn't permit it. Of course not. Nothing ever simple with that idiot. He wouldn't let John closer to the building, he wouldn't let John come up to talk him out of it, nothing. Just a short goodbye on the phone. Classy. Couldn't even do it in person. But John needed a word. Just a word to tell him what he needed to hear. Before Sherlock hit the ground, John called his name. And in that name, that one word, anything unspoken between them was said. And Sherlock knew it before he died. Time and again, John wanted to join his friend in death, but he knew Sherlock wouldn't allow it.

So he lived on regardless of the lifelessness dwelling within.

But it wouldn't stop there.

She was doing it again, that bitch. She was running off with the Doctor, again, putting her life in danger. Again. It was becoming a serious chore constantly trying to save her. Saving her from the fish vampires, saving her from the silence, saving her from Madame Kavarian, saving her from herself. Waiting for Amelia Pond was becoming tiring. But what did Rory do better than follow after the girl who sometimes cared and most of the time meant it?

This time, he wasn't letting her do the reckless act.

This time, he wasn't going to watch. Or hold her hand.

This time, he'd make the sacrifice play and see how she liked it. He stood on the ledge and hoped she remembered her stunt at St. Barts Hospital. He told her to let go of his hand and hoped she remembered holding his hand in the ABC Cafe. He wanted this to hurt, because dammit, he was done chasing after her all the damn time.

But this was Amy. Amy didn't take no for an answer. No one was more stubborn than Sherlock. And dammit if there was anyone who could get Enjolras to change his mind. Amy jumped off the ledge with him. Luckily, paradoxes being what they are, the jump wasn't entirely fatal. And nothing surprised him more than when he ended up in the past, zapped there by a weeping angel, and Amy arrived soon after. She chose him over the Doctor and time travel and living the rest of her life. Even though they were stuck, they could grow old together, love together, and maybe this time they got it right.

But Amy still died before Rory. And damn if that didn't piss him right off.

But it couldn't stop there.

He was doing it again, the assbutt. He wanted to save his brother, Cas understood that, but selling your soul to a demon for less than ten years? What the hell. Literally. So, Cas watched, hoping Sam would come up with something to get Dean and his perfect green eyes out of that deal. But that didn't look very promising. Cas intervened and even told Lilith where the Winchesters were so they could kill her. Timing never really being Cas' strong suit, that didn't work out very well either. Why couldn't they get this right?

Cas watched Dean get ripped to ribbons by hell hounds and felt that old anger all over again.

First the June Rebellion, then St. Barts, then the Angels, and now this?

Why couldn't they just be together?

Cas wasn't having any of this. He flew straight into the gaping mouth of Hell the exact second Dean died. Souls screamed at him, fire singed at his wings, the loss of Heaven's power made him sluggish, but it didn't matter.

They were getting this right for once, dammit! He flew as fast as he could and finally found a small, dimming light of what used to be Dean Winchester. Cas took his soul from the chains of Hell and dragged him to the surface kicking and screaming.

This was going to be done right. Jesus H. Tap-dancing Christ.

He tried talking to Dean after he was reborn, but Dean, always stubborn, never listening, never understanding, wasn't able to hear him. Because everything else had been so easy. So, Cas took a vessel, because dammit, this is happening. He worked with Dean and gained his trust, his friendship, and eventually his love.

Finally. But it was still wrong.

Castiel was a celestial wavelength of intent and Dean was mortal and would wind up dying eventually anyway. Just like when he was Amy. But knowing Dean, he'd probably die sooner. What. The. Fuck.

Cas had just about given up. He could only handle this so many times.

But there was something about Dean that he would always follow. He'd always come when Dean called. He'd do whatever Amy needed, whatever Sherlock wanted, whatever Enjolras didn't even need to ask for.

Then, something amazing happened.

Dean, in his ridiculous short sighted stupidity, took the Mark of Cain from Cain himself.

How? Not quite sure.

Why? Cas didn't exactly want to know.

The Mark of Cain was some bad shit, and honestly, it made Dean condemned. It took a while for Cas to see how this could possibly be good. Then, he remembered. The Mark of Cain made the bearer immortal. No monster could dare harm the person, not even Death would reap Dean. It condemned Dean to walk the universe alone. Except he wasn't alone. He would never be alone. There were bad things, horrible side effects of having such a mark, but Cas knew they'd work it out like they always did. This time, Dean wouldn't die.

Finally, FINALLY, they got it right.

And it would never end.