Supernatural fic that I may or may not continue, depends on its reception.
I'm also a little unsure of the idea because this was a 'i wanna write a supernatural fanfic!' kind of drabble.
When the world ends, it's meant to end. The ground is supposed to be razed, the population decimated, and the strongest will inherit the earth. However, much to Sam's displeasure, the world ended and no one inherited this pile of rock, the trees are untouched, and all that is left is a population that noticed nothing. Sometimes he wants to scream at the men on the subway that the world already ended, put the sign away, but he can't. Mainly because he never leaves the apartment.
He would like to leave the apartment, don't get him wrong—everyone he knew dying in a horrible, bloody battle did not turn him into a recluse. It did turn Dean into a recluse, however. Maybe since Sam survived the Cage and already had Lucifer once, he got out pretty okay. Dean, though, wasn't meant to hold Michael—John was originally destined to, just like he was meant to break the first seal but didn't. Dean did. So Dean had an Angel too strong for his will trample him into itty, bitty breakable pieces as he crusaded to save the world from Lucifer.
Neither won. At first, Sam had been shocked to wake up on the battlefield outside Sioux Falls, the thick, ashy dirt a knot in his throat. All around him was death, destruction, and Dean who had fallen upon him. Dean was muttering and twisting and gyrating, much to the chagrin of Sam's abused body. He muscled his brother off, stared at the blue sky and wasteland around him, and realized the world had ended.
In his head, Sam had always thought the end of the world meant the end of earth, but they're different. The order of Angels and Demons—that world—had ended. The Human world lay untouched except for a ten mile radius of destroyed, untouchable ground. When Sam had surveyed it, he saw the glittering remains of busted Angel bones and Demon ash everywhere. He started laughing, which pulled Dean to a brief awareness. Then Dean fell back into a panic about Alastair, whose dead, and Michael who had done far worse.
Sam tried to coax him, but only managed to send Dean into another bout of ear-shattering screams. Suddenly, the pain coating Dean's voice thick was mimicked in Sam's as every ache and sting sliced through him a second, a third, and then a fourth time. He noticed the brilliant angel bones were in his skin, some flesh was torn neatly from his right arm, and that everything was swimming just under a film of red. Their screaming brought no help, only more breathless pain. Eventually Castiel had pieced himself together enough to gather the brothers up and take them away. He didn't get far, just as far as the unpopulated hospital, but it was enough. If Sam had to describe the explosion released from the final battle, it would be a lot like an atomic blast; outside the immediate zone, the structures were left intact while the carbon based forms were incinerated.
"Cas," Sam breathed harshly, reaching for the shadowed expression swimming in and out of focus, "Don't leave us, again—"
"I never can," Castiel said in an unreadable tone. Then, Dean let off another sharp, keening cry that split any thought Sam had on Castiel's words. When he reviews them later, tucked under the shadow of Castiel's charred wing, he'll realize there wasn't much more to understand than the words themselves. Castiel can never leave them, just like Sam can never leave Dean and Dean can never leave Sam.
"I'm glad," Sam coughs into the storm-calm air. Castiel shifts imperceptibly, the heat of Castiel's length pressing through Sam's chilled skin. Sometimes Sam's happy Cas didn't turn out like Dean no matter how strong their bond; he wouldn't be able to hand 'no chick flick moments, please' as he cards a hand through Cas' blood matted hair. He's healing slowly; he sacrificed most of his healing for them. "I'll never leave you," Sam promises, but he knows he's not the one who needs to do the promising, it's Dean. But Dean's a quivering, shaking mess on the jagged hospital floor, crying for Michael to stop, you can't kill my Sammy.
The morning doesn't come for a few days. Or maybe it comes all those times, but Sam doesn't notice. He gets up to piss in the nights, dragging himself to the corner to awkwardly lighten his bowels. The third time Castiel half carries him, arms slid under his arm pits. Sam tries to shake him off, but the firmness and stability in the grip makes his efforts pointless. By the fourth time, when the burning sun and not the burning need to piss wakes Sam, he finally registers the terrible stench. Cas is nowhere to be seen, but Sam knows he can't be far.
Carefully, Sam sits on his haunches, feeling his muscles zing and spasm in protest. He looks over at Dean who is catatonic, arms akimbo, legs awkwardly drawn up, and eyes staring unseeingly at the ceiling. Around him, the stench fermented and Sam realized Dean hadn't woken up like him but his body still managed the basic functions. Begrudgingly, Sam fought every ache and pain, freeing Dean of his soiled clothes and cleaning him carefully. Out of respect he laid a gown over Dean's body, which he looks at properly for the first time since Armageddon.
His pale skin is paler than usual; he's gaunt as expected, but the bones look slightly out of place, everywhere. On his skin are patterned burns where Michael fought a little too hard to drive him, his right palm is blackened but it gives a twitch—so at least Dean's finer motor skills can function. Sam traces the largest, angriest burn that runs around Dean's heart. Sam always knew from psych classes that love is from the mind, not the heart, but he can't help wonder if this was from Michael trying to sway Dean's love, to make this easier. But apparently he couldn't, if Dean's "I won't kill SAMMY!" is any indication.
Dean's face holds the anger and fervor of the statement tightly before relaxing into its previous blankness. His chest sinks deeply, his shoulders relaxing and uncoiling. His eyes ease shut before snapping open for another staring contest with the ceiling. "Can you hear me Dean?" Sam asks, running a finger on the strong line of his brother's jaw, all the muscles standing taut like cables under the skin. "Tell me you're here Dean."
"He'll wake up soon," Cas offers from the doorway, laden with various medical supplies, one Sam recognizes as a bed pan. "We should get him on the cot," Cas suggests, fitting in the bed pan and hefting Dean by himself. Sam walks to the counter where Cas had dumped his loot, thumbing through for anything useful.
He's disheartened so there isn't anything edible. "Is any food safe to eat?"
"Probably," Cas provides, shifting Dean into a better position. When Sam looks over he sees a heartbroken expression on the angel's face and it makes his heart ache, too. Sometimes Sam forgets that when Cas says he has a deeper, stronger connection with Dean, he means it.
"Being an angel, I guess you didn't think of it." Sam says with a burble of laughter.
Cas only nods solemnly, gently smoothing his fingers over Dean's brow. Dean's unseeing eyes close and his mouth relaxes to a brooding, straight line. Sam leaves the room, leaves them in peace, feeling a bit inadequate with all this. It's a brief, flickering thought because walking brings a whole new brand of pain and he crumples up by the wall, swearing out loud. Then Sam bites his lip, pulls himself up, and manages the laborious task of making it to the hospital's cafeteria.
Castiel is an angel, of course he can walk around, get supplies, and still ease Dean's fevered mind. In a few days, Sam can do the same. Or in a few weeks, he amends, as he realizes he pretty much trapped himself in the cafeteria because there is no way in hell he can make the walk back to the room without fainting. As a result he sits in the cafeteria, picking at some bread and prepared vegetable mush, falling asleep soon enough. When he wakes up nearly a full twenty-four hours later, he knows Cas hasn't come to visit him. The stars burns silver through the busted window and Sam is spiteful that the world didn't end.
Because if it ended, this insurmountable pain will all make sense. The finality they had been fearing these past years would be justified. And, above all, he wouldn't have a crazy brother to deal with—a brother he's not too sure he's much saner than.
0o0o
Days turn into weeks. Sam doesn't improve much, especially when he realizes the burns feathering Dean's skin were also on his. He, of course, lacks the worst of all, the skin above his heart clean and unscathed. He hates himself a little more for it, refusing to talk to Cas when the angel gently prods him. "I'm fine." Sam bites out, meeting Cas' strong, blue gaze. Then Cas' expression would crumple because Dean could get it out of Sam, but Cas never will. And that strong blue gaze would return to the eldest Winchester, still catatonic but a little more restful, and wait countless hours for Dean to say something consciously other than Sam's name in high pitched cries.
By the fifth week, Cas and Sam had found a chess board and invented their own game of it. The game wasn't won by capturing the King, but by capturing all the other pieces first. They even made the Bishops' moves different depending on what half of the board they were on and the number of spaces and shape of the knights' movements changed by the day. They played for long periods of time because pieces could be revived with a well placed queen and some bargaining. When Dean first called out Sam's name in a gravelly, dehydrated voice, neither had heard him. They were too transfixed on hammering out a deal for a resurrection of Cas' Rooke for two-turn immunity of Sam's Bishop.
"Sam!" Dean wheezed and Sam spun around in his seat too quickly, launching himself at Dean' bedside. He caught a pale, fragile hand between his. He meant to grab both, but Dean's other hand was fingering the amulet around his neck. "Dammit Sam, it's good to see you."
Sam begins crying, openly weeping in front of his big brother. Cas looms up behind him like a friendly ghost, holding Sam's shoulders and gentling his cries. "Your brother missed you, Dean," Cas provides, going unspoken that he missed his charge, too. Dean makes a movement reminiscent of a nod before his face turns into a hideous scowl.
"Can someone get this reeking bed pan out of here?"
Sam laughs before rising to the occasion. When Dean mentions he wants a shower, Cas advises against it but Dean says he just "…want this damned angel stink off me." Cas looks mildly offended but stays firm, especially when Dean tenses with ricocheting pain as he pushes himself forward.
"What if someone helped him in the shower?" Sam suggests. At that Dean snorts, settling back on the higher set of pillows Cas had provided.
"And you're the one who tells me that I don't know the different between a porno and real life."
Sam gives Dean a scathing look and Cas looks mildly uncomfortable. "It wouldn't be considered a porno if nothing happened. But since it's you…" Sam says slowly, teasingly, letting the unsaid words linger heavily in the room. Dean only grunts, settling deeper into the pillows in resigned defeat. No way was he showering with the undead Angel and definitely not his little brother.
"Well if you two won't let me get clean, get me some food at least." Dean says gruffly, a little too elated when his statement brooks no protest. Sam leaves the room, determined to find something at least slightly healthy for Dean while Cas stays behind, stealing a step closer to Dean's bedside. Dean watches him from the corner of his eyes, stubbornly not looking over.
"I missed you, too" Cas says, a little lost.
Dean's face remains frozen in a hard, tortured frown.
"I suppose you have a right to be angry. I did go against you, with purgatory, with Crowley, with everything." Castiel feels an uncomfortable lurch in his chest, which is mirrored in Dean's tightening expression. "I will always be here for you, though, I won't leave you."
And the words instantly slice cleanly into their target, into the tender part Dean hides. Sam left him, but with good intentions and then with righteous intentions and then with some questionable motives. Castiel left only for Dean and he never really left, just took a few steps away. Sometimes Dean wishes Cas were Sam so that he could rightfully be angry and so that Sam was as spotless as Dean always entertains him to be. Not the other way around, but it has always been the other way around. "Shut up, Cas." Dean orders.
Cas shuts up, smiling softly at the undertones of stubborn, Winchester forgiveness quavering in Dean's voice.
Aw, verb tense switching. I tried cleaning that up and failed, so sorry 'bout that.
Hope I kept them mostly in character :/