Disclaimer: Don't own, which is a good thing.

Spoilers: 6x20, season 6 in general

Warnings: Character Death

A/N: A what if that thankfully did not come to pass. Also, the last two eps hadn't yet aired when this story was written. And this is still got to be one the saddest things I've ever written.

Fallen Leaves

Eyes follow the tiny train of dead leaves clambering under the safety of the Impala when there's no wind to ruffle his jacket. Under the tiny covering in the scrap yard a few feet away, the faint ruffling of wings skirts the edges.

Lips thinning, fingers white-knuckling over brown glass, Dean fights to restrain himself. He's got a lot of nerve to show up here and now. After everything, after Sam's ordeal and Crowley and—

"It's over." The voice is full of that stubborn conviction.

Disappointing rage swells in Dean, fingers twirling the empty bottle with practiced ease. Hopping off the trunk of the one thing that has never let him down, he takes in deep breaths, eyes locked on the ground. He can't look into those eyes, those sapphires that are his downfall.

"Raphael is dead." It's flat and emotionless where Dean would have pictured gloating.

"Well good for you," he snarls out, overlapping the tired words of, "the Apocalypse is at a stop now. It's o-ver."

Dean throws the bottle off to the side, twisting his head as the sound of a bottle shattering is like a shotgun going off. Anger darkens his face because yeah, it's great that everything Sam and Dean sacrificed wasn't a complete waste. But if the cost meant opening the door to Purgatory, of creating a monster version of the End of Days, of losing Castiel to….

Blinking, air freezes in his lungs. Standing a few feet away, and wasn't that another clue to the deception, Castiel weaves on his feet, head hung low as his shoulders slump in a defeated posture. Blood is coating him, burns slashing against tattered clothes alongside the twitching jaggedness of broken fingers and bones.

The angel heaves in a battered gasp, blinking back sweat and blood from swollen eyes and a broken nose. A gurgle swallow sends precious red drips seeping between split lips as that raven head inches upwards. Clouded blue eyes stare at him full of relief and childlike happiness. "You three are safe now." His lips twitch pathetically in a tiny smile.

Dean doesn't think as the limp form drops like a puppet cut from his strings. Boots pounding away, knees scream in protest as he takes a lunge grabbing onto the slippery red coat. He tries not to think about how it's hard for his fingers to get a firm grip. Fighting for purchase sends more blood and something piercing hot spilling out. Dean groans as he pivots dragging the angel towards the small metal work bench.

"Come on," he grunts out. With one final heave, he sits the injured angel on the bench, mangled hands draped lifelessly in his lap. "Cas, talk to me, man." He's kneeling now, jeans soaking in grease and who knows what else, sweeping his hands everywhere, pushing back the rags of a coat, suit and shirt.

There's the smell of ozone and sulfur mixed with a copper tang of blood as Cas coughs, his body shivering despite it being summer. "Broke the d-deal. Didn't open Purga-tory."

Dean flashes a smile, letting his own relief shine through. "Knew you had it in you, Cas. See, what'd I tell ya, we'd figure something else out. Nothing like a plan B…" The mantra of 'Cas can heal himself' stops the moment his hands pause over the angel's chest.

The angel blinks tiredly, heaving in another tattered breath. "You were r-racking leaves."

There's a hiss as Dean's fingers graze over what feels like a large gaping hole. Staring down, Bobby's voice echoes about how Cas' injury from Rachel seemed to glow. But all that greets his eyes is red and black. Licking his lips Dean swallows, "What?" Something is falling around them, ghosting outside his line of sight.
Cas's voice is drifting, "fallen leaves."

"BOBBY! SAM!" Dean bellows out, trying to keep calm as he snakes one hand around the back while the other presses against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. He inches closer so if the angel fell, Dean would be there to catch him. He's got to get him to the house. "Cas, what happened?" He's got to keep the angel talking, got to keep him from slipping away. "Talk to me. Talk to me!"

The harsh order snaps Cas's head upwards and the angel squints at him. "No more souls…u-used grace…close e-nough…"

"You idiot!" Lips trembling, Dean blinks rapidly to force back the tears. Screaming, he doesn't try to hide the despair, voice cracking. "S-SAM!" Balancing on the heels of his feet, Dean lets go of Cas arms twisting in their sleeves as he yanks off his coat. The angel crumbles before him.

"Don't you dare give up now, Cas," growls Dean as he wraps the jacket around the angel's chest, trying not to watch as the blue soaks up red like a sponge. "Gotta get you to the hospital."

Moving back in, pressing his hands on the front and back, Dean rises off of his feet. But Cas remains rooted on the bench, dead weight in his arms. "Come on, Cas. Where's that stubborn son of a bitch who sliced off Pestilence's ring?"

"It was Sep-tember." Castiel slumps foreword, his head resting against Dean's arm.

There's a tone in the angel's voice that scares him. Because it's just like Dad's, full of reminiscence and sorrow. Kneeling back down, Dean pushes and pulls till they're flush against each other adding more pressure to the wound. "SAM!" Grunting, he turns his head slightly towards Cas. "Don't you dare. Don't you die on me, you hear me Cas. That's an order."

But Cas isn't listening, his lips mumbling about September. Licking his lips, Dean decides to take the plunge. "What about September?"

There's a slight huff, thin shoulder blades tightening underneath Dean's grip. "I d-didn't want to burden y-you."

"You always did it in the past, so why stop now," snaps Dean, his voice straining out. And God, he shouldn't be talking to his friend like this, not when he's dying. No. Frustration builds in him, Cas is not dying. Not on his watch. In one push, he yanks Cas off the bench and staggers onto his feet. "You're not dying. Not until I kick your ass ten ways to Sunday for all the shit you pulled."

Maintaining pressure, he starts walking step by step towards the house. "BOBBY! SAM!" The scrapping of shoes is like a clock ticking because Cas ain't moving, isn't fighting it. Fingers curl into the soaked clothes. Twisting as much as he can, he glares down at the pale face knowing that in the past Castiel would be fighting back just to prove Dean wrong. "You're a coward, you know that-"

His voice halts dead in his throat as his eyes fall on a cluster of dead leaves. A cold breeze, a ghosting of something falling and he's back at Lisa's, storming out of the garage, a rack in hand. He remembers how it was one of those bad days, a day in September where he warred with jumping into a bottle or fleeing in the Impala. Despair drowned him because he couldn't save Sam, no matter where his research led him. So he marched out into that yard and took his frustration out on the lawn, losing himself in the motion. It was something he could do, something he could clean up while the rest of the mess that he called Life spread out more and more. How, as he filled in that last bag, he swore it felt as if someone was watching him, that he had heard the flapping of wings.

"Cas," he can't hold back the choke as it all snaps into clarity. "You should have-" What? Asked for help? Yeah, he should have. But Dean can't be certain anymore if he would have given it. He was so lost in his pain, barely holding on with Lisa and Ben. Then there was the whole fiasco with soulless Sam. But there were countless times to come clean, to tell the truth. "Damn it, Cas, you stupid son of a bitch."

It's a whisper, full of a pained sorrow an angel shouldn't feel. "Didn't wa-nt to ask more f-from you." A cough sends his body shaking uncontrollably before resting fully against him. The sudden weight sends Dean crashing onto the ground; Cas slumped against him, his head resting against his chest. "You…deser-ved…peace."

"Freedom or peace? Which would you have Dean?"

Something wet streaks down Dean's cheek as he leans closer, cradling Cas into him as he screams harder and louder not caring if he loses his voice. "SAM!" Every instinct tells him to press onwards, to carry the angel's sorry ass all the way the house. But the blood pours out faster in the new position. He can't stop it. So he's stuck here, holding a person he dared to call family together with his mere hands while screaming out for the world to hear. "SAM!"

"My choice, my responsibility." There's coldness building as each muscle lets go. Cas' voice is a ghost, yet somehow remains steady. "Not your fault."

"The one in the dirty old trench coat who's in love with you."

He's about to scream once more. Why does Cas have to know him so well? Can read him even when he's dying in his arms? Biting his lips, pressing harder, feeling each breath become longer and fewer in between, he can't look down, doesn't want to take in those soulful eyes. So he lets Cas rest against him because God knows he deserves it.

Flicking his eyes upwards, Dean watches in grief as it rains ash. Each dash of black is different, some half-burnt, others crumbling into dust as they are carried away in the wind. He doesn't know how Cas made it here without his Grace, how he's even alive. But he knows Cas is stubborn and if there's one person who would put Death on hold, it would be him.

"You taught me that freedom is worth fighting for."

"We'll patch you up, good as new. I'm gonna take care of you alright. So you hang in there Cas. You hear me." There's the sound of a door slamming in the distant background. Yet all focus is on a burnt feather perfectly preserved. It floats down caressing against his cheek smearing a black line in its wake.

He can't hold back the dam. "Don't you dare give up now. Not when" his voice is tight, choked and strained, "we can fix this."

"It's not broken."

They can do this, there's time now. No more Civil War. No more Apocalypse. No more Purgatory. They can fix their bond, brothers forged through countless acts within a tiny foxhole. There's time to teach Cas how to play poker, to watch movies, badger Bobby and for him to tease Cas and Sam. "I'll fix it," he whispers resolutely, desperate hope praying to a quiet God. "I'll fix it."

A tiny breeze kicks up the dead leaves mixing it into a flurry of ashen feathers. They bow and spread like the seeds of a pussy willow, fragile things in a cruel world. There's no blinding light, no explosion of power, no nothing. Just him tucking Cas close to him in the maelstrom of crumbling wings, covered in ash, fingers stained red, cheeks streaked with tears and soot. Dean moves his hand upwards to cradle Cas' head, running his fingers through the matted hair rocking him back and forth the way Mary used to do whenever he got hurt. Forgiveness flooding out of him, his voice shatters, "Cas."

Cas speaks so softly that he barely hears him over the pounding of his own heart. The angel's last breath so full of peace and love it scares Dean mute. "You were raking."

The End.

(A/N: *places out a box of tissues*)