It was chaos. Though Dean realised he probably shouldn't have expected anything less. It was a world ravaged by war; an Earth devastated by the angels of Heaven and the demons of Hell. He recognised that same grey, desolate wasteland from his first journey beyond the portal, but now the empty landscape was filled with demonic creatures and angels adorned in what Dean could only guess was heavenly armour.

It was unlike anything he had ever seen before.

The two armies clashed, causing lightning to strike overhead, which was promptly followed by a thunderous echo that almost deafened Dean. It was a flurry of bodies swarming together, moving so swiftly that it became impossible to follow who was who, and more impossible still to determine which of the two hoards was winning the battle. There were brief flashes of silver as angel blades were used to strike the demons dead, and bright explosions of blue as the angels exerted their power against their enemies. But there too came an abundance of dancing red and black as the demons tore into their foes.

Demons had always been fearful entities, and Dean often made a point to never underestimate them. He'd always believed that their ability to hide behind the innocent faces of a mortal body was what made them so unsettling—they could be anywhere, inside anyone, and it could be impossible to tell. But now Dean had been proven wrong. This was worse. Here they appeared truly devilish; their soulless black eyes paired with pointed teeth and horns, just as Cas had described. Only this was far worse than his imagination had envisaged.

Worse because he'd seen something just like them before, back when his soul was trapped and tortured in Hell. These creatures were the things of his worst nightmares. They were the memory of his 40 years in Hell; being torn apart and tormented endlessly, all the while begging desperately not to exist anymore because the agony was more than he could endure.

For a brief second, the sight of the demons left him frozen in place. But then Sam was shouting at him, shaking his shoulder roughly to force him to move. Dean stumbled to the side, back towards the portal. It was already beginning to seal shut, the glowing edges creeping inward; the sliver of their world between them thinning until he almost couldn't see it anymore.

Ever since Jack had disappeared portals had been opening and closing in various locations around the country. He and Sam had been making ways to follow them but it was impossible to keep up. The portals oftentimes disappeared just as abruptly as they appeared, opening one second and closing the next before anyone even had the chance to process what they had seen. Similarly, there was simply no telling when and where they would show up. There was no discernible pattern in their whereabouts, though Sam had tirelessly searched for one. He could only theorize that they came as Jack left, or perhaps Jack himself had no control over the splits in time and space. Maybe they existed as a product of his abilities. A consequence of using a power too strong for this world.

The brothers had, on occasion, found portals before their eventual close, and they'd fearlessly—or perhaps foolishly—entered them in an attempt to free their mother from the alternate universe and from Lucifer's clutches. Dean knew that they both, deep down, were starting to believe that Mary was long gone—that Lucifer would have ripped her apart upon the portal closing.

But Dean, ultimately, refused to hear of it.

Mary had to be alive, because he needed her to be. And he couldn't bear to live without trying to find her. For him, as good as dead wasn't enough. He needed to see for himself whether she was well and truly alive or dead. Though he was, quite honestly, unprepared to find out one way or the other. And all of Sam's harsh rationalisations hadn't been deemed enough to give up just yet—Sam still resented himself for never searching for Dean when he and Cas had been swept away to Purgatory. He wasn't about to repeat history now with his mother. No matter how long it took.

It had been weeks, and they had yet to find her.

Unfortunately, just as the timing and the locations of the portals was spontaneous, the worlds they led to were equally impulsive. There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to where the rips led them, and so they had ventured many times to worlds quite like their own, but just a little different. It was disconcerting in itself to see a timeline in which John had purchased the god-awful hippy van instead of the Impala, or a universe in which Sam and Dean had been born Samantha and Deanna. Dean was sure there were far more worlds lying in wait just beyond the realms of his reality, but he was far from eager to see them.

However, they had yet to run across another Earth quite as drastic as the one they were in now. Apparently the worst world—the one well and truly in ruins—was the one in which they had never existed—no other had yet resembled the apocalypse. And Dean couldn't even begin to fathom what that could mean. And he didn't wish to remember how it was, somehow, someway, still this world that his mother had been pulled into and trapped inside.

Sam was still clutching tightly onto his sleeve, pushing him toward the portal, but then Dean saw him. There, amongst the battling swarm of angels, was a dark-haired man wearing a trench coat, whose tie was twisted the wrong way round. There was Cas, angel blade in hand, his face and clothes splattered with demon blood and dusted with the ash of Earth.

There was Cas… Cas who had only a few weeks prior been killed by Lucifer before his very eyes.

Dean had seen—with every instinct and need in his body screaming at him to stop it—the dying ebb of Castiel's grace as his eyes flashed white before fading away into nothing.

Dean had knelt before the empty shell of Castiel's body, the angel's broken and skeletal wings permanently etched into the dirt, and had looked upon his lifeless face, urging for it not to be real.

Dean had spent each night since praying for him to be alive, but each desperate word had apparently fallen onto deaf ears, because Cas had never returned to him.

Dean had become willing to accept miracles, if only to receive one just this once. But it appeared that his refusal to believe in miracles every day prior had stripped him of his chance to get one now.

Castiel had died, leaving him to exist only in Dean's memory, and in every waking moment of Dean's thoughts. Dean always missed him. Always. No matter where he was or what he was doing, there remained the emptiness of where Cas used to be. In every action there shadowed thoughts of Castiel, reminding him he was gone, never to return.

And Dean hated it.

Oftentimes he wished to be numb because at least then he could escape the dark ebb of depression that constantly seeped in from the back of his mind. If he was numb then he could stop feeling this pain. He could power on as he had always tried to do. Every loss he'd suffered thus far—of which there were many—had struck Dean down to his knees; and left him fearful. Not for his own life, but rather for those who hadn't yet passed. Because while he saved many lives, he also seemed to be the end of many others, especially those he cared so deeply about. People he loved. And it seemed that even Cas wasn't invulnerable to this rule; after having already lost so much for the sake of the Winchesters, and now his life too.

Dean had never given much thought to the state of Castiel's wings before he had seen the shattering truth in the shadow beneath Cas' back. He'd known they were broken and powerless, incapable of flight, but he had never quite understood the extent of it. Or even wondered if they hurt. It never occurred to him to ask, even upon seeing the damaged scorch marks left from the demise of other angels. And for that he felt ashamed. Selfish, even. Because it wasn't as if he didn't care—he cared more than what any friend probably should—but he still never considered the idea of simply turning to Cas and asking; "are you in pain? Do you miss it—being able to fly?" Though in retrospect Dean began to think that maybe he hadn't asked because he'd always feared the answer Cas would never have forced him to hear, but knew to be true. That answer being that he was and he did.

Dean had had nothing but time to dwell over these reflections and cruel wonderings, which was more reason for him to want to lobotomise his grief. He'd rather the torment of feeling nothing at all to feeling everything all at once. Perhaps then he wouldn't be staring at Castiel now with all rationality being swept out of his grasp.

His legs became suddenly void of strength; his knees barely keeping him upright. His heart was hammering; the sudden adrenaline sending his blood coursing through his veins. It was dizzying. There he suddenly became conflicted as to what he should and should not believe. The sight of that familiar coat fed into a false hope that Dean had spent all this time trying to dissipate. Where Castiel had come back before, Dean was still coming to terms with the fact that he wasn't coming back again. But to see him—or rather the striking resemblance of him—here, changed something, and made Dean do something very, very stupid.

As Castiel was edged to the outskirts of the dwindling mass of angels and demons, Dean shook his sleeve free from Sam's grasp and pursued the angel. He took hold of Castiel's arm and pulled. It was no easy feat, as the angel was far stronger than him, but the action startled Cas enough that he became movable and he hadn't any opportunity to plant his feet. It happened swiftly—so fast in fact that even Dean himself hadn't yet made sense of what he was doing.

But suddenly there they were; Sam, Dean, and Castiel, all together on the other side of the portal as it sealed shut.

The world of the apocalypse was no longer in their sights, and it was impossible to say when and if they would ever see it again. And instead of Mary, they now had the Castiel from another dimension. The trio scurried apart and took to their feet, Sam instinctively reaching for his brother. Dean still hadn't begun to comprehend what was happening, and what choices had led to this, but the chance eluded him still as Castiel retrieved his angel blade and held it poised in warning.

Sam raised his hands in immediate surrender, and Dean watched him, perplexed by the obvious tension in his expression and in his forever brooding posture. Sam was afraid of Castiel. Dean didn't have the good sense to feel the same. After all, this was Cas.

Castiel's intense blue eyes flashed dangerous—quite literally—as his grace glistened in preparation to exert a power that could easily wipe the two of them out of existence. Dean hadn't stopped to consider that this version of Castiel may never have been weakened by losing his grace and only gaining a portion of it back. But Sam already had, and he took two cautious steps back. He hissed at Dean, insisting he do the same. But Dean didn't. Instead, he did the exact opposite and took two reckless steps forward.

"Cas—" he started, his voice stern.

"Dean, stop," Sam cautioned, "Jimmy is a vessel… that doesn't mean Cas is in it."

"Bullshit," Dean rejected the notion immediately. He knew Castiel when he saw him—albeit a little different to how he remembered him last. This was Cas, and there was nothing that could, or would, indicate otherwise. It didn't matter how the angel now carried himself much the same way a proficient and unwavering soldier would—the way he had all those years ago upon their first meeting. It didn't matter that there wasn't any sign to suggest that Cas even recognised them. There came no acknowledgement other than disdain, or perhaps, worse still, complete disinclination—as though killing them would be as trivial as swatting a fly. No matter what he saw at the forefront, Dean knew that Castiel was there somewhere deep within; even if the angel didn't know it yet.

"You can't know that for sure," Sam said. As he took an additional three steps back, Dean took a juxtaposed three steps forward.

By now the space between he and Cas was slim to none, and yet the angel hadn't made a move to strike. Briefly, Dean felt almost chuffed by this. Mollified. He got the sense that the miracle he had long ago asked for had somehow been granted to him after all. But the closer he got, the wilder Cas appeared. The Impala's headlights highlighted the stains of blood and dirt on Castiel's clothes, which, though not unusual or something Dean had never seen before, somehow made him into something war ravaged and cold. Overtime, Dean's Castiel had slowly started to perceive and understand appearances, and even went so far as to take more care with his own by keeping clean and presentable.

This Castiel either didn't notice, or, more likely, simply didn't care.

Perhaps Sam couldn't see the humanity in Cas that Dean was so desperately searching for; and was so sure he would find.

Castiel's stance remained poised with the angel blade clasped firmly in his white knuckled fist, watching Dean as the hunter approached him. Dean could see, as the blue flare of grace faded from Castiel's eyes, that the angel was trying to take in his surroundings. His gaze was distant, as though he were really looking beyond Dean's shoulder, past Sam, at the canopy of trees that were swaying softly in the breeze. As Dean paused, all that could be heard was the rustle of leaves and the whisper of icy wind. Somewhere in the distance, a bird took flight, the wings beating like a heart stuttering until still.

In the dark, the world suddenly seemed ominous. And Dean got the distinct feeling of being trapped with a wild animal.

"Cas?" Dean was hesitant. Suddenly he wasn't so sure anymore that he'd find what he was looking for. "Do you know where you are?"

Castiel looked at him. The flat emptiness of his eyes startled Dean, and he heard the shuffle of his brother's feet as he took yet another instinctual step backwards.

"Cas, buddy? It's Earth, okay? You know it…You've seen it before," Dean said gently.

"Dean—" Sam echoed.

Dean ignored him and cautiously raised a hand, though he hadn't yet considered his intentions. He just needed to know Cas was real. Though he hadn't decided whether to embrace him or to place a protective hand on his shoulder. Maybe just to touch the material of his coat would be enough to convince Dean that Cas was well and truly there. And maybe it would be enough for Castiel too; to convince him that Dean, too, was real. Dean hoped Cas would recognise him, even if he wasn't sure why or where from.

Instead, as Dean finally touched the sleeve of Castiel's trench coat, the angel struck him with a single back hand punch that sent him flying. The air was ripped from Dean's lungs at the impact to his gut, and he landed, hard, some feet away. The back of his head collided with the base of a tree and immediately he could feel blood dripping through his hair. Lightheaded, he felt for the wound and his fingers came back warm and a slick, dark red, but he couldn't tell the severity of his injury from touch alone. He saw the shadow of Castiel as he advanced on Sam, blade ready to strike with no hesitation or remorse—it didn't seem to matter that they were human. Castiel had no regard for God's creations. Sam and Dean were in the way, and Cas was not about to let that stand. Particularly after they had dragged him to a world so unlike his own.

"Cas! No!" Dean yelled and staggered to his feet.

In the dark, it was near impossible to tell what followed from the shapes of the two men as they fought, though Dean could faintly recognise the looming height of Sam's shadow. Dust kicked up below their feet in a cloud at their ankles, and Dean heard the shifting of rocks beneath their shoes. Still, everything seemed to be happening so fast while he was moving too slow.

Dean faintly thought—with his heart dropping to the pit of his stomach—that Cas was going to kill Sam. An idea that had long before been rejected. Dean had thought it impossible; ridiculous, even. Because Cas would never dare hurt Sam. He'd never even consider it, no matter the circumstance; the two of them had come too far, were too close of friends, too important to one another, to even be led to such a tragedy against their will.

Sometimes Dean had even envied Sam for the bond he shared with Cas. It was too pure, almost. It was uncomplicated and kind and forgiving. What Dean shared with Castiel was something else entirely. No descriptor proved appropriate for their… whatever they were. And for a long time, Dean hadn't found it in him to say they were just friends. Sometimes the complexity of it all was tiring, yet Dean had never found himself wanting it any other way. He never wanted Cas to change. Though maybe he had wanted more. And that was a very big… and a very invalid… maybe, because, in truth, Dean had long ago realised that the question had already been answered. It was the very reason why he was finding it so hard—impossible, and agonising,—to say goodbye.

How could he say goodbye to someone he hadn't yet confided his love to? It would feel and sound hollow, because there was more weight to the word than he had allowed himself to let on. Because Cas, wherever he was, if he could hear him somehow—which Dean wanted, but couldn't, believe—wouldn't understand what it truly meant. He wouldn't know just how damn hard it was letting go.

As Sam and Cas fought, he couldn't help but think this, and wish again, dreadfully, that things had gone differently. That time and circumstance hadn't somehow gotten them here with Cas about to kill his brother. Because he knew, if push came to shove, he wouldn't have any choice but to stop him, no matter the cost—even if it meant killing the angel. His best friend. His soulmate—for lack of a better word.

"Cas!" Dean shouted again, his throat dry and voice hoarse.

He wrapped himself around Castiel from behind in an attempt to pin his arms down, but the angel's strength was undeniable as he thrust his head back against Dean's nose; possibly breaking it. The pain was momentarily blinding, and Dean stumbled backwards on his feet. Sam didn't hold back in his retaliation; he didn't need to. As the hunter's fist struck Castiel's face, the impact was almost indiscernible as Cas hardly faltered, yet Sam's knuckles were already bloodied. Dean regained his balance and stepped forward, the blood from his nose staining his lip, and Cas turned with one quick, aggressive motion. Castiel's hand abruptly grabbed for Dean's throat, and he lifted the hunter clean from his feet and held him there effortlessly. His other hand brought the angel blade to Dean's cheek and cut across his skin with careful precision.

Was Castiel—this Castiel—so maniacal he would want to make them hurt first before killing them? Was that what Cas had become? Or worse… was that what he had always been?

Dean winced as Castiel's grip tightened on his throat and his fingers dug into his windpipe. Already he could feel his face growing hot, though surely it would very quickly turn cold as the life was squeezed out of him. Dean tugged at Castiel's sleeve, and he thought how the material of this coat was once the greatest comfort, but now it was tainted by the shell of the person wearing it. Sam quickly took advantage of Castiel's inattentiveness and locked a singular Enochian handcuff around one of his wrists. Cas thrust his elbow back into Sam, throwing the younger Winchester toward the Impala. It was distraction enough for Dean to kick against Castiel's knee, forcing him to buckle. Dean barely just slipped from Castiel's grasp, and he fell in a heap in the dirt, gasping for air, but his throat still felt constricted and ached from the effort.

"Why are you holding back?" Castiel asked, perplexed. He gazed down upon Dean with that same confused tilt of his head and raised brow in absolute wonderment that Dean had oftentimes seen before. That look could almost be considered Castiel's natural state; as the world, and all of life's little intricacies, had always left him astounded. Cas had always been curious. Only now did Dean realise how much more there was to teach him. How much he had longed to see that inquisitive expression again.

Only now did he see just how it endeared him.

And again he felt that inescapable fear of letting go and forgetting him. He couldn't do it.

"Cas, please," Dean rasped. He held up a blood-smeared hand, pleading for him to stop.

"Why—" Cas tried to ask again. There was something manic in his voice this time. He needed to understand.

Dean thought that perhaps nobody in Castiel's life had ever shown mercy or weakness before. Neither the angels nor the demons ever hesitated to kill. Maybe, for the first time, Cas was fighting someone who didn't wish to kill him.

And maybe that scared him.

Castiel's eyes flashed an astonishing blue that was so bright that Dean started to turn and look away, one trembling hand rising to cover his eyes. He could only just see Sam as he emerged from behind Castiel's shoulder and hastily forced the second cuff around Castiel's other wrist. Instantly, the light burnt out from Castiel's eyes as his powers diminished; stripped away from him by the Enochian sigils etched into the metal. Cas stared at his hands, startled at the sudden loss of control and the unfamiliar feeling of vulnerability. Dean clumsily rose and forced the blade free from Castiel's hand and then withdrew from him to Sam's side.

Sam dabbed at the split in his lip with the back of his hand and shifted hastily from one foot to the other. It was apparent that he was at a loss as to what he ought to do. Which was disquieting since Dean was depending on his brother for answers. After all, it was no secret that Sam was the smarter of the two, and probably the more reasonable and grounded as well. Dean knew he could always turn to him. But this time Sam wasn't just unsure, he was troubled too.

"So… what now?" Dean asked breathily. He pressed his sleeve to his bleeding nose and winced at the touch. Together they looked a sight—Sam's lip busted and his knuckles swollen and bloody. Dean with his bruised and bleeding nose, his hair crusted in drying blood from the cut to the back of his head, the gash on his cheek stinging, and, he assumed, with the faint imprint of Castiel's hand around his sore throat.

Sam shook his head and strode forward without giving Dean the benefit of a response. He grabbed Cas' arm and pulled him toward the Impala. Together they passed Dean by and left him to follow at his own pace. Surprisingly, Cas didn't attempt to fight them, though the look of concentration and absolute frustration suggested that he was still attempting to fly off, but the cuffs were successfully keeping him in place. Though of course it was hard to say how long that would last. Somehow Cas was bound to find an escape. It was just painful to think that Cas would have the need to find one from them in the first place.

Dean settled himself in the driver's seat and waited for Sam to force Castiel into the backseat before joining him at his side. He glanced into the rear-view mirror, his green eyes locking with blue. Castiel's glare was filled with torment and rage, like there had never been any love or compassion behind those eyes before. Dean swiftly looked away. Sam pulled his door shut with a little more force than was necessary and switched the radio on. The station crackled and whirred as the signal faded in and out the further they drove down the winding road toward the highway. The sound put Dean on edge.

Not one of the men volunteered to speak, though Dean was sure there was plenty, if not too much, to say. He had questions he wished to asked, but had little hope would be answered. He wanted to see what Castiel remembered—if there was a chance that maybe he had all along been receptive to the doppelganger version of himself that Dean had fallen in love with. Maybe the angels had always sensed the existence of other dimensions and unexplored timelines but just had the good sense not to touch them. Maybe this Cas had always known there was another Cas, and maybe he'd be eager to know him, if even just through Sam and Dean's recollections.

There had to be hope, didn't there? Dean had been faced with fate many times, and had even gone so far as to escape it… yet he still thought of it with scepticism. Like the concept was too far beyond his understanding, or too unfair to accept. But he had to think that he had seen Castiel there in that battlefield for a reason. That in a world full of coincidence, this was the one thing that was meant to be.

And, in his unwillingness to say goodbye, Dean drove Castiel home and didn't ask him anything. He didn't look at him again. He just wanted this hour, just this one, to pretend that things were the way that had once been.

That this Castiel was his.


Thanks for reading, guys! I hope you've enjoyed this chapter and are eager for more. I can't say how frequently I'll update this one, considering I haven't yet finished plotting it, so even I will be surprised with how it ends haha. Your feedback will be most appreciated and will inspire me to continue (though I always insist on finishing every story anyway!) Keep an eye out for the next chapter! :)