Dean's not really sure what's more shocking: that Cas actually understood a Star Wars reference or the fact that he just fucking knew, straight off the bat, that something was wrong. That's a fucking lie...the Star Wars reference is the surprise of the night…There's absolutely no fucking way that Cas wouldn't notice the mark on his arm. Cas isn't a fucking idiot, and he's got his mojo back—grounded for sure, but his angelic spidey senses are still intact, and Dean is…well, to be honest, he's not sure what the fuck he is anymore, but he can feel the Mark in him, burning through him; throbbing, like a drum beat, just off the rhythm of his heart and somehow louder. It itches and it burns and it makes him feel like his skin is on fucking fire, and Dean isn't the most observant person, so Cas would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to notice whatever the hell it is that the Mark is doing to him.
Dean knew Cas would sense it or see or find out somehow; and he's been avoiding it for weeks…not exactly on purpose, not exactly deliberately, he hasn't fucking lied about it…he's not that much of a hypocrite, but, at the same time, it's not like Cas has his wings anymore. He can't just pop in at a moment's notice, and, though, on the one hand Dean fucking misses that, misses Cas apparating into an empty motel room and scaring the shit out of him, misses him turning up right when they need him, misses him watching him sleep for fuck's sake; it's easier to hide this way; to use absence and omission to his advantage.
They call and they text and they check in—and the conversations are short, direct, thick with things unsaid. Dean can feel the words in the back of his throat, ready to explode out of him, clawing their way up his sternum into his mouth, I don't know what I'm doing…I think I fucked up, big time…I don't know what to do…I don't know what's happening to me…I'm fucking scared, man…I wish you were here…Help me. The words collect in the region of his Adam's apple, they burn against his tongue; he works his jaw, and swallows them down. Says he's fine, promises to keep in touch, tells him that he'll check in in a day or two, and hangs up before Cas can ask anything personal, before the questioning tone, the concerned voice, can coalesce into an actual question that Dean can't, won't, answer. He doesn't pray anymore; he's unsure what would be worse: Cas hearing him cry like a fucking bitch, straight up begging for help; or having Cas hear nothing but radio silence, because how could a fallen thing like Dean pray…do angels hear the cries of the damned? This isn't the first time he's asked himself that question, but he's never so desperately not wanted to know the answer.
He lets Sam do the talking from then on out—it's easier that way—Dean's too busy looking for Abaddon, he's too busy trying not to jump out of his skin, he's just…he can't fucking put up a front and pretend shit is fine with Cas, so he tells Sam to do it and ignores his brother's pointed expression—Sam's made his views on the subject perfectly clear, Dean can deal with this, whatever the fuck this is, on his own. Fine.
Dean's not stupid enough to think that he can keep Cas in the dark forever—he's been delaying the inevitable, and he gets that—sometimes when he can't sleep, which is most nights lately, he imagines what Cas will think; pictures the big reveal in all its rancid glory—he sees disgust distorting Cas' features, a recoil, a hatred in his eyes—it makes him feel like he's gonna throw up, makes him want to smash his hand repeatedly against a wall, against his own fucking reflection in the mirror—but it also gives him a sick, perverted pleasure to imagine Cas' turning away from him, just like he should've all those years ago…You shoulda just let me rot in the Pit, his mental voice is practically a growl; it woulda saved us a fuck ton of trouble…six years later, and we're right back we started…
He traces the mark; and it gives a particularly sharp pulse, warm to the touch, inflamed, infected…He was always headed for hell, what the fuck was the point of giving him a few years of shore leave to fuck everything up worse than he already had…the thoughts circle and circle; anger and frustration thrum through his body—insistent, irritating, imperative…he gets up and paces the Bunker's hallways, touches the blades in the armory (he always ends up in the armory, as if he expects to find what he's looking for waiting for him on the shelves)—they all fit his hand perfectly, but none of them feels right…none of them is this one that he wants, that he needs, and he has to close his eyes, take a deep breath, and slug a fifth of whiskey before he can get his hands to stop shaking.
He needs sleep less than he used to; he loses stretches of time; he can hear the thrum of the mark on his arm, and there's something…something inside that's different, aching. He thirsts, constantly craving something just out of reach—his senses heightened and dulled, distilled to the steady pulse of need, the way his hand feels empty, and that emptiness radiates through his whole fucking body, so that he feels like he'll never be satisfied, never be still, the sensation spreads until he can't fucking breathe anymore…
Sam watches Dean; Dean avoids Sam; keeps the Mark from his brother's prying eyes as best he can. He speaks in sharp barks; and curt statements, business only, just like Sammy wanted. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that was fucking worry in his brother's eyes…he laughs dryly to himself…Nothing's really funny anymore.
The speaker phone convo is the first time Dean's heard Cas' voice in weeks, and it's strangely soothing. He can feel Sam's eyes on him, heavy and keen; when Cas asks how he is, when he tells Cas he's fine, lying through his teeth. Cas' response to Dean's inquiry is so fucking Cas that Dean can forget for a moment how fucked up his life has become, how bone deep tired he is, how alone; because the universe can't suck that much if Cas can still be so pointedly Cas after everything he's been through—can still be confused by the mini-fridge, and annoyed by smelly motel rooms, and wishing that he could take wing and fly home. He has the most bizarre image of Cas in the passenger seat of the Impala, tapping his fingers against the doorframe, and he's not sure if it's a memory or a wish, but he brushes it away before he can dwell…that's not his life…not anymore, not ever, not really…he focuses on the problem at hand.
It's all he can do not to tear Gadreel to shreds. It feels good to cut into the bastard; it feels right…in a way that nothing has felt right in a long, long time…like nothing has felt right since he dropped the First Blade. It takes all he's got not to kill the fucker, every shred of self-control to tamp down the urge to make him suffer, to transform that vessel into a work of art before he snuffs the light out, permanently—the need is…it's…primal, instinctual, overpowering—Dean's experienced bloodlust, plenty of it, for fuck's sake, he was a vampire at one point…but he's never felt anything like this, and, if he's honest, it scares the shit out of him…it scares him how much he wants to give in, how easy it would be to just follow the siren song, to let the certainty, the purity of it wash over him. So simple. It's like Sam drags him out of a daze, back to the surface, and he wants to grab onto his brother like a drowning man, to thank him for pulling him back from the brink, at the same time he wants to shove Sam away, so that he can retreat back to that place where things makes sense, where there's clarity, where Dean can fucking disappear into the pulsing rhythm…Dean's not sure which is real, which is him. He can't tell anymore; but he feels both in almost equal measure—an internal tug of war that can go in either direction, but he knows it's only a matter of time…right now, Cas needs him and that's what matters; he can hold on for that, tread water a bit longer.
Metatron is a colossal dick; with the amazing ability to become more of a douchebag every time Dean sees him. The desire to shove an angel blade between the dude's fucking eyes has never been stronger.
Soon, he soothes himself, brushing his fingers unconsciously against the mark, first Abaddon, then this fucker.
It's ironic—weeks of worry, of avoidance, and Dean forgets to cover up, to brace himself until it's too late. Until they're standing in a parking lot outside some dingy motel, the three of them, and it's so much like old times; it's such a distraction, such a relief. It just goes to show how absolutely fucked their lives are that a quasi-apocalyptic situation is actually a respite at this point—god wannabes and demons on the rise…this is shit they can handle; fuck it's shit they've done before—and the three of them go into strategy mode, quickly and easily; it's like riding a bike.
Then there's the fact that Cas actually gets a Star Wars reference, which gives Dean a moment to be pissed and weirdly rejected because there was a time when he thought that he would be the one to sit Cas down and marathon the original trilogy and badmouth the sequels; ready to hear him complain about the bad special effects, and give long lectures about quantum mechanics and impossibility before Dean shoved him off the couch, and how fucking dare someone steal that from him…He pushes that aside enough to come back to the present, because Cas spent the whole day in Megadouche's clutches, and at the very least he had to suffer through some windbag evil villain speech, at the worst (given Cas' previous encounters with his relatives) he got brain drilled and grace robbed, and Dean should probably check in about that. Dean is a strange combination of worried, angry, disappointed, and it's pretty impressive that he's able to feel any or all of that above the simmering rage that's constantly on the verge of boiling over, that itch he can't scratch. That's probably why it takes Dean a minute to realize what it means when Cas narrows his eyes at him, flips Dean's concern around on him, and says there's something different. It's not a question, not really; it's like he's puzzled, confused. Dean wonders exactly how much of the Mark has seeped under his skin; wonders if Cas is commenting innocuously on the fact that Dean looks like he hasn't slept in a month, if he's noting the tremors in his hands and the shadows on his face; or if it's something deeper, if there's a blackness inside of him that can't be undone; if Cas can see the Mark of Cain on him the way that he can see demons beneath the faces they wear.
Dean doesn't have time to panic; he has time to brush it off, or he thinks he does, until Cas' hand is on his wrist like a vice; pushing his sleeve up with a look on his face that's strange and familiar all at once. It's like a thunderstorm; lightning in his eyes, wrath brewing just beneath the surface; if Cas still had his wings, they'd be flared out, electricity in the air, ozone on his tongue. The last time Cas looked this pissed, Dean got the living shit beaten out of him in an alley way, and there's a part of him that would welcome that, would take the beating as deserved and even fucking cleansing at this point. Cas looks like he would like nothing more than to rip the mark off of Dean's arm, hell, like he would take the whole fucking appendage if it meant that he could erase the demon taint; like he would scrub it off if he could. There's something in him, too, that almost wishes Cas would or could just tear it the fuck off, get rid of it, fix this whole fucking mess, but that's not gonna happen. He clenches his jaw and snatches his arm away, leaving Cas fuming, furious.
"It's a means to an end," he says, glancing away, shifting on his feet, eager to escape.
When Cas damns him, he almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all: What d'you think I'm doin', Cas? That's how this story ends; how it was always gonna end. Haven't you been payin attention?
He remembers Bobby saying the same thing once, damning him for a deal fucking lifetimes ago.
Cas should have left him in the Pit, he thinks again, jaw clenching around the bitterness on his tongue; he would have saved everyone some trouble.
He turns away before he can see Cas' expression shift to something more than anger: to something that resembles sorrow, frustration, and fear. He runs, because running is what he's good at, because the Mark on his arm won't let him be still, won't let him rest; because he cursed and there's nothing Cas can do about it; because he can't stand here anymore, because he fucking wants.
He hears Cas murmur something to Sam; he hits the gas. He ignores Cas' fading figure in the rearview mirror, he ignores his brother, large and brooding in the passenger seat, he ignores the dull throbbing the radiates from his forearm, constant as a second pulse, beating unnaturally against the thrum of his heart, ever louder, drowning his heartbeat beneath its rhythm.
When they reach a motel miles and hours down the road, Sam is all heavy sighs, collapsing into bed when it becomes clear that Dean won't respond, won't take the bait; strictly professional.
He sits at the table long after Sam has crashed, turning a knife in his hand, over and over until he could almost be sleeping. He imagines how this could have gone different: if he hadn't let Gadreel in; if he hadn't listened to the fucker, if he had asked Cas to stay…Metatron might have left them the fuck alone, Abaddon and Crowley could have killed each other fighting over the Pit for all that he cared, Kevin would be alive, Sam wouldn't hate him…Cas would still be human, something inside Dean twists sharply at the thought, painfully. Dean would have been the one to teach Cas the finer point of Sci-Fi, would have taken him grocery shopping, and made him try every type of PB&J sandwich they could concoct until he picked his favorite, would have been there when he fell asleep and woke up and everything in between; would have slotted their mouths together and felt him move beside him, with him, in him, just like they were always supposed to…he slams the knife down, without warning into the table top, breaths out and shakes his head. That's not his life. This isn't a game, he doesn't have some fucking magic god typewriter where he can go back and rewrite the past few months, the past few fucking years. That's not how this works.
He stares at his phone for a few minutes; silence punctuated by Sam's snores, before he types a message. He doesn't delete it this time.
I'm sorry, he sends, bile in his throat, heart beating a tattoo against his chest; like it wants to escape, fly away, find somewhere better to roost than the shell of a fucking man in which it's trapped, forced to wither and rot and darken.
Dean's not sure that he expects a response, not sure he deserves one, doesn't actually want to know if he's fallen far enough for Cas to turn away and leave. When Cas does respond twenty minutes later, Dean is almost afraid to read the message.
Cas doesn't ask why he did it; he doesn't force him to explain. Cas knows Dean as well as anyone, better than most.
Let me help you, he writes, like it's that simple; like Dean deserves help.
Dean traces the raised skin with his fingertips, wants to cover it, wants to hide it, but he can't, not from himself.
I'm not sure you can, he admits.
There is silence for five minutes; nothing, then the phone buzzes.
Let me try. It's a plea, a prayer.
Dean's jaw clenches, he stomach twists, and for once his heartbeat supersedes the steady ache of the Mark. He glances at Sam asleep on the bed, at his shaking fingers; he imagines Cas' hand on his wrist, angry, upset, but holding him steady.
Okay.
A/N
So this isn't really a fix it, so much as an introspection piece, but here we are. Thank you for reading. Feedback is always welcome. It is my most sincere hope that I represented Dean's inner demons (brought out in force by the mark of cain) without destroying his characterization.