The first time Dean met Castiel, he had plunged a knife into his heart. It seemed like a sound metaphor for the rest of their relationship. Dean required sacrifice in place of love, and Cas was a being built for worship and war. It was only right that the two became more like one: a single combative unit, who hashed out their frustrations pressed against a stack of ammunition at night.
The apocalypse had ravaged the spirits of every survivor, but an argument could be made that Dean was the most broken. It was, at the end of the day, his brother that Lucifer was wearing to the prom. It was Sam's body that was used to snap spines like toothpicks. And Dean was leading a resistence who's single aim, after survival of course, was to kill the Devil.
Cas knew that Dean was broken. He knew it in the deepest parts of him that had been torn open, bled dry and bruised by the backlash of his captain's grief. Because he was a soldier, he took the pain like a bullet wound, but the damage went far beyond the mortal body that has long since been unoccupied by anyone but him.
He indulged in women, to fill the void left by Jimmy, the gaping wounds left by Dean, the shattered silence that had filled his ears since his grace slipped between his fingers and the song of the angels was lost to him. He took pills to numb to grating sense of wrongness every time another slim bodied girl slunk out of his cabin in the early hours of the morning. He washed it down with booze in a desperate and pathetic attempt to die.
Still, he woke up every morning with a pounding head, and ate his baked beans in silence as Dean eyed him with judgement shrouded eyes from across the room. On one particular morning, no different from any other, Dean plopped down in the seat next to his. For just a moment, Cas could almost see a shadow of the man he used to be, all cocky smiles and long limbs spread out to fill and invade space. The moment passed, however, and he was left with a new animal, who's cheekbones had chiseled further since the food rations.
"Castiel." Dean said, and the sound of his full name was like a slap. All formality when they were in public.
"Yes, Dean." There was no question left in him, no need for it. He knew Dean would tell him whatever it is he needed to say regardless.
"A big band of Croats will be heading through the area tomorrow. We need to cut them off before they get anywhere near the camp."
"Of course." Cas sighed, rubbing his temple in an attempt to aleviate his headache. "Should I 'rally the troups'?" He almost smirked, but stopped himself.
"Nah, I'll announce it at the meating after breakfast. Just wanted to give you a heads up."
Dean stood and walked away, then, not waiting for a response. Cas thought that, if he had the capacity to enjoy anything anymore, he would appreciate the line of Dean's hips, where his dirty tshirt had ridden up just slightly over the waistband of his pants. He couldn't enjoy it, but he looked anyway, and thought of better days while his beans got cold.
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Dean has announced the approaching Croats at the daily 10 o'clock meeting, and had picked the players for his attack. Cas thought of Dean's approach like a chessboard. He'd taken up the game several years earlier, but had quickly abandoned it when no one wanted to play. The strategy still made sense to him though.
Pawns led the attack. They were disposable. He noticed that Dean always picked stragglers to lead the assault, those who weren't particularly skilled at fighting but could play an important role regardless. Then he chose the second wave: knights, bishops, and rooks. All strong, combat oriented people who shot first and asked questions later.
And then, finally, the Kind and Queen. It was funny to think of them this way, but it suited his analogy so he stuck with it. Cas played the role of the queen. He protected Dean, killed anything that came near Dean, and would sacrifice himself in a second for Dean. He knows that his unwavering dedication is why he was always chosen for this position, and the fact that it had not gone unnoticed almost made him proud. But he was still in a more or less disposable position, so it didn't.
Finally, Dean. The mastermind, who's training and experience made him irreplaceable. He directed and orchestrated flawless attack after flawless attack and, Cas thought, he would be excellent at chess.
Cas had been so caught up in his musings that he didn't notice night had fallen until he heard a swift rapping against his door. Startled out of his thoughts, he stood swiftly from the bed, pressing one hand against the cool wood of his cabin when he got dizzy. Then, he opened his door.
Outside, with a halo of moonlight hilighting the blond streaks in his hair, stood Dean. His shoulders were back, almost defensive, but they softened slowly into a slump when he saw Cas.
"Cas." His voice broke over the syllables, like waves against rock, and he knew that something was very wrong. Dean didn't give him much time to think about this, however, because in the next moment they were pressed against the opposite wall and Dean's mouth, better than any drug, was erasing any trace of coherency from his mind.
(AN: This was unedited, written at six in the morning, and there will be more chapters. My fingers just got tired, haha. I will hopefully reupload an edited version at some point?)