A/N: I know. The Wind Keeper was supposed to be my last Destiel story. But through a series of events I began work on this story. I'm actually pretty far into it. Hope you enjoy. It will divided into two parts, fifteen chapters each. Leave me feedback and I will marry you :)

Also, this is an AU in which Castiel surrenders his grace for Sam to be free from the cage at the very end of Season five. Things will be explained as you go; just hang in there.

November 23, 2014

A room of all white could be daunting thing, and Dean really had to fight the urge to dirty the place up, but more than that, he sat wondering where the hell Cas had gotten all the white furniture, and he let out a near-hysterical laugh.

"I don't see what could possibly be so funny," hissed a man in all black, standing in the corner. Dean had nearly forgotten about him in the deep silence, but he was indeed still there, a splotch on the snowy room.

"Can it, Jamie. I didn't come here to listen to your shit."

The golden clock sitting on the table, the only real splash of color in the room, ticked twice before the man answered.

"It's James," he said through his teeth, and as he leaned forward, Dean knew just how much he must have wanted to spring forward and tear his throat out. If only he wasn't forbidden. Taking in the events of the last few months, Dean couldn't say that he wouldn't welcome death with a smile at this point.

"Okay, Jamie," he said, all the spite draining from him at the thought of leaving Sammy, of giving up. It just hadn't been the easiest year, but he really should have expected that considering in an alternate universe he died in this year, and had already lost Sam. And Cas.

It was strange how things in this world weren't actually all that far off from reality.

A door behind him opened and James stiffened, dipping his head in a greeting.

"Sir," he said, his lips barely moving.

"Dismissed," said a voice near the doorway. A voice that sent chills skittering the length of Dean's spine in a haunting way.

The man in the corner obliged eagerly, all but running from the room as Castiel rounded the couch and sat across from Dean in a plush armchair. It was white, of course. Dean used to think Cas looked best when paired with the color white, but now, it felt too clean, blank and devoid of anything.

This was not the Castiel he had known.

Castiel crossed his legs and placed his chin in his hand, mildly curious, bored, and reminiscent of a jungle cat that had its prey in such short sight that it could spare a brief respite before pouncing.

"What is it you want? Haven't I given you everything you asked for? Oh, don't try to blame me," he said as Dean opened his mouth to say 'no', "You know I kept my end of the deal. I don't want to be a part of your family anymore. I thought you might have guessed that by this point."

He let out a cold laugh and removed his black gloves delicately, laying them atop on another on the table between them.

"That color doesn't suit you," Dean said casually, trying to alleviate some of the tension. It was such a heavy presence, so daunting and uncomfortable, that Dean shifted in his chair and let out a large sigh. He hadn't realized until that moment he had actually been holding his breath.

The man, whom he tried to avoid thinking of as Castiel, lifted his chin, faintly interested in the sudden small talk, but he took it in stride.

"And you think that ugly tan trench coat looks better? Come on, Dean. We all know how much you hated it. I got rid of it, just as you asked."

A brief silence and Castiel knew he had touched a nerve; his lips curved upward wickedly.

"Did you call, sir?"

A new man poked his head into the room, wary but still appearing dignified.

"Yes, Taylor. Bring in that wine."

What he was playing at, Dean honestly had no idea, but the fact that the scenario might have been a welcomed one, before, threatened to steal every last ounce of his breath. Again. Squeezing his eyes shut, he repeatedly told himself to remain focused, that it would all be over soon.

Taylor brought the wine and Castiel poured them both a generous amount, raising his glass cheekily before downing it all. Dean didn't touch his.

"Now, now, Dean. Don't tell me you've kicked the habit in my absence? I thought the opposite might have occurred, if anything."

"You know where I've been," he replied, ignoring the jibe.

"Yes and I must say, you've annoyed me greatly. You just can't seem to let some things go, can't seem to understand that what happened before is over. You saved me this," he motioned to himself, to the length of his lithe figure, and smiled wider. "And I do appreciate it. But you know nothing will ever be the same."

"I like your jacket," Dean said softly.

Castiel's eyes narrowed minutely before he shook his head.

"What is it that you want from me, aside from the obvious?"

Ignoring the question, Dean let his eyes rove over the folds of the black leather jacket, to the dark shirt underneath. Even his jeans and shoes were black.

"Black just isn't your color," he said, sighing.

The two men sat, staring at each other, each waiting for something to change, but when it came it was almost inaudible, just a scant, fleeting cry of panic. Castiel sat up, his ring laden fingers clutching at the arm chair.

"Care to tell me what that was?" he growled. "As I am sure, being the great Winchester, you know."

"Just a few friends of mind came to crash the party," Dean said, looking away.

Another scream, louder, desperate, was followed by gun shots, the sound of a young girl giving a war cry, and Sam laughing in appreciation. All so close.

"I'll ask one more time. What have you come for?" Castiel said, his voice deadly but clam. His muscles were tensed, ready to spring to fight, but Dean remained relaxed.

"You."

"I have told you a thousand times over. I do not want to be anywhere near you ever again."

"You've got it wrong."

And at last Dean stood; Castiel sunk back, face contorted with anger.

"And how so?" he spat.

Dean reached into his coat pocket, drawing out a knife, but even then, with Castiel cornered in his throne, with an army in the mansion, overtaking their enemies, with the color black consuming the man that had slowly came to love, Dean felt physically ill at the thought of what he had to do. There was no way out but this.

For a moment, he thought he saw a flash of something in the blue eyes, just a flickering shadow of another emotion that Castiel would no longer feel. No matter what, everyone knew it had to end this way.

"I came to kill you," Dean said simply.