Author's Note: If you're reading the Before the Fall 'Verse, these tales will flesh out the Apocalypse for you, and also the relationships of the characters between battles and big bads and episodes. While not required reading, if you want to find out how Cas fell, or why the world is ending again, or how things are falling apart, or how Cas and Dean advanced where they are in their relationship, I recommend cruising by the rest of the 'Verse. Meanwhile, enjoy!
Queen of Light took her bow, And then she turned to go,
The Prince of Peace embraced the gloom, And walked the night alone.
Oh, dance in the dark of night, Sing to the morning light.
The dark Lord rides in force tonight, And time will tell us all.
Oh, throw down your plow and hoe, Rest not to lock your homes.
Side by side we wait the might of the darkest of them all.
- "Battle of Evermore," Led Zeppelin
The night Chicago burned, the Winchesters watched the glow on the horizon from atop the abandoned building they had claimed for refuge, watching smoke plume into the air and blacken the skyline, stinging their eyes. The flood of escaping humanity never came. Sam quietly voiced that maybe they'd gone west, but none of them believed it any more than they believed the news that it had been riots that caused it.
This was their second battleground. Detroit was still smoldering ruins. Dean would never admit to himself that the fact was morbidly comforting, another change from what had been in 2014. It wasn't enough to justify thousands dead, and it made him queasy to consider it.
They stop watching for traffic when the sun goes down, clambering back down the fire-escape and into the second story window of the dilapidated, abandoned building. The pungent smell of spray paint dominates within, overcoming even the smoke outside, and they carefully resalt the windowsill before joining Cas.
If he'd ever been human, Dean would think Cas was reliving some misspent youth as a tagger. Balanced on their cooler, he's intently focused on the wall before him, the can of paint in his hand hissing until it runs out, sigils and symbols and graffiti of ancient languages long dead, and when Dean puts a new can into his hand he doesn't stop to thank him, trapping his Enochian in lines and shapes, twisting them into something demonic to deal with their little angel problem, just as he has traced angelic sigils to deal with their demon problems.
Dean knows how much he hates this: but Cas has learned to accept it, their new standard of living. Funny how quickly an angel could get over blasphemy, when it saves their lives.
"You're still huffing the paint, then, Cas?" Sam grumbles as he collapses into one of the camp chairs, pressing his hands over his eyes, and Dean knew Sam was never going to get used to how not-normal the world was becoming. He was never going to be able to shrug off a Chicago or a Detroit.
"I'm working. I am not huffing." Cas begins, an almost defensive note creeping into his flat tones, and Dean winces as he rests his braced hand on the small of Castiel's back to support him as he shifts to reach and finish his sigil. He wouldn't have led with a drug joke. "I assumed the effects would be negligible compared to amphetamines and opiates. Which I am also not doing." He assures Dean, and the hunter doesn't think he's completely imagining the bitter twist to the words.
When Cas finishes his sigil, he hands the paint to Dean and slips down off of the cooler, leaning into Dean's side for a moment, neither admitting they were seeking support but both relieved by it. "It was demonic. Inias and Balthazar were discussing the damage. Lucifer's agents freed several dozen Grigori from Hell through Bachelor's Grove. Crowley moved to stop him. I believe he held the crossroads contracts on several prominent politicians within the city, and manipulated the first riot in order to institute Martial Law. They held the cemetery for a time, but . . . "
But Lucifer was winning. It was very little comfort to any of them to know they were right about the placement of a Devil's Gate in the haunted, abandoned cemetery on the southwestern outskirts of the city, when they hadn't been able to reach it to secure it before the riots and the National Guard had cut off their access. Hell's civil war still spilled upwards into the world regardless, and the only word from Heaven was garbled, scattered. The power upset between Michael and Gabriel at least was confined to Heaven, and relatively civil. Gabriel had never wanted power to begin with. He just had a bit more problem with non-interference than Michael, and none of them could imagine the Trickster Archangel taking orders from anyone.
Sam nods slightly, tilting his head back and looking up at the ceiling as the last of the sunlight slides away, a tightness around his eyes and tension in his long frame that wouldn't dissipate. "Well, there aren't any demons nearby right now."
The whole knowing when demons were in the immediate vicinity thing would be more awesome and less creepy if Dean didn't know it was because his brother was hyperaware of them as potential snacks, ever since Lucifer's lieutenant had force-fed him blood again. The early days of withdrawal hadn't been pleasant, but it had surprisingly been Castiel who had stepped up for that, gluing himself to Sam's side. He owed it to his friend, Cas reasoned: he had let them down the last time Sam had gone through it, by freeing Sam to kill Lilith, he felt responsible for Sam's situation (regardless of whether or not either of the boys agreed) and he had just gone through withdrawal from his own drugs. He could empathize.
There was no panic-room cage this time. It hadn't even been an option, with Bobby's place burned down. They had struggled through it on the road, and in rundown buildings like this one.
"No use pretending any of us are going to sleep. I say hex bags tonight, then." Dean declares finally, tugging on the angel's belt loops until he can push him into the other camp chair, while Dean hauls the cooler over to them and grabs the nondescript black backpack from the floor. "Queue us up, Sammy.
Living with two people in a constant state of headache and varying stages of recovering addiction, on the edge of the end of the world, wasn't exactly anyone's ideal, but there were some things about it that Dean quietly cherishes. Despite the weary sniping, he doesn't think that their family had ever been closer. It's a conscious decision, and he knows it. Sam was worried that Dean was going to say yes to Michael. Castiel was worried that his brothers were going to get ahold of either Winchester. And Dean. . . well, he just worried about his family as his default anyway, and between Sam and the demon blood and Castiel's issues, he wasn't letting either out of his sight. Even Bobby calls to check in the same time daily, since he split to check on the hunters who stopped answering his calls.
(They weren't hopeful. Not since University of New Mexico's campus was razed to the ground, and Price Campbell died with his books, his research, and their hopes that Asmodeus hadn't delved into Castiel's memories fully.)
The world is falling down around them, but this Dean can't quite help enjoying, no matter how guilty he feels for having anything to enjoy while the world burns. Sam's Christmas gift, the laptop Dean had purchased for him and the library of movies Castiel had bought that they apparently referenced constantly, had become their only means of escape while on the road. Charged religiously by the adaptor Dean allowed Sam to plug into his car for this precise reason, it was on until the battery died each night they were somewhere without power, or until the last of them finally dozed off when they could plug in.
Settling on the floor shoulder to shoulder with his brother, leaned against Castiel's knee, they create a production line of protection spells and hex bags. Some nights, it's weaponry. Some nights, it's pure research. But they work together seamlessly, keeping their hands constructively busy while they squint at the screen on the cooler in front of them, teaching Castiel the greats of movies and television.
Dean had let Sam have the first pick as he always had let Sam have the remote of the motel room television when he was sick, reasoning that he had most need of distraction. His little brother had cheated and chosen the director's cut Lord of the Rings.
They were still working through the movies days later, but Dean's muttering about it is halfhearted, and he nudges Castiel and points out things more often than Sam, so no one was buying his story about this being Sam's geeky obsession.
The bickering starts almost as soon as they find their place in the show, with Castiel rumbling at them to keep quiet, blue eyes intently focused on the screen, and part of Dean finds it hilarious that Castiel fixes that singular attention that had always been a mixed blessing for Dean (its usual focus) on everything they show him as if he is studying for humanity. It's his fault, however, that Dean and Sam have begun arguing 'roles' in everything they watch.
". . . don't care how long you grow your hair, Sammy, you still don't get dibs on Legolas." Dean snipes, as Cas passes down a small square of burlap, the fabric scrawled with Castiel's familiar script in Sharpie, each square plucked from the mesh cup holder of the chair and laid across Cas's knee as he works on it, usually single-handed as he absently runs his fingers through Dean's hair as the hunter leans against his leg. Dean portions out the goofer dust, the hemp and lavender, and passes it on to Sam for the spider's egg and chicken bones, and then each finished hex bag joins the growing collection to the side.
Every hunter they found got one thrust upon them, and every clued-in member of the clergy or law enforcement that Bobby knew, or they had stumbled upon in their travels, got as many as they'd take. They'd saved lives, hidden hunters from demons. . . it wasn't enough, but it was something they could offer, and on the nights none of them could sleep, something they could do from behind their fortifications without showing their mugs while they were top of the most-wanted list for every side of this war.
"Please, you'd make an awesome Gimli. I mean, violent, funny. . . short."
"I can still kick your ass, Sasquatch."
"Yeah, Gimli thinks that too."
"You are both making it difficult for me to focus on the movie." Castiel huffs quietly, and Dean snorts, sending the goofer dust scattering and forcing him to stop to sweep it into a neat pile.
"Yeah whatever, Gandalf."
"I am not the wizard, Dean." Cas responds absently, and Dean has to grab the next square of burlap before it falls, because Cas isn't paying attention to the delay. Tilting his head back, he looks up at Cas, and then nudges Sam with his elbow, drawing his little brother's attention and jerking a thumb to direct it at Cas, who is watching the movie as if entranced, rapt and upblinking, the sharpie moving across the fabric without him consciously directing it, and Dean's pretty sure he's marking up the knee of his jeans too.
Laughter shaves ten hard years off of Sam, and Dean had missed that sound. He ducks his head, trying not to let himself smile because it's the end of the world, and he shouldn't have anything to celebrate. "C'mon, Cas. You showed up randomly in our lives, had the answers, doled out the mojo, been alive for frikkin' ever. . ."
Cas frowns quietly, and blinks as he looks away from the computer screen, and Dean knows what he's done. That was Castiel-the-angel, not Cas-the-awkward-hunter, and Cas never seemed willing to accept a heroic role anyway. He can see Cas coming up with a counter that would ruin the mood, so he refuses to allow it. "Liv Tyler, incoming. Both of you pipe down." Dean commands, waving his hands to shut up both his brother and the angel before he leans back into Cas, linking his hands together behind his head and humming his approval for the actress with a smirk.
Sam missed the moment, and he never really cooperates with Dean's plans anyway, so he ignores the command for silence. "You're seriously going to sit here and perv on Liv Tyler, Dean? Little obvious, don't you think?"
"How is that obvious?" Cas asks, and the hang-dog look he makes behind Dean's back should be criminal, as he turns his attention studiously to the fabric rather than look at the screen and the reminder that first and foremost, Dean's attraction wasn't to 'nerdy' fallen angels in male bodies. Reaching past his (painfully obtuse) older brother, Sam pokes Cas in the arm and points at the screen.
"No, actually look at her, Cas. The big blue eyes. Pale skin. Dark hair. The jaw. The lips. Noticing anything?"
"Yeah, that she's frikkin' hot. Sorry, Cas. Just a fact, my stating it doesn't mean anything." Dean mutters, still trying to focus on the screen, though he frees one hand to pat Cas's foot comfortingly. Head canted to the side, Castiel ignores him, staring at Arwen with a furrowed brow, and Sam waits patiently for him to put it together.
". . . oh." Cas finally exclaims, and Sam nods once, slowly, allowing the silent conclusion that brightens the angel's face again.
"And now he's on the right page. I knew he'd get there eventually."
"Get where?" Dean asks, only half listening, and he tips his head back to look up at Cas questioningly, who leans forward and presses his lips to Dean's forehead.
"Nothing. You may resume 'perving.'"
"Awesome." Dean agrees readily, picking up the next empty bag, before he pauses and looks over at his brother suspiciously, and then up at Cas. They agreed to that way too quickly, for his possessive boyfriend and the little brother who was way too interested in his love life, and they were both amused at something. "What did I just miss?" Taking in Castiel's intent focus, canted head, and slight smile, Dean blinks. ". . . Wait, are you checking out Arwen, Cas? Because that's. . ."
Sam rolls his eyes, and reaches over to grab the half-finished bag out of his brother's hand after a moment, snorting at Dean's glazed look. "You're doing it again, Dean. Tell me that wasn't just you going off into porn-land with that the thought of you, Cas and Liv Tyler?"
". . . Can you imagine?"
"No! Don't even go there. I don't want to 'imagine' anything."
"I don't think I would be Arwen. Apart from the physical characteristics. . ." Dean splutters, and Sam wouldn't be surprised if he got whiplash from how quickly he turned back to the screen, before looking wide-eyed up at Cas, eyes roaming his face. ". . . it's not a fitting role, and I do not believe I want you to continually equate me to the princesses in your cultural mythology."
"Alright, so I'll bite, just to change the topic from Dean confusing reality and porn again. . . who do you see us as, then, Cas?"
"The obvious answer would be to attribute you the roles of Frodo and Sam. . ."
"The frikkin' Hobbits?" Dean objects, but Sam waves a hand to back him down, watching Cas.
"I think I kinda see where he's going. So, I'm Frodo, then, right. . . ?"
"Wait, we're the hobbits. . . and I'm Sam?!" Dean is less than thrilled with this assignment, and Cas seems to regret having spoken at all. Slouching down in his chair, Cas fixes his eyes on the work, to give himself something to keep his hands busy, as Dean has turned around completely to face him now, ignoring the last of the movie. "How the hell am I Sam?"
"Sam's the real hero of the story, Dean." Sam offers quietly, then makes a face. "Damn that sounds weird. And egotistical. 'Course, I'm Frodo in this so I guess not as much. He keeps making you the loyal one, Dean. Which. . . y'know. . . you are. Han Solo could have ditched Leia and Luke, but he didn't because he loved Leia and Luke was practically a brother, so they won. Frodo would have never made it without Sam, he'd have been killed or warped." Cas is practically fidgeting, now, too aware of the scrutiny of both boys, and uncomfortable with this being turned back to examine him, and his thought processes. "Sam nearly killed himself because he wouldn't leave Frodo to deal with the ring alone. And the ring. . . it's power. It's a sign of temptation, like trying to get Luke to the Dark Side. . . and he keeps making me the one that overcomes it and stays heroic."
Sam hasn't even pretended to work on the hex bags since taking Dean's last, and he's watching Castiel fondly, shaking his head slightly, and even with everything falling apart around them, proving they weren't exactly doing a great job of saving the world, even with the fact that neither of them is storybook heroic, Castiel's faith in them is solid. Unbroken and idealized. "I don't really know what to say to that, man. Thanks."
Dean still doesn't know how to take this. Frowning, he sits back on his heels, looking at Castiel, who refuses to meet his eyes. "So okay, fine, that's how he's casting us. So then Cas . . ."
"The movie is over." Cas interrupts woodenly, pushing himself to his feet and reaching over to close the laptop. "We don't know how long it will take any survivors to clear the city, or if the battle will resume and push this way. Someone should keep watch and you drove last, Dean, and you're still injured. You should rest." And Sam. . . well, letting him sit up watching all night for demons didn't seem wise, when they couldn't be sure what he'd do if he found them.
Both brothers frown identically at Castiel's back as he snatches up his coat and retreats through the window, carefully resalting it and clambering up the fire escape to the roof, and there's no doubt he's running away from the conversation. Dean rounds on Sam as soon as he's out, voice lowered. "What the hell was that?"
"I don't think he wants us asking that question." Sam mutters, and he rakes his bangs back from where they've fallen into his eyes, expression pensive. "Which I guess stands to reason if he was associating with Vader in the last movies we watched together. . ."
"Seriously, if one Gollum joke about the coffee's enough to . . ." But Sam's shaking his head to cut his brother off.
"Doesn't fit. It's not the same archetype." Drawing his long legs up, he rests his elbows across his knees, the hex bags forgotten, thinking.
"Alright, then, Sammy. Put that summer you dragged me around talking my ear off about these books to use, and figure it out." Dean grouses, as he carefully parcels away the ingredients into the bag again. "Vader. What'd catch him about Darth Vader in the first place?"
"Vader was supposed to be a hero." Sam mutters absently, and it's a puzzle for him as much as it is something he's genuinely concerned about. Whether or not they buy into Cas's interpretation of things isn't as important as the fact that Cas does, and it's giving surprising insight into the inner workings of the fallen angel's head. Dean hasn't been the only one watching Cas slide, or the only one he means something to. Sam's voice is gaining conviction, purpose, figuring it out. "He was tempted by power, told it was the only way to save the people he loved. He got turned around, then redeemed himself by . . ." Sam's hazel eyes snap to Dean, wide and alarmed. "Boromir."
"Son of a bitch. . ." They've reached the conclusion at the same time. Dean shoves himself to his feet, the rest of the ingredients forgotten, and stops halfway to the window, suddenly torn. They've been playing guard duty with Sam, whether any of the three of them wants to call it that, and those loyalties they were harping on about are suddenly torn. "Sam, I. . ."
"Dean, she tore his head up pretty bad. And if I were going to crack, I think I would have already." And Cas trusted that Sam wouldn't break. It means a lot, figuring out that unguarded opinion, unintentionally given. So this means a lot, too. Rising to his feet, he rests a hand on Dean's uninjured shoulder, with a reassuring squeeze. "I won't go anywhere. And if I feel anything coming I'll get you. Just. . . go talk to Cas."
Dean claps his brother on the shoulder and nods his gratitude, swallowing his words. Sam already knows he's awesome, or he should by now, and Dean's going to have to trust him. Dean wants to trust him.
And Dean wants Castiel to listen, to understand that he's as much the hero of this farce of a story as they are.