Coda to 10x14 – The Executioner's Song
Full disclosure: I wrote this because I'm self-indulgent Destiel trash. I cared very little for the logistics of this fic, and explained nothing. In my defense: I have a lot of feelings about this and no clue what to do with them. Apologies.
Even though all three of them are acutely aware of just how bad a state Dean is in following his fight with Cain, the next couple of weeks turn out to be surprisingly conflict-free. Dean might feel irritated by the constant worried looks Sam sends him when he thinks Dean can't see, and he might be annoyed beyond belief when Cas calls only to ask how he's doing, but he's keeping a tight lid on his frustration. He's holding it together.
He really is. Against all reason, he is doing a very good job of keeping himself in check, ignoring the throbbing in his arm and sometimes even smiling briefly for Sam's benefit. It is only in the privacy of his own room that he allows himself to think back to the conversation he's had with Cain.
Part of him knows this will never happen, that he'd rather stab himself with the Blade than use it on either Sam or Cas.
But another part, the one that holds memories of how the Blade fit perfectly in his hand and how exhilarating it felt to drive it into something warm and alive, tells a different story.
The nightmares pick up again, almost as frequent and vivid as the ones he used to have immediately after he came back from Hell.
He doesn't bring it up with Sam and Cas. When he wakes up drenched in cold sweat, he's too terrified to even scream, and with his horror soundless, nobody ever comes running down the corridor to check on him. He could go to them, of course, but he always chooses to calm himself down alone. Fucking up Sam's sleeping pattern and making both of them worry even more would be selfish and pointless.
And so it goes for over two weeks. The nightmares keep coming, the Mark keeps pulsating nefariously, but Dean puts on a brave face and holds on.
Until one day, he opens the door to his room and finds the First Blade lying on his step.
All blood drains from his face as he eyes the blasted thing, clasping his right hand on the doorframe to keep it from shaking.
"Sam?" he shouts down the empty corridor. Then he remembers that when he glanced down at his phone a few minutes earlier, the display said 8:17. At that time of day, Sam is almost definitely out on his morning jog.
Dean screws his eyes shut and opens them again, not really surprised to find the Blade lying exactly where it was before. What the fuck. What the bloody fuck.
Shaking himself off, he shuts the door closed and backs away to sit on the bed. He grabs his phone from the bedside table and speed-dials Sam. After a few rings pass without an answer, Dean slowly lowers the cell from his ear and... yup, that faint sound coming from somewhere in the bunker is definitely Sam's ringtone.
"Today of all days? The fuck, Sammy," he mutters. He ends the call and chooses another number on speed-dial. This time, the answer is almost immediate.
"Dean? Are you alright?"
That is Castiel's usual way of greeting him on the phone these days, but today is the first time Dean offers him a truthful response.
"No, I'm not. Cas, where did you hide the Blade?"
The brief silence on the other end of the line only makes Dean more agitated.
"Hey, you there? Focus. Where is it?"
"You know I can't tell you that, Dean. Why do you ask?"
"Cause wherever you stashed it, it didn't do the trick. Somebody found it and now the fucking thing is lying on my doorstep. I would literally have to step over it to leave my room."
"That's not—"
"Oh it's possible alright," Dean interrupts impatiently. "It's definitely the real deal, you know I can tell. Look, I have no idea who or when or how, but we can worry about that later."
"You're right. Did you touch it?" Cas asks, his tone suddenly ten times sharper. Action mode: engaged.
"No, I'm not an idiot."
"Good. Don't go anywhere near it. Is Sam with you?"
"The dumb fuck went for his morning run without his phone. I'm in the bunker alone." Or at least Dean hopes so. What if Sam leaving his phone behind wasn't an accident? What if whoever – or whatever – dropped off the Blade got rid of him on purpose, and he isn't coming back any time soon?
"Alright. I'm in Nebraska, I'll be there in about three hours. Until then—"
"Don't go on a murder spree?" Dean scoffs. "Yeah, I'll give it a try."
"Dean."
"Yeah, yeah. Just…" Dean falters, his gaze wandering to the closed door. He doesn't see the Blade, but he can feel its presence, as real as the Mark throbbing madly on his arm. It's only a few steps away, and no one is here to stop Dean from simply picking it up and checking how it would feel to close his fingers around it again.
His left hand clutches at the edge of the bed until his knuckles go white.
"Just… hurry up."
Castiel hits almost a dozen red lights on his way to Lebanon and doesn't stop at any of them. He breaks the speed limit for the first time since he's learned how to drive, putting pedal to the metal as the countryside flashes behind his car window. Still, try as he might, he can't beat the limitations of human transportation. It's exactly three hours eleven minutes after Dean's phone call that he finally parks in front of the bunker and scrambles out of his car.
When he steps through the door, he is greeted by silence.
Heavy, unsettling silence.
Slowly, he makes his way to Dean's room, suspiciously eyeing every bend of the corridor, every door, as if he expected something to pop out on him any second.
He rounds the last corner and freezes in horror.
The door to Dean's room is wide open, and there is nothing lying on the threshold.
"Looking for this?"
Cas spins around and finds himself face to face with Dean. A First Blade-wielding Dean.
"Heya, Cas. Had a nice drive over?"
For a second Cas just stands there, transfixed to the spot as he watches Dean's smug expression, and then two contradictory instincts hit him all at once.
The strategist in him tells him to turn and run. He can't win this, and his stolen grace will do nothing to protect him from the sharp edge of the Blade. Staying is a suicide, and fleeing isn't cowardice; it is survival. Castiel was once one of the greatest tacticians Heaven could boast, millennia before Dean Winchester barged into his existence and turned it upside down. He knows when to retreat, and that time is now.
The second instinct, though. Not exactly inherent, this one, but just as strong as the other. The instinct to reach out and try to get through to the Dean Cas knows for sure is still in there.
"What gives?" Dean teases, face splitting into a wolfish grin. "Wait, don't tell me. You're struggling with an epic moral dilemma and trying to resolve it before the strain fries your noggin. Correct?" He gives a short, unpleasant laugh Castiel has never heard from Dean before.
"Do I save him? Do I kill him? What would Daddy want me to do?" he mimics. "Lucky for you, you don't have to decide anything, because the answers to those questions are: you don't, you can't, and He doesn't fucking care."
"Dean, listen to me."
"Oh-oh, here comes the 'I know you're in there' speech."
"Dean, hand me the Blade."
Castiel speaks with calm and conviction he doesn't feel, searching for the slightest crack in Dean's expression, a way in. A sign there is anything left to salvage.
"Counter offer: we take a walk to the library and I slit your throat. I don't wanna get blood stains on the step of my bedroom, you see."
Dean lifts the Blade so that its tip stops a few inches from Castiel's face.
"C'mon. After you."
If Cas could be sure Dean won't sink the Blade in his back the second he turns away, he would oblige. The time it would take to walk to the library could be just the opportunity he needs. He could talk to Dean, stall, maybe try to persuade him to let go of the Blade.
But the dangerous glint in Dean's eyes tells Castiel that his death can just as well come right here if he lets his guard down.
There isn't much else he can do, so he raises his hand in front of him and lets his eyes light up blue.
The shock wave ripples through the air as Dean stumbles backwards, the Blade-holding arm outstretched for balance. The door to Dean's room shuts abruptly with a loud slam, a blast of energy rushing through the corridor.
Dean laughs.
"Wow, you managed to throw me off kilter there for a second."
He rights himself, gripping the Blade tighter while Castiel sways on his feet, weakened by the loss of all the grace he's just used.
Dean runs a hand through his hair and fastidiously straightens the collar of his shirt. His eyes sweep over Cas, watching him struggle to recover with a mocking half-smile before his face darkens.
"Okay, enough of this bullshit. Move."
Dean jabs the Blade in the air between them, gesturing for Cas to step around him.
"What made you pick it up, Dean?" Castiel asks conversationally. He meets Dean's eyes, raising his eyebrows in silent invitation to speak before beginning the slow walk down the corridor.
If he can somehow engage Dean, coax him into talking, maybe he can delay being stabbed at least till they reach the library. It's worth a try.
"You stallin' or do you really wanna know?" Dean asks easily. He starts walking one step behind, the Blade swinging carelessly at the very edge of Castiel's field of vision.
"I'm curious."
"Curious or disappointed?"
"I'm not disappointed in you, Dean. I know you—"
"What? Tried? Give me a break. Do I get a gold star for my effort?"
Castiel grits his teeth and says nothing, instead concentrating on taking inconspicuously small, slow steps. Maybe Sam will make it back in time. If anyone can get through to Dean, it's certainly him.
"You know, it's hilarious in a way," Dean wonders aloud from behind him. "We've come a full circle."
"How so?" Cas asks before he can think better of it. He can already see the door to the library ahead of them.
"It started with you rescuing me, and it's gonna end with me killing you. Now that's what I call closure."
As much as Castiel would like to disagree, he can't. As they enter the empty library, he realizes this is really going to end this way. He is going to be killed by Dean Winchester. Of all people.
They stop in the middle of the room, Castiel still with his back to Dean, and for a moment everything is silent. Cas half-expects to be run through any second, without warning, but he remains quiet and motionless.
"Okay, turn around, buttercup. No fun stabbing you in the back."
Judging by the moment Dean's footsteps stopped, he is standing about 6 feet away, maybe a bit less. That should be enough.
"You know, Dean, I technically promised to take you out if this happened."
"I can graciously release you from that promise," Dean offers, the mockery clear in his voice.
"You can't. You're not the one I made it to."
Dean makes an annoyed sound.
"Whatever. Let's get this show on the road already. I really feel like beating the shit out of something, and you, angel, are standing in my way."
Castiel moves faster than a speeding bullet, his body spinning around and the angel blade slipping from his sleeve right into his open palm. He draws it back in a 'ready-to-strike-whenever' pose, and when he looks up, he is met with a pair of glossy, black-tinted eyes.
"Well damn. You really gonna fight me? What about your precious friend over here?" Dean taps his own chest, lips stretching into a malicious smile.
"You can stab me all you want and it'll do shit to me, but poor Dean will be left with a big ugly hole in his stomach, won't he?"
"Are you trying to reason with me?"
"I may be an awesome Knight of Hell now, but we've known each other for far too long for me to be stupid about this. I know better than to underestimate you."
Castiel shakes his head in disbelief.
"So you want me to stand down and let you kill me."
"Hell no, I want you to put up a fight. Killing somebody who doesn't even defend himself is not worth the effort. I was just curious if you're A-okay with putting a knife through Dean. Guess you are."
He laughs in derision as he blinks once, black eyes switching back to green.
"After the shit you pulled in that crypt a while back, I can't even say I'm surprised."
Castiel's stomach clenches at that, the memory of a hand fisted in his sleeve and Dean's blood on his knuckles still vivid in his mind.
But that's it, isn't it? He just has to get through to Dean the same way Dean got through to him.
Castiel thinks back to that conversation, to the words Dean used. If they managed to break through Heaven's mind control, why wouldn't they do a similar job in loosening the Mark's hold on Dean?
"You don't have to do this," he says quietly, but without lowering his angel blade.
"Did you just quote me to me?" Dean asks, amused. "You think that's gonna work? You tell me I'm your family, we fall into each other's arms and go for burgers? For fuck's sake, Castiel, get a grip."
Cas flinches hearing his full name. It is spoken like an insult.
Meanwhile, Dean starts circling him, approaching in measured, graceful steps like an animal closing in on its prey.
"Dean, you have to fight it."
"Damn, almost word for word. I'm having déjà vu."
A few more steps and Dean will have him backed against the wall, so Castiel advances too, his movements mirroring Dean's. He watches the cruel grimace that twists the familiar face and briefly wonders if his own expression in that crypt was as painful to watch for Dean as this is for Cas. It's all wrong – cold, uncompassionate, and downright hateful.
"This isn't you," he says firmly.
Dean actually rolls his eyes at that.
"Verbatim again. Honestly, you could at least try to come up with something original, pal. Anyway, it's time for my line."
The first punch lands squarely on Cas's jaw, making his stumble backwards more from shock than anything else. He quickly collects himself and launches forward, the blunt end of his angel blade connecting with the right side of Dean's face. Before he knows it, they're in the middle of a heated fray that has them punching, kicking, and slashing their blades through the air like two trained killers they actually are. Somewhere between one hit and another they end up on the floor, both trying to gain the upper hand and hold the other down. Dean is stronger, fuelled by both the Blade and the Mark glowing bloody red on his arm, and he manages to wrench himself free from Cas's hold. He pins him down with one arm while the other draws back, poised to bury the Blade in Cas's chest.
For a split second, Castiel stops struggling and relaxes his muscles completely, seemingly resigned to his fate, and then he knees Dean straight in the solar plexus.
He knows it's a fleeting victory, and the next few seconds will see him back with the Blade against his chest, so he uses every millisecond of it to his advantage. Since he's lost his angel blade earlier in the fight, he flips Dean on his back and simply grabs his right arm as hard as he can, wrapping his fingers directly over the Mark.
"Dean, please—"
He's not prepared for the inhuman howl that rips out of Dean's throat, much less for the oldest weapon on Earth cutting through his abdomen. He gasps in surprise and looks down at where his vessel's blood begins to flow. It doesn't really hurt – perhaps the grace is dulling the pain for now – but it will kill him soon, and even if his fate is sealed, he still has to try to help Dean. Dying doesn't seem like enough reason to give up.
It's the last shot he's gonna get, so he furiously searches for the right thing to say – will "I need you" work again, or should he rather go with "Sam needs you"? – but when he looks up, the words die on his lips.
It's Dean looking back at him. Not his demonic self – the real, familiar, terrified, wide-eyed Dean.
They blink at each other.
"Cas."
"Dean?"
It's him. Castiel doesn't know how or why, but just like that, Dean is back.
Cas gives him a bewildered look and then slides off to the floor, smearing his blood all over Dean's shirt.
Dean regains full control of himself just in time to feel his own hand swing left and slice through something soft and solid. He blinks rapidly, the blackness of his eyes falling away, and stares up at Castiel's dazed, suddenly pale face. Cas is looking down at something, so Dean's eyes follow his gaze and latch onto a rapidly-spreading, crimson stain.
Not without difficulty, Dean's consciousness catches up on the situation, and—
No.
He did not just— no.
Cas lifts his eyes, and there's a flicker of recognition in them. He can clearly tell he's not dealing with a bloody-thirsty Knight of Hell anymore, and seems just as confused about it as Dean. Also, he's wounded. Badly. Jesus fuck.
"Cas," Dean breathes out. It's the only thing he can think of saying. There's nothing else. He's got nothing.
"Dean?"
Before Dean can answer, Cas collapses to the floor on Dean's left, leaving a trail of blood over his plaid shirt.
"No, no, no, oh, shit, shit—" Dean scrambles to his knees, barely registering the fact that he's still holding the Blade. He throws it aside and kneels over Castiel's slumped form, rolling him over to his back. Cas looks visibly paler than he did mere seconds ago, his usually tan skin almost paper-white.
"Oh god, oh my fucking god, Cas, I didn't—"
"What just happened there?" Cas interrupts, rushing through the words as if he wasn't sure he won't drop dead before he can articulate them all. Which is probably a legitimate concern. "What made you snap out of it?"
Dean shakes his head furiously, because who the fuck cares about that now.
"I got no clue, Cas. And I still don't know who brought the Blade back to me. Who gives a shit. You— you're—"
He swallows down the last word before it can make it out of his mouth, ugly and unacceptable.
"I'm gonna fix it," he vows desperately. "I mean, I might have some leftover demon mojo, right, I mean—"
"Dean."
"I'm half a motherfucking demon, so—"
"Dean."
"We're gonna stitch you up, and then we're gonna figure out—"
"Dean, please stop."
Dean does his very best to keep the tears at bay, but they threaten to overflow just like the light blue tendrils of grace spilling out from the cut across Cas's stomach. He starts hyperventilating as the atrocious truth finally comes crashing down on him. He has just murdered Castiel with his own two hands.
This has got to be his biggest fuck-up yet, and that is fucking saying something.
"Jesus, Cas, I'm—I'm so—"
"Dean," Cas interrupts him again easily, though his voice sounds terribly weak, barely loud enough to be heard over the pounding of blood in Dean's ears. "Seen as this is my last chance, will you indulge me?"
Dean nods stiffly without really knowing what he's agreeing to. It doesn't even occur to him he could say no to anything Cas asks of him at this point.
As if in slow motion, he watches Cas reach up to grab the collar of his shirt and lets himself be pulled down. While Cas's intention is pretty obvious, Dean is somehow still astonished when their mouths meet. It's very brief, just a tentative brush of lips before Castiel moves away, leaving Dean with a flaming hot face.
"Sorry. I just really wanted to try that."
"'s fine," Dean croaks out through the dryness in his throat.
"I've always wondered…" Cas says wistfully, looking at Dean with such fondness it feels like a physical sensation. "If I had chosen a female vessel all those years ago… could we have had this?"
"We can have it now," Dean promises, and expertly fools himself into believing it's true. No, he really believes it; of course they can have this. He'll get over himself and they'll work this out. He can barely remember why he ever thought they couldn't.
Castiel smiles sadly as his eyelids begin to droop.
"I would like that very much."
With visible effort, he raises his right hand to clasp it around Dean's arm.
"What are you— are you trying to stand up?" Dean leans forward, ready to help him up even though part of him knows how ridiculous this is. Cas isn't going anywhere. Cas has a deep, 10-inch long gash across his abdomen.
Then again, Dean was never any good at acknowledging the times he lost Cas.
Maybe he just vanished into the light or something.
Maybe angels don't need to breathe.
Cas doesn't answer him, just smiles that elusive half-smile again and lets his hand drop to his side. He seems quite content, for some reason.
His eyes close, and Dean belatedly realizes just what Castiel was trying to do when he gripped Dean's left arm with his right hand.
"Cas, you sentimental idiot," he whispers. He finds Castiel's hand – the right one, of course – and squeezes it tightly. "I never understood how a warrior of God can be so fucking sappy."
When Castiel doesn't answer or squeeze his hand back, Dean doesn't think much of it. Cas is probably just too tired to speak or move now, so Dean will stay with him until he's recovered.
He waits a long, long time, and the only thing keeping him company during his silent vigil is an endless stream of regrets and what-ifs accumulated over the past six years.
Leave it to Dean Winchester to find out he had his own Colette all along only after it's over and he doesn't anymore.
Once the brittle walls of denial crumble for good, and the realization that Cas is not coming back to him this time hits with all of its brutal force, Dean simply sags to the floor next to Cas and lies there, watching the familiar, sharp lines of his face. Something is probably supposed to happen now. There's a thing he should do – something to do with a hunter's funeral, Dean thinks. It can wait, though. For the time being, he's content to just watch.
Cas's face blurs after a while, and it's only then that Dean notices he's been crying. He dries his eyes on his shirt sleeve, and in the process he catches sight of the Mark on his arm.
Of course, the fucking thing is still there, but it's... different.
Dean holds his breath as he hovers his fingertips over the raised skin. It's not flaming red anymore, nor the usual shade of red, nor even pink. It looks as if it's been bleached, faded into a light hue so similar to Dean's carnation it almost blends in. Most important of all, there's a set of five long fingers imprinted across it. It reminds Dean of how he painted graffiti over angel-warding sigils in the warehouse where Crowley kept Samandriel, effectively disabling them. It also reminds him of the handprint he found on his own arm after crawling out of his grave.
In fact, it reminds him of that imprint very much, so much that he doesn't even need to fit Cas's hand to it to know it'll match.
He does it anyway.
He takes hold of Cas's right hand (it's cold), and places it over the imprint, carefully fitting all five fingers exactly where they're supposed to go.
What are the odds of being gripped from perdition twice by the same person?
What are the odds of something good coming Dean's way for once in his life?
As the last finger slides into place, Dean soundlessly mouths two words—
And—
There's a gasp.
(Good things do happen, Dean.)