Keep Fighting
"How do you do it?"
Cas paused in the act of slipping his angel sword up his sleeve. Dean's question had come out of nowhere. "The wrist action is quite simple, I could teach you-"
"No, uh, that's – I mean, cool, but that's not what I meant."
Cas looked at him, head tilted slightly, a question in his eyes.
Dean scratched the back of his head awkwardly, as though reconsidering his decision to speak. But whatever this was it had to be important to him because after a long pause he continued, "Remember when Dick Roman was, well, being a dick? We needed your help and you said 'I don't fight anymore'?"
"I remember," Cas said levelly.
I destroyed everything and I will destroy everything again.
He had been right. The world was now under dire threat from an evil that had been imprisoned since before the dawn of man, and Cas had cast the spell that set it free. His vow to live in peace with all creatures had been short lived.
"But you're still fighting," Dean said.
Cas sighed. "I suppose I am."
"How?"
"What do you mean?"
"I don't get it, man. After everything… How are you still here, still doing this, still getting mixed up in all the blood and violence and death that is our lives? How do you pick up your sword and join the fight when you're sick of all the killing? I know you don't want to hurt anyone and there have been plenty of opportunities for you to walk away, so why aren't you off somewhere watching the bees? That's what you wanted."
"And what is it that you want, Dean?"
"What?"
"I said those words years ago and many have died at my hands since then. You have a personal reason for asking me this now."
Dean's gaze dropped. "That obvious, huh?"
"I know you well, Dean."
Dean huffed a humourless laugh. "I don't think I even know myself anymore. Everything used to be so simple."
Cas raised his eyebrows. "When?"
"I don't know. Before. I had a job, you know? I was a hunter, always had been, always would be. I killed monsters. Good was good and bad was bad and I got the job done. But somewhere along the way it all got screwed up. I got screwed up."
"You are still a good man, Dean."
"That's debatable, but you're missing my point. I was a hunter, Cas. I fought for a living. Hell, I enjoyed fighting. It was an adrenaline rush every time. It felt good."
"You're speaking in past tense."
Dean's hand clenched into a fist then loosened helplessly at his side. "Yeah. Now every time I look at a gun or a knife, or hell, even my own bare hands… I feel sick."
"You don't want to fight anymore," Cas realised.
"I've killed so many, Cas. Monsters who deserved it, scum who probably had it coming, vessels who got caught in the crossfire, innocent people. I killed all of them. The Mark made me want to kill, need to kill, but the thing is - I never had any problem with killing even before I had the Mark. That's why Cain gave it to me in the first place – he said I was a killer like him. But now that the Mark is gone… God, Cas, I keep seeing them. All of them. Every single person or thing I ever killed. The stuff I did when I had the Mark was just shovelling more crap on top of the pile that started to stink a long time ago. They're all dead and I killed them. Cas, I look in the mirror and I see a monster. There is so much blood on my hands and it won't come off."
Cas looked down at his own hands, at the sword he still held loosely in his grip. "I know what you mean." If he looked closely, he could still see the blood of thousands staining his skin and dripping from the blade.
"I know you do. And I didn't get it before, but now I can't – I can't do this. How do you do this? How do you put on your trenchcoat and pick up your sword and go out there and fight when you feel this – this horrible, choking, unclean… Cas, I don't think I can do this, but I know I haveto. The world is ending and it is my fault and I have no right to just up and quit when I made this mess, but I seriously feel like I might puke my guts out if I so much as punch someone again after what I did to y- after what I did."
Cas touched his fingers lightly to his cheek, remembering the sense memory of Dean's fists slamming into his face. "You are carrying guilt over the fight we had."
"Fight? Cas, I beat the crap out of you. I nearly killed you and you didn't even lift a finger in your own defence. I could have killed you!"
"I knew you wouldn't."
"How? I didn't even know until I saw the sword embedded in that book next to your head. I thought – I really thought there was going to be a bright flash of light and that I'd see the ashes of your wings burned into the ground. God, I keep seeing them in my dreams."
"I'm alive," Cas said, a quiet reassurance. "I knew you wouldn't kill me, Dean, because I know why you fight. It is the same reason why I fight. We don't do it because that's what we were raised and trained to do. We don't do it because that's what we are expected to do. We don't do it because we enjoy it. We don't do it because we want to. We fight for the people we care about."
Dean stared at him and Cas met his gaze without shame. He had once thought that emotions were dangerous distractions, but he had found that they actually served to focus one's energies on what really mattered. Meg had said 'You find a cause and you serve it.' Well, his cause was standing right in front of him.
"So I guess we keep fighting, huh?" Dean said.
Cas nodded. "Together."