there's nothing left to rise above but you, a supernatural fanfic

Okay, last little drabble before I continue working on other stuff.

It's kind of a precursor to what happens in 2014, because Dean's not hard and ruthless yet. This is just about a year or so after Sam said yes and everything went to Hell. And the events that happened in the show will never happen because well, Dean is stupid and likes to protect angels who can't die. This is just a drabble, what if? thing because I've never written a death scene. And I hate myself now. Haha.

WARNING MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. And just. Sadness. And being really mean and awful to Cas, because apparently that's my favorite pastime. Just a lot of angst.

no number they can call to, no addresses left to write

"Idiot," Castiel mumbles, staring at the dark haired, gruff man on the ground. Blood trickles from his mouth, seeping into collar of his shirt and sticking in the short hairs on his chin. Castiel bites his knuckle, fighting the urge to yell at the other man. "You're such a fucking idiot." He can't keep the anger and worry and general malice out of his voice.

But Dean just smirks, jaw strained a little. "I know."

Castiel touches his chin lightly, absentmindedly feeling the unshaven stubble. Dean's eyes close and he leans into the hand on his face. "Idiot…stupid, stupid," Cas is whispering, voice breaking from anger and concern and the fact that his throat is closing up with something he had hoped to never feel - that he wouldn't have felt, if not for this man. This beautiful, wonderful man.

Dean sighs into the calloused skin now pressed near his lips. "I know," he mutters, and he grunts a little as his breathing hitches from the pain in his chest. "I just did the first thing that popped into my mind. Like always." He laughs a bit, as much as he can, and it's obvious from the expression on his face that it hurts more and more with each breath and the laugh didn't help.

Castiel doesn't smirk or grin, as he might have a few weeks ago. "I can't die, bastard," he says through clenched teeth, gripping Dean's shirt in a shaking fist, rapidly smoothing the skin on Dean's face with his other hand. He's about to burst, he can feel it. His breathing is ragged and rough and he can't keep his eyes open or even look his injured friend in the face. "I can't die, idiot—you stupid, fucking bastard."

A year ago, he would have been able to heal him. Would have been able to stop this from happening. But Sam had said yes, the angels had disappeared, and he had stayed with Dean. And, slowly, he lost all of his power, except for one thing. He couldn't die. He could get hurt, and he could bleed and want to die and almost die. But he'd always slowly heal. He discovered this one night in which he lost himself in a desperate and a drug fueled high, he had gone into a coma that lasted a week and made Dean have a nervous breakdown. But then it was like nothing had ever happened.

Zachariah made sure that he'd suffer and never have any reprieve.

That this. This would happen.

"I know," Dean says, like it doesn't matter at all. Like he's not about to probably die for someone who wasn't really in danger in the first place. "But you can get hurt, right?" He grunts. "A little pain never killed me, and the first thing that pops into my mind when you're about to be stabbed is not that you can't die from it but that you're about to get stabbed. Logic has a funny way of not working all the time for me, remember?"

Castiel lets out a depreciating laugh, more like a scoff, turning into a dry sob halfway through and he has to grip Dean's shirt even tighter to keep from breaking. "You're not just injured, you're not—" He swallows, cold demeanor fighting the emotional wreck that's trying to escape. "You're…you're…you're going—"

He pulls his bleeding friend into his lap, grips his face in the crook of his neck, hands almost tearing through the fabric of his jacket like he's trying to pull the injury out of him. Dean bites Castiel's shoulder from the pain of the sudden movement, his working hand fisting around a handful of fabric that he managed to grab.

And Castiel feels like he's being ripped apart, and the sobs can't be stopped, and the pain can't go away. "Why?" he gasps out, biting his lip until it bleeds and wishing and wishing that Dean wasn't so stupid and reckless and…

"Because…" and it's a dying whisper, rasping and fading. "I love you…you know?"

And the fabric of his shirt is suddenly dropped against him again, and he knows—he knows—so he just pulls the man against him tighter, tighter, gripping loose shoulders, feeling the suddenly relaxed head slump against his neck, lifeless lips still kissing his skin.

And the immortal man, the angel with no more Grace, suffers again.

And again.