Whew, so, I haven't written anything in ages. Much less finished anything. And this story just popped into my head yesterday and I just had to write it down. It is also my first slash story - and I'm not even into slash! Yet, Destiel is the only pairing where I can see that working out (at least in fanfiction). So here goes. It's nothing explicit, but rated T because, well, it is the end of the world, right? Some mentions of alcohol and drugs. Definitely nothing fluffy about this fic.
I hope I didn't mess up the timeline too much and I also took some liberties, hence AU. Also, please bear in mind that English isn't my first language. So if there are any mistakes, feel free to let me know. I love to improve my writing skills! But enough of that now, on with the story!
It was the end of the world.
Sam had said yes. And the worst of it all: Dean hadn't even cared.
Castiel still remembers everything as if it had been yesterday.
Dean receiving the Mark of Cain; getting worse and worse…until finally, becoming the very thing he had always feared the most. Sam had eventually found a way to cure Dean, but it had turned out to only be a temporary solution. Somehow, Dean had reverted back, succumbing to the blood lust induced by the First Blade.
In the end, Cain's curse, dating back to the beginning of humankind, had turned out to be too strong to overcome. There was nothing a human, desperate as Sam might have been, and an angel without his grace could have done.
Dean was not a full-fledged demon, small consolation as that was. But he was darker. More out of control. A roaring fire at times, almost impossible to stop. And at the same time he was so much more distant. Uncaring. Cold as ice and full of silent rage.
Castiel aches for the Dean of the past. The Dean who had cared too much. The Dean who had carried the weight of the world on his shoulders willingly; as if it had always been his burden to bear. And mostly, the Dean who had been his friend through everything.
Castiel takes another swig from the bottle.
He feels like Jack is his only true friend nowadays. Alcohol and drugs are the only things now that help to endure the aching. The desperation. A few orgies thrown in for good measure. But really, Castiel doesn't care one way or the other. He intends to keep it that way.
Everything had turned for the worse one fateful night when Sam, in his fervent search for a way to lift the curse, had come up with the one thing that might have actually worked. But when had they ever been that lucky?
Sam had recruited Crowley of all people (or demons, as it were) and, using up Castiel's remaining stolen grace, they had opened the Cage. Adam, the Winchesters' half-brother, had finally walked free. But so had Lucifer. And Sam had struck a deal with the Devil as his last resort. They should have known that Lucifer would never hold true to his word.
And so Sam had become the vessel to Heaven's most wanted fallen angel overnight. Castiel had been fully prepared to die that night. He might even have welcomed death as a mercy at the time, but losing his grace had not actually killed him. It had instead rendered him human. And oh so helpless in the face of this new development.
Surprisingly, Crowley had stayed at their side for a time after Lucifer had destroyed the bunker and Castiel had been strangely grateful to the demon for his uncharacteristic loyalty (no doubt borne out of more selfish reasons). But even the former King of Hell had eventually caved to the new "management".
Dean had never even cared once, and to Castiel that was the worst of all. The older Winchester didn't miss his brother, the one person he would have given his life for without hesitation had he still been fully human. Or the bunker, the place he had called his second home. Nor did he miss Castiel, Angel of the Lord. And yet, Castiel had stayed.
There simply hadn't been anywhere else for him to go. And even if, Castiel is not sure he would have walked away. Hell, there had been ample opportunity the last few months. But he could never muster the strength of will to actually leave.
To leave Dean behind had become an impossibility, even after Castiel had abandoned the last shred of hope.
He reaches for the bottle and only as the harsh burn in his throat does not come does he realize that the bottle is empty. He marvels at the fact that he can still feel anything at all while his eyes search his small cabin for another bottle. There is one at the far wall, but he just lies there on his bunk, unable to get up. Unable to care. He feels like Dean must feel. He snorts derisively. No, Dean doesn't feel anything. And that thought hurts.
So Sam, or rather Lucifer, had disappeared. Seemingly content to leave Dean to his own devices. It probably amused him to no end to see the former hunter like this. Slave to some ancient curse that was forcing him to kill indiscriminately to regain even a sliver of control.
Shortly after Sam's acquiescence, the Croatoan virus had broken out and, in a matter of months, had swallowed the country; probably the whole world by now but there was no way to check, since all communication was down.
Castiel is not quite sure how they ended up in this camp, but somewhere along the way it had happened. People were still inexplicably drawn to Dean as a leader, albeit a very uncaring one. Castiel suspects it has something to do with the way Dean manages to kill the infected and still come out unscathed every time. But then, the others don't know about the Mark of Cain or the blood lust that drives their (literally) fearless leader.
That is actually something which works in their favor, Castiel has to admit. The fact that Dean can go out there and kill to assuage the Mark. Kill as many as he likes. Or needs. The infected are no demons but surely better than innocent humans.
There were still some hunters out there but they usually (and unsurprisingly) stayed away from Dean and their little camp of survivors. Who worries about demons and ghosts when there are much more tangible monsters out there? They had soon lost track of Adam and had had no word from Charlie in all these months.
The two of them is all there is left.
Castiel sighs and slowly sits up on his cot. He sets his bare feet down on the dusty wooden floor but doesn't even feel the cold that must surely have crept in by now. He stands and is surprised that the room is only slightly spinning. But of course it takes a lot more than one bottle nowadays to affect Castiel at all. He intends to remedy that as soon as possible and makes his way across the room to his stash. Maybe he will even find some pills left.
It is nearly dark outside and only a narrow sliver of moonlight that slips through his improvised curtains provides some light to see by. But Castiel does not light a candle. He feels more at home in the semi-dark where everything is blurred and less concrete. Where he still can pretend.
Just as he grabs the bottle he feels the atmosphere of the room shift. He is not an angel anymore, not as in tune with everything around him as he used to be, and he tries his hardest to keep it that way. To soften the blow every time he realizes what he has lost.
But there is one person he can still feel, no matter where they are and no matter how dulled his senses might be. The more profound bond is still intact after all those years, it seems.
Rough, calloused hands seize him and a hard, lean body traps him against the wall. The bottle slips from his fingers, lands with a dull thump and rolls away under his cot. Castiel spares only a second to be relieved that the bottle did not break. He will need its contents later, he is certain of that.
His world narrows down to hands in his hair and on his stomach. Lips on his jawbone. The scent of fresh blood in the air. Intense green eyes. The hard wooden wall against his back.
Everything is a blur to him. Almost surreal in its intensity. He can feel the rage, the brewing storm, the need to control. And he surrenders himself willingly.
"Cas."
It is just one word. It comes out almost as a whisper. Slightly raspy and with a rush of air against his collarbone.
It is the one word he will do anything to hear. From him. Like that.
Dean is the only one who calls him that anymore and only in those moments of semi-darkness. Castiel is not sure he remembers the person who used to have this name. It seems so long ago and he almost wants to hate Dean for dredging up unwanted memories. For giving him hope. But at the same time, he longs for this one word every waking moment and no amount of alcohol or drugs will ever change that.
It does not matter how much time has passed. Too soon he finds himself on his cot again, limbs tangled in the thin sheet. Clothes discarded and scattered on the floor. A soft breeze from the open window rustling his curtains and cooling his spent body. Alone.
He reaches under his bed and his searching fingers find the bottle. For the rest of the night, it will be only him and Jack. Like so many nights before. And like so many nights to follow.
It is the end of the world. And Castiel cannot bring himself to care.